The night air was thick with the remnants of monsoon humidity as 19-year-old Kiran stumbled back towards the gates of her all-girls hostel in Delhi. The party at her friend's flat had gone on longer than expected—loud music, cheap vodka, and too many stolen glances from boys she barely knew. Her short black dress clung to her curves, the hem riding up her smooth thighs with every step. Her dupatta had been left behind somewhere, and her hair was messy, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. It was well past midnight, and the curfew was strict. Her heart raced as she approached the iron gate, hoping the security guard on duty would let her slip in quietly.

But Uncle Sharma, the 44-year-old security guard who had been at the hostel for years, was waiting. He was a stocky man with a thick mustache, greying hair at the temples, and a belly that strained against his khaki uniform shirt. His eyes, usually lazy and bored, lit up with something darker as he spotted her under the dim yellow bulb at the gate.