The fluorescent lights of the charity ward hummed with a low-frequency dread that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of the Rathore brothers' bones. The hallway was a gauntlet of human misery, but the greatest tragedy was contained within the five men standing in a ragged line outside Ananya's door. They were silent, haunted by the echoing sound of her screams—the sound of their sister begging "Sir" for her life.

The air was stagnant, smelling of floor wax and the metallic tang of the blood bank down the hall. Kabir leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on the heavy work boots on his feet—the boots bought with his sister's literal life-force. Every time he shifted his weight, he felt the leather compress, and his mind played back the image of the needle marks on Ananya's arm. He felt like he was standing on her throat.