Disha stepped off the train at the dimly lit station just after 10:15 p.m. on Sunday night. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest with each movement. The brand on her hip—a fresh, scabbed “A” burned into her skin by Aryan’s hand during her visit home—rubbed painfully against the waistband of her jeans. The welts from the earlier caning throbbed in rhythm with the train’s memory, each jolt from the journey having reignited the fire across her thighs and buttocks. Her suitcase felt heavier than usual, not just from the clothes but from the invisible weight of secrets she carried back with her.

The campus hostel area was quiet, most students already asleep or lost in weekend reveries. She walked slowly, wincing with every step, her mind replaying the brief moments of normalcy at home—her mother’s concerned questions, the forced smiles during family dinners, the way she had hidden the marks under long sleeves and salwars. But now she was back. Back in his territory.