Somewhere in Delhi, the damp, clinging air in the basement tasted of rust and fear, thick and metallic. A low, guttural sound, barely a whimper, scraped against the oppressive silence. It came from the slumped figure tethered to a chair in the center of the concrete room. His head hung, a bruised and swollen pulp, chin resting on his chest, hair matted with something dark and sticky. Each shallow breath hitched, a ragged tear in the quiet. From the periphery, hulking shadows shifted. Several men, slabs of muscle sheathed in dark fabric, stood sentinel, their gazes fixed, unblinking, on the broken man. Their presence was a palpable weight, pressing down, suffocating.

A faint click echoed from the far end of the room, a sound amplified in the stillness. A heavy, steel door, scarred and ancient, groaned open, then thudded shut. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, began their rhythmic approach, each one a hammer blow against the tension. The air grew colder, if such a thing were possible. All the guards bowed deeply as an act of deep respect.