Vikram’s penthouse was on the 32nd floor of a glass tower in Indiranagar—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Bengaluru skyline, minimalist furniture, a king-sized bed in the master suite that could comfortably fit six if they didn’t mind overlapping limbs. The air smelled of expensive leather, fresh linen, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation.

They arrived at 8:45 p.m.—Karan last, smug as ever, phone already in hand like a weapon. He’d brought “proof” of deletion: a screen recording of him wiping his hidden cam files, cloud backups, external drives. Vikram checked it twice, nodded once. No one believed it was the full truth, but it was enough to start.