Prakriti stepped into the old cinema hall in the heart of the city, the air thick with the scent of popcorn, stale sweat, and cheap perfume. It was a late-night show — some mindless action flick that no one really cared about — and the theatre was half-empty, perfect for someone who just wanted to unwind after a long week. She was 24, curvy in all the right places, with long black hair cascading down her back and full, heavy breasts that strained against her tight white blouse. Her short black skirt hugged her wide hips and thick thighs, the hem riding up just enough to show the smooth skin of her legs. She’d come alone, craving the dark anonymity of the back row.