In the brothel's stifling haze, the air reeked of cheap perfume and despair, the walls scarred with the weight of broken souls. Aradhya swayed in a frayed ghagra, her bells clanging discordantly, her body a map of torment—welts from Vijay's strap seeping blood, her bruised arms trembling. Her dance, once a secret joy, was now a forced torment, each step a blade through her wounds, yet her grace held a raw, captivating power, her eyes burning with defiance. As she moved, a memory surged, sharp and cruel, pulling her back to a night two years ago.

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