Riya stood at the grand wooden door of Mr. Sharma's sprawling bungalow, her hands trembling as she clutched the edges of her simple salwar kameez. The evening air in their quiet suburban colony felt heavier than usual, thick with the scent of jasmine from the neighbor's garden. At 19, she was just starting her second year of college, dreams of becoming a teacher flickering like a dying candle. But two weeks ago, her father had lost his job at the factory due to downsizing. Bills piled up, the landlord threatened eviction, and her mother's tearful pleas echoed in their tiny rented apartment every night.

"Uncle... I have no one else," she whispered to herself, wiping a stray tear. Mr. Sharma, or "Uncle" as everyone called him, was 52, a wealthy widower who had made his fortune in real estate. He was always polite, offering sweets during festivals and asking about her studies. He seemed like the helpful neighbor, the one who could save them.