The room was a suffocating arena of sweat, silk, and absolute ruin. The moonlight filtered through the heavy drapes, casting long, skeletal shadows across the bed, illuminating the carnage Vikram had wrought upon her. Ananya was shattered, her body a map of his possessive violence. Her red saree, once a symbol of a traditional union, was now nothing more than a disheveled heap of fabric bunched violently around her pelvis, exposing her completely. Her blouse had been ripped open, the hooks torn away, leaving her breasts bare and marked—the soft, pale flesh covered in livid, darkening slap marks and jagged, angry bite marks that bloomed like dark flowers against her skin.