It was a sultry summer night in the outskirts of Delhi, where the air hung heavy with the scent of rain that never came. Priya, a 25-year-old office worker, lived alone in a small two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a rundown building. The neighborhood was quiet, too quiet sometimes, with flickering streetlights casting long shadows on the cracked pavements below. She had just finished her evening routine—brushing her long black hair, slipping into a thin cotton nightdress that clung to her curves from the humidity—and was about to turn off the bedside lamp when a distant thud echoed from the front door.

At first, she dismissed it as the wind or a neighbor's clumsiness, but then came the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. Her heart leaped into her throat. "Kaun hai? (Who is there?)" she called out tentatively, her voice trembling as she grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Before she could dial for help, the door burst open with a violent crash, and three masked figures barreled inside like predators on the hunt.