The morning light had fully claimed the dorm room by 8:15 a.m., but inside, time felt frozen. Disha lay curled on the bed like a broken doll, every inch of her body screaming in protest. Purple and black bruises bloomed across her ribs, sides, and thighs like dark flowers planted by Aryan’s fists. Her cheek still throbbed from the initial slap, and her lower regions burned with raw ache from hours of relentless use. She could barely move without wincing. The brand on her hip—his initials seared into her skin months ago—itched and pulsed as if reminding her of permanent ownership.

Aryan sat beside her, surprisingly gentle now. He had fetched a warm towel from the bathroom and was carefully dabbing at the worst of the welts on her thighs. “Dard bahut ho raha hai na?” he asked softly, almost tenderly, his fingers tracing the edge of a particularly dark bruise. *(It hurts a lot, doesn’t it?)*