Lavanya Singh trembled as the heavy wooden doors of the private temple chamber thudded shut behind her. The air was thick with incense, jasmine garlands, and the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat. Outside, the festival of Navratri raged on—drums pounding like a frantic heartbeat, devotees chanting hymns to Durga Maa. But in here, in this secluded sanctum controlled by the syndicate, the gods were silent witnesses to something far darker.

She was twenty-two, dressed in a traditional red lehenga-choli that her father had forced her to wear. The dupatta had already slipped from her shoulders, exposing the deep neckline of her choli. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, and her kohl-lined eyes darted around the room. Marble floors gleamed under oil lamps. Ancient idols of Shiva and Parvati watched from alcoves, their serene faces now seeming to judge the blasphemy about to unfold.