Disha pushed open the dorm door at 9:47 p.m., her arms heavy with plastic bags from the campus grocery run. Aryan had ordered her to go alone, as usual, listing every item precisely. Cigarettes, instant noodles, a bottle of lube, a pack of condoms he rarely bothered using with her—these things felt like chains binding her wrists. The hallway was eerily quiet; most girls were either buried in textbooks or lost in their phones. She stepped inside, heart already racing with that familiar mix of dread and conditioned anticipation. She expected the usual scene: Aryan hunched over his laptop, a cigarette burning between his fingers, eyes scanning her purchases first and then her body like property to be inspected.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind her, it slammed with violent force, rattling the frame and making her flinch. Aryan was already on his feet, his face a mask of thunderous rage. His eyes were bloodshot from sleepless nights, jaw clenched so tightly that the muscle in his cheek twitched like a live wire. He didn't speak at first. He simply stared, chest heaving as if he'd been holding back a storm for hours.