Neha Reddy's heart hammered against her ribs as the black SUV screeched to a halt inside the dimly lit warehouse that served as the syndicate's clubhouse. Her wrists burned from the zip ties digging into her skin, and the blindfold had been ripped off only moments ago, revealing a circle of leering men—hardened faces, tattooed arms, and eyes that promised nothing but pain and humiliation.

"Kaun ho tum log? Mujhe chhod do!" (Who are you people? Let me go!) she screamed, her voice cracking. She was still in her college fresher's party outfit—a short black dress that hugged her curves, the hem riding up her thighs from the struggle in the van. Her long dark hair was disheveled, mascara streaked from tears.