The house had a way of holding its heat long after the sun went down. Aslam felt it pressing against his skin as he slipped out of his room, the stale warmth of the day trapped between walls that hadn't seen a breeze in weeks. The lockdown had turned their home into a sealed vessel, and the air inside it had grown thick with the smell of them—his mother's jasmine oil, his sisters' cheap perfume, the lingering ghost of roasted lamb from dinner. He moved on bare feet, the cool tile of the hallway a small mercy against his soles, each step carrying him toward the kitchen and the glass of water that had become his excuse for being awake at this hour.

The kitchen was dark when he reached it, the counters bare, the sink empty. He filled a glass from the tap and drank standing up, his back to the archway that led to the dining room. The water was lukewarm and tasted of copper, and he drank it anyway, letting it wash down the dryness that had settled in his throat. He was about to turn back toward his room when he heard it—a sound that stopped him mid-step, his fingers tightening around the glass.

A wet, rhythmic noise. Muffled. Repetitive. The kind of sound that had no business being in a dining room at this hour.

Aslam's hand went still. His breath caught in his chest, and he stood there, barefoot on the cold tile, the glass sweating against his palm, listening to the sound of his own mother's mouth.

He knew what it was. He'd known for weeks now, ever since the lockdown had begun and Vikram had claimed his place at the head of their table. He'd learned to identify the sounds of his family's corruption the way other people learned to identify birdsong—the wet suction of a mouth, the low, pleased hum of a woman being used, the occasional muffled gasp that meant Vikram had done something she liked. These sounds had become the wallpaper of his existence, the background noise of a life he no longer recognized.

But knowing didn't make it easier to hear. Knowing didn't stop his feet from carrying him toward the archway, drawn by a morbid, self-hating curiosity that he couldn't name and couldn't resist.

The dining room was lit by the low brass chandelier, its honeyed light spilling over the mahogany table and the heavy velvet curtains that blocked out the evening. The air was thick with the smell of warm spices and something else—something muskier, more intimate, the scent of bodies pressed close in the heat. Aslam stopped at the edge of the archway, one hand braced against the cool wood of the frame, and he looked.

Vikram sat at the head of the table, his laptop open in front of him, the screen's glow casting blue shadows across his face. He was leaning back in the chair like a king on a throne, one hand buried in Shahida's loose black hair, his fingers tangled in the strands as he guided her movements. Shahida knelt between his spread legs, her head bowed, her mouth full, her eyes lifted to his face with that glazed, blissful look that Aslam had learned to dread.

She was wearing one of the outfits Vikram had chosen for her—a thin silk slip that barely covered her breasts, the fabric clinging to her curves with the damp warmth of the room. Her shoulders were bare, her skin glowing in the dim light, and Aslam could see the marks on her—the faint red impressions of fingers on her hips, the bruise-like darkness at her collarbone where Vikram had bitten her earlier. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly used, and she looked like she loved every second of it.

Aslam's throat tightened. The glass in his hand trembled, water sloshing over the rim and dripping onto the tile. He should leave. He should turn around and walk back to his room and pretend he hadn't seen any of this, the way he'd been pretending for weeks. But his feet wouldn't move, and his eyes wouldn't look away, and he stood there, frozen in the archway, watching his mother service the man who had killed his father.

The wet sound of her mouth was louder now, closer, filling the silence of the room. Vikram's fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her deeper, and she made a small, muffled sound—a hum of pleasure that vibrated through the air and settled somewhere low in Aslam's gut. He hated that sound. He hated the way it made his body respond, the way his pulse quickened and his mouth went dry, the shameful heat that pooled in his belly like a sickness.

The laptop chimed, a soft, melodic notification breaking the rhythm of the room. Vikram glanced at the screen, his expression shifting slightly, and then he looked up—directly at Aslam, standing in the archway, caught in the act of watching.

Aslam's breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold and exposed. He should have left. He should have turned around the moment he'd heard the sound. But he hadn't, and now Vikram was looking at him, and there was nothing he could do to hide what he'd seen.

Vikram's smirk widened, slow and knowing, the expression of a man who had caught a mouse in the pantry and was in no hurry to let it go. His hand stayed buried in Shahida's hair, his fingers still guiding her movements, and he tilted his chin toward the empty chair across from him—the chair that had once belonged to Aslam's father.

The command was unspoken, but it hung in the air like a physical weight, pressing down on Aslam's shoulders, pushing him forward. He felt his feet move before he decided to move them, the cool tile sliding under his bare soles as he stepped into the room, the glass of water still clutched in his trembling hand.

The empty chair waited for him, its polished mahogany gleaming in the honeyed light. Aslam's father had sat in that chair every evening of his life, presiding over family dinners with a quiet, gentle authority that Aslam had never fully appreciated until it was gone. Now the chair sat empty, a silent accusation, a reminder of everything that had been taken from him and everything that had been given to Vikram in its place.

Aslam lowered himself into it, the leather cushion cool against his bare legs. He set the glass on the table, the water still trembling from his hand, and he forced himself to look up at Vikram's face. The other man was watching him with that same predatory amusement, his dark eyes glittering in the glow of the laptop screen, his smirk a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

"Good boy," Vikram said, his voice low and pleased, the words dripping with condescension. "I knew you'd come around eventually. They always do."

Shahida made a muffled sound around him, her eyes still fixed on Vikram's face, and Aslam felt his stomach turn. He wanted to look away, wanted to close his eyes and block out the sight of his mother on her knees, but he couldn't. Vikram's gaze held him in place, a silent command that he couldn't refuse, and he sat there, frozen, watching.

The laptop chimed again, a new notification sliding across the screen. Vikram glanced at it, his fingers tightening in Shahida's hair, pulling her deeper until she gagged. She made a wet, choking sound, and Vikram laughed, a low, satisfied sound that made Aslam's skin crawl.

"Lecture notification," Vikram said, gesturing at the screen with his free hand. "Thermodynamics. You're in that class too, aren't you, Aslam?"

Aslam nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He was in that class. He was in all the same classes as Vikram, had been since the semester started, sitting in the back row of the virtual lecture halls while Vikram dominated the front, answering every question, commanding every discussion. It was the same dynamic they had here, in this house, in this room—Vikram at the head, Aslam in the shadows, watching.

Vikram clicked to accept the call, and the lecture began to play, the professor's voice filling the room in a monotone drone. Shahida's head moved in his lap, her mouth working him with practiced skill, and Vikram leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-closed, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He looked like a man who had everything he wanted, and Aslam supposed he did—his mother's mouth, his sisters' bodies, his father's house, all of it handed over to him like tribute.

Aslam sat in his father's chair, his hands clenched in his lap, his glass of water untouched on the table in front of him. He watched his mother service Vikram while the lecture droned on, watched the way her body moved with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, watched the way Vikram's hand tightened in her hair every time she did something he liked. He watched, and he hated himself for the way his own body responded, the heat that gathered low in his belly, the shameful tightness in his pajama pants that he couldn't ignore.

He was a coward. He was a traitor. He was sitting in his dead father's chair, watching his mother be used by the man who had taken everything from them, and he was getting hard.

The thought made him want to vomit. He pressed his palms against his thighs, trying to will the arousal away, but it only grew, fed by the sounds of his mother's mouth, the wet, rhythmic noise that seemed to fill the entire room. He could smell her perfume from here, the jasmine oil she wore every day, mixed with the muskier scent of Vikram's cologne—a combination that had become the signature of their household, the smell of his family's corruption.

Vikram's eyes flicked open, meeting Aslam's gaze across the table. His smirk widened, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of what he could see—the flush on Aslam's cheeks, the way his hands were clenched in his lap, the evidence of his body's betrayal.

"Enjoying the show?" Vikram asked, his voice low and mocking, barely audible over the drone of the lecture.

Aslam didn't answer. He couldn't. He just sat there, frozen, watching, as Vikram's hand tightened in his mother's hair and he pulled her deeper, her muffled moan vibrating through the air like a curse.

The professor's voice droned on about entropy and closed systems, and Aslam found himself thinking that he understood the concept better than any lecture could teach him. This house was a closed system. Heat bled from one body to another, never escaping, never cooling, just circulating in an endless, hungry loop. He was part of it now, sitting in his father's chair, his palms damp against his own thighs, his blood moving in a rhythm that matched the wet sound of his mother's mouth.

The glass of water sat on the mahogany in front of him, the surface still trembling from where he'd set it down. He watched a single bead of condensation crawl down the side, slow and deliberate, and he followed it with his eyes because looking at it was easier than looking at anything else in this room. The bead reached the base of the glass and pooled there, and he watched it spread against the polished wood, a small, shining stain that no one would bother to wipe away.

His mother's hair spilled across Vikram's thighs, black and glossy under the honeyed light of the chandelier. Aslam remembered that hair from when he was a child—how it would fall across her shoulders when she leaned over his homework, how she would tuck it behind her ear with a gesture so familiar he could still feel it in his own hand. Now it was tangled in Vikram's fingers, pulled and guided and used, and Aslam could not reconcile the two images no matter how long he stared.

Vikram's other hand moved to the laptop, his fingers tapping at the keys as the lecture continued. He was taking notes. Aslam could see the words appearing on the screen, neat and efficient, and he felt a sick, grudging admiration for the man's ability to do this—to conduct a lecture and a blowjob at the same time, to treat his mother's mouth as a background task he didn't even need to think about. Vikram typed for a moment, then paused, his eyes scanning the screen, and his fingers in Shahida's hair tightened in a rhythm that Aslam was beginning to recognize.

He knew that rhythm now. He had learned it the way he had learned the sounds—by watching, by listening, by being forced to sit in this room night after night until the knowledge had sunk into his bones. The tightening meant Vikram was close. The tightening meant his mother was about to earn her keep. Aslam's stomach turned, and he looked away, his eyes finding the heavy velvet curtains instead, the way they blocked the evening light like a wall against the world outside.

The world outside was on lockdown. He had heard it on the news, had seen the empty streets through the sliver of window that the curtains didn't quite cover. A year of this. A year of being sealed in this house with them, a year of listening to his mother and his sisters service the man who had taken everything from them. A year of sitting in his father's chair and watching, his body betraying him with every shameful throb.

He pressed his palms harder against his thighs, his nails digging into the thin cotton of his pajama pants. The pain was a small anchor, something to hold onto in the sea of heat and sound. He focused on it, on the sharp edge of his nails against his skin, and he tried to make it drown out the wet, rhythmic noise that seemed to have become the heartbeat of this house.

Vikram's breathing changed. Aslam heard it even over the lecture, a subtle shift in the rhythm of the man's chest, a low sound that was almost a growl. He did not want to look. He did not want to see. But his eyes betrayed him, dragging back to the scene at the head of the table, and he watched as Vikram's hand tightened in Shahida's hair, pulling her head down, holding her there, his hips lifting slightly off the chair.

His mother made a sound—a muffled, desperate sound that was half a moan and half a gag, and she did not pull away. She took it. She swallowed. She looked up at Vikram with those glazed, blissful eyes, and Aslam saw the shine at the corner of her mouth, saw the way she licked her lips as Vikram released her hair and leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

"Good girl," Vikram said, his voice rough and lazy, the same voice he used when he was pleased with a test score or a well-executed play. He reached down and patted Shahida's head, a gesture so casual, so dismissive, that Aslam felt the bile rise in his throat.

Shahida smiled up at him, her lips swollen, her eyes soft. "Thank you," she whispered, and the words were so sincere, so grateful, that Aslam wanted to scream. She rose from her knees, her silk slip clinging to the damp heat of her skin, and she leaned in to kiss Vikram's cheek before turning to leave the room, her bare feet padding across the tile toward the archway.

She stopped at the edge of the room, her eyes finding Aslam's for the first time. There was no shame in her gaze. No guilt. Just that same glazed softness, a look that had once held bedtime stories and scraped knees and a thousand small kindnesses. Now it held nothing but the aftermath of her own pleasure, and she smiled at him—a small, distant smile, like she was smiling at a stranger she recognized but didn't quite remember.

"Goodnight, beta," she said, and the word was a knife in his chest.

She was gone before he could answer, her footsteps fading down the hallway toward her room, and Aslam sat in his father's chair, his hands clenched in his lap, the glass of water still untouched in front of him. He could taste the copper of it in his mouth, the same metallic dryness that had been there since he'd first heard the sound, and he swallowed hard, trying to force it down.

Vikram closed the laptop with a soft click, the lecture silenced, the room suddenly quiet except for the hum of the chandelier and the distant sound of a door closing somewhere in the house. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes finding Aslam across the table, and the smirk on his face was slow and knowing, a man who had just finished his meal and was deciding what to do with the scraps.

"You're still here," Vikram said, not a question, just a statement of fact. "I thought you'd have run back to your room by now. You usually do."

Aslam's throat worked, but no sound came out. Vikram's smirk held him in place, that predatory patience stretching the silence until it felt like it might snap. Then Vikram pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the tile with a sound that made Aslam flinch, and he stood, stretching his arms above his head like a man who had just woken from a long nap.

"Come on," Vikram said, already moving toward the archway. "I've got work to do."

He didn't look back. He didn't have to. The command was in the way his footsteps didn't pause, in the expectation that Aslam would follow like a dog called to heel. Aslam's legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him out of the dining room and into the hallway, the glass of water forgotten on the mahogany table behind him.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a nightlight near the bathroom. Vikram's shadow swallowed the wall as he walked, broad and unhurried, and Aslam trailed behind him at a distance that felt both too close and impossibly far. He knew where they were going before Vikram reached for the door—the master bedroom, the one that had belonged to his parents, the one that now belonged to Vikram.

The door was ajar, and Aslam could see the damage before Vikram even pushed it open. The frame was splintered around the lock, the wood gouged and scarred where it had been forced. His father had installed that lock himself, had bragged about it at dinner one night, a small triumph of home improvement that he'd been absurdly proud of. Now it hung loose in the shattered frame, useless, a monument to how easily everything could be taken.

Vikram pushed the door open with one hand and stepped inside, not bothering to turn on the main light. The room was lit by a single lamp on the bedside table, casting warm shadows across the furniture that Aslam had grown up around—the heavy wardrobe, the dressing table with its oval mirror, the bed where his parents had slept for twenty years. Now the bed was Vikram's, the sheets rumpled and tangled, and Aslam's stomach turned when he saw the figure lying in it.

Saqina was asleep, her small body curled on her side, the sheet pooled around her waist. She was naked—Aslam could see the pale curve of her shoulder, the soft shadow between her breasts, the dark spill of her hair across the pillow. Her lips were slightly parted, her face soft and peaceful in sleep, and she looked so young, so innocent, that Aslam had to look away.

He looked away, and he saw Aaliyaah.

She was standing near the wardrobe, wearing nothing but a thin bra and underwear, her long legs bare, her hair loose around her shoulders. She had a brush in her hand, and she was running it through her hair in slow, deliberate strokes, watching Vikram with a lazy smile that made Aslam's skin crawl.

"You're back," she said, her voice soft and amused. "Did you have a good time with Mummy?"

Vikram grunted, moving past her to the bedside table. He picked up his phone, the screen lighting up his face as he scrolled through whatever was on it. "Where's my milk?"

Aaliyaah's brush paused mid-stroke. "In the fridge. You want it now?"

"I want you to get it." Vikram didn't look up from his phone. "Actually—" He glanced at Aslam, still standing in the doorway, frozen. "You. Aslam. Go get me the milk. The carton in the fridge."

Aslam blinked. His feet felt rooted to the floor, his hands cold and numb at his sides. "I—"

"Now." Vikram's voice was flat, unhurried, the same tone he used to command the lecture hall. "Unless you want me to make you."

Aslam moved. His body obeyed before his mind could catch up, carrying him down the hallway to the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tile. The kitchen was dark, the fridge humming in the corner, and he pulled the door open, the cold air washing over his face as he reached for the carton of milk. His hands were shaking. He could see the tremble in his fingers as he carried the carton back down the hallway, the plastic slick and cold against his palm.

When he reached the master bedroom again, Vikram had taken off his shirt. He stood in the middle of the room, bare-chested, his torso a landscape of muscle that seemed almost obscene in the warm lamplight. His skin was smooth, unmarked, and Aslam hated him for it—hated the way his own body was soft and small and trembling while Vikram stood there like a god.

Vikram took the carton from his hands without a word, unscrewing the cap and drinking straight from it, his throat working as he swallowed. Aaliyaah had stopped brushing her hair, her eyes fixed on Vikram's body with a hunger that made Aslam's stomach turn. She was looking at him the way Aslam had seen her look at ice cream when they were kids—like she couldn't wait to taste it.

"Here," Vikram said, lowering the carton. He held out his phone, the screen still lit. "Someone wants to talk to you."

Aslam stared at the phone. The screen was too bright, too close, and he couldn't make out the face on it until Vikram shoved it into his hand, the weight of it cold and unfamiliar in his palm.

The face on the screen was broad and bearded, with dark eyes that crinkled at the corners as a slow smile spread across it. Aslam knew that face. He had seen it in the courtroom, had watched it on the news, had dreamed about it in the darkest hours of the night.

Balwaan Raj Singh.

"Aslam beta," Balwaan said, his voice a low rumble that came through the phone's speakers, warm and almost paternal. "How are you, boy? I've been meaning to call. How's your mother? Still keeping the house nice for my nephew?"

Aslam's hand tightened around the phone. His throat was closed, his lungs empty, and he couldn't breathe. He could hear Aaliyaah's soft laugh behind him, the sound of her brush clicking against the dresser as she set it down.

"Say hello," Vikram said, his voice low and amused. "The man asked you a question."

Aslam opened his mouth. No sound came out.

Balwaan laughed, a deep, booming sound that filled the room. "He's shy, this one. Just like his father was. Quiet, gentle Mohsin. He never had a harsh word for anyone." The smile on his face didn't reach his eyes. "I gave him seventy-two hoors, you know. He's in paradise now, surrounded by virgins, and his family's here taking care of mine."

Aslam's vision went red at the edges. The phone trembled in his hand, and he wanted to throw it, wanted to smash it against the wall, wanted to scream until his throat bled. But he couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He just stood there, holding the phone, listening to the man who had killed his father talk about it like it was a gift.

"Say hello," Vikram repeated, and this time his voice had an edge to it, a warning that made Aslam's blood run cold. "Or I'll make you say it on your knees."

Aslam swallowed. The words came out strangled, barely audible. "Hello."

Balwaan's smile widened. "There he is. Good boy. You know, I'm staying with a friend of yours. Sweet girl, very pretty. Sahiba, her name is. She talks about you all the time."

The world stopped.

Sahiba. His Sahiba. The girl he had loved since the first year of college, the girl with the soft laugh and the warm eyes, the girl who had promised to wait for him, who had kissed him on the cheek the day before the lockdown began and told him she would see him when it was over.

She was living with Balwaan Raj Singh.

Aslam's hand went numb. The phone slipped in his grip, and he caught it, barely, his fingers clumsy and cold. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, loud and thundering, drowning out everything else.

"She's a good girl," Balwaan continued, his voice casual, conversational. "Very obedient. I'm teaching her some things, showing her how to take care of a man. She's a fast learner."

Vikram laughed, low and satisfied. He moved past Aslam, toward the bed where Saqina still slept, and Aslam heard the mattress creak as Vikram sat down on the edge of it.

"Say goodbye," Vikram said, his hand already reaching for Saqina's bare shoulder. "The man has better things to do than talk to you."

Aslam's lips moved, but no sound came out. The phone screen went dark, the call ended, and he stood there, holding the dead device in his trembling hand, the words still echoing in his head.

Sahiba. Living with Balwaan Raj Singh.

He didn't realize he was still standing there until Vikram's voice cut through the fog. "You can leave now. Or you can stay and watch. Your choice."

Vikram's hand was on Saqina's shoulder now, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her skin. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, and when she saw Vikram above her, her face broke into a soft, sleepy smile.

"Master," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep. "You're back."

Aslam should have left. He knew he should have left. But his feet wouldn't move, and his eyes wouldn't look away, and he stood in the doorway, the phone still dead in his hand, watching as Vikram leaned down and kissed his little sister's neck.

Saqina's breath caught, her body arching into the touch, and she made a small, pleased sound that made Aslam's stomach turn. Aaliyaah moved past him, her bare feet silent on the floor, and she climbed onto the bed on the other side, her body fitting against Vikram's like it belonged there.

"Should we give him a show?" Aaliyaah asked, her voice light and teasing, her hand already sliding down Vikram's chest. "He looks like he needs one."

Vikram glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes finding Aslam in the doorway. The smirk was back, slow and knowing, and he tilted his head toward the chair in the corner of the room.

"Sit," he said. "And watch."

Aslam's legs carried him to the chair. He didn't remember deciding to move, but suddenly he was sitting, the hard wood pressing against his back, the dead phone still clutched in his hand. He watched as Vikram turned back to his sisters, watched as Aaliyaah's hand disappeared beneath the sheet, watched as Saqina's soft moans filled the room.

He watched, and he hated himself, and he did not look away.

The lamp on the bedside table cast long shadows across the ceiling as Vikram pulled the sheet away from Saqina's body. She lay bare beneath him, her small breasts rising and falling with quickened breath, her nipples already hard in the warm air. Aaliyaah's hand was on his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, and she leaned in to press her lips against his shoulder, her eyes finding Aslam's across the room with a gleam of dark amusement.

"You're really going to watch?" she asked, her voice a low purr. "You're not going to run back to your room like a good little boy?"

Aslam didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his hands too cold, and all he could do was sit there, gripping the dead phone, watching as Vikram lowered his mouth to Saqina's breast.

Saqina gasped, her back arching off the mattress, her fingers tangling in Vikram's hair. "Master," she breathed, the word a prayer, and Aslam felt the bile rise in his throat.

Vikram's hand slid down her body, between her thighs, and Saqina's gasp turned into a moan, her hips bucking against his palm. Aaliyaah was watching too, her lips parted, her hand moving lower on Vikram's body, and when she found what she was looking for, she let out a soft, satisfied hum.

"Let me," she said, and she pushed Vikram gently onto his back, her body moving over his with a practiced grace that made Aslam's stomach clench. She straddled him, her thighs spread wide, her underwear already pushed aside, and she reached down to guide him into her.

Aslam saw the moment of entry—the way her body opened to take him, the way her head fell back, the way her lips parted on a long, slow moan. She began to move, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, and Vikram's hands found her waist, gripping her, guiding her.

Saqina had rolled onto her side, her hand between her own thighs, her eyes fixed on her sister's face as she watched them fuck. Her fingers moved in quick, desperate circles, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps that filled the room.

"Harder," Aaliyaah breathed, her nails digging into Vikram's chest. "Fuck me harder."

Vikram's hands tightened on her waist, and he flipped her onto her back, his body covering hers, his hips driving into her with a force that made the bed creak. Aaliyaah cried out, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, and she laughed—a wild, breathless sound that made Aslam's skin crawl.

"That's it," she gasped. "That's it, master. Fuck me. Fuck your little slut."

She reached for her phone on the bedside table, her hand fumbling for it even as Vikram drove into her, and she held it up, the camera lens pointed at their bodies, capturing the moment. Her face was flushed, her eyes half-closed, and she smiled at the screen, her lips forming a silent kiss.

Aslam watched the phone's screen glow, watched the recording light blink, and he felt something inside him crack.

Saqina crawled closer, her hand still between her thighs, and she pressed her mouth to Vikram's shoulder, her tongue tracing a wet line across his skin. He turned his head, catching her lips in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, and she moaned into his mouth, her body trembling.

Aslam's hands were shaking. The phone in his grip was cold and dead, and he could feel the heat rising in his own body, the shameful, hateful arousal that he couldn't stop, couldn't deny. He pressed his palms against his thighs, trying to will it away, but it only grew, fed by the sounds of his sisters' pleasure, the wet slap of their bodies, the low, satisfied growl of Vikram's voice.

"You like watching, don't you?" Vikram's voice cut through the fog, his eyes finding Aslam's across the room even as he kept moving inside Aaliyaah. "You like seeing your sisters like this. You like knowing they're mine."

Aslam couldn't answer. He couldn't breathe. He just sat there, frozen, watching as Vikram's hand reached out and grabbed Saqina by the hair, pulling her down until her mouth was on his chest, her lips trailing wet kisses across his skin.

"Tell me," Vikram said, his voice low and commanding. "Tell me you like it."

The words wouldn't come. Aslam's throat was closed, his lungs empty, and all he could do was shake his head, a small, desperate denial that made Vikram laugh.

"Liar," Vikram said. And he pulled Saqina up, positioning her over his face, her thighs straddling his head as he buried his mouth between her legs.

Saqina cried out, her body convulsing, her hands gripping the headboard for support. Aaliyaah kept riding him, her hips moving in a frantic rhythm, her phone still recording, her voice a breathless litany of praise.

"Good girl," Aaliyaah gasped. "That's it, Saqina. Let him taste you. Let him make you come."

Aslam watched his little sister fall apart on Vikram's mouth, watched her body shake and shudder, watched the way her face twisted with pleasure, and he felt the hot, shameful pulse in his own body, the evidence of his own corruption pressing against his pajama pants.

He hated himself. He hated Vikram. He hated his sisters, his mother, this house, this life. But he could not look away, and he could not stop the way his body responded, and he sat in the chair in the corner of his father's bedroom, watching his family fall apart, and he did nothing.

The phone in his hand buzzed, a single notification lighting up the screen. Aslam looked down, his eyes blurring, and he saw a message from an unknown number.

A photo. A woman with dark hair and a soft smile, her hand pressed against her cheek, her eyes looking straight at the camera.

Sahiba.

The message below it read: She says hello.

Aslam's hand closed around the phone, and he felt the plastic creak under his grip. He looked up, and Vikram was watching him, his mouth still buried between Saqina's thighs, his eyes dark and knowing.

Aslam stood. His legs were shaking, his hands trembling, and he turned and walked out of the room, the phone still clutched in his hand, the image of Sahiba's face burning in his mind.

Behind him, his sisters' moans filled the house, and the door to his father's bedroom hung open, splintered and broken, like everything else.

The phone left his hand before he knew he'd thrown it. The weight of it—Sahiba's face still burning on the screen—became a missile, and he watched it spin through the lamplight, end over end, and crack against Vikram's cheekbone with a sound like a branch snapping.

Vikram's head jerked sideways. His mouth pulled away from Saqina, a string of her wetness still connecting his lip to her thigh, and for one frozen second the room went silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. Then Vikram turned his head back, slow, deliberate, and Aslam saw the red mark blooming on his jaw, saw the dark eyes go flat and cold in a way he had never seen before.

Aaliyaah's phone clattered onto the mattress. "What the fuck—"

Saqina scrambled backward on the bed, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide and suddenly, horribly awake. "Aslam, what did you do—"

Aslam stood in the doorway, his hand still half-raised from the throw, his chest heaving. The adrenaline was a live wire in his veins, and for one glorious, terrible second he felt like a man. He had hit him. He had actually hit him.

Then Vikram stood.

He rose from the bed like a building deciding to move, his body unfolding to its full height in the warm lamplight. The smirk was gone. The lazy amusement was gone. His face was a mask of something that made Aslam's blood turn to ice water—a calm so complete it was more terrifying than any anger.

"Aslam," Vikram said, and his voice was soft. Almost gentle. "Come here."

Aslam's feet wouldn't move. His body was frozen, the way it had been frozen all night, but this time it wasn't shame holding him in place. It was fear. Pure, animal fear, the kind that made his bowels feel loose and his hands go numb.

"No," he heard himself say. The word came out thin, reedy, a child's word. "I'm not—"

"You're not what?" Vikram took a step forward. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "You're not going to come here? You're not going to do what I tell you?" Another step. "You just threw a phone at my face, Aslam. In my house. In front of my girls."

Aaliyaah had climbed off the bed, her body moving to stand behind Vikram like a soldier falling into formation. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, but her eyes were sharp with something that looked almost like excitement. "He's going to kill you," she said, and her voice was light, almost playful. "You know that, right? He's actually going to kill you."

Saqina had wrapped the sheet around herself, her small body trembling. She looked at Aslam with something that might have been pity, might have been fear, and she shook her head slowly, her lips forming words she didn't dare speak aloud.

Vikram took another step. Then another. The space between them shrank with each footfall, and Aslam felt his back hit the doorframe, felt the splintered wood dig into his shoulder blades. He couldn't run. His legs wouldn't carry him. He was a rabbit watching the shadow of the hawk, and the hawk was coming.

"You think because you're her brother, you get special treatment?" Vikram stopped a foot away, looking down at him. The height difference was obscene—Aslam's eyes barely reached Vikram's chest, and he had to crane his neck to meet those flat, dark eyes. "You think because you're the son of the house, you can raise your hand to me?"

"My father—" Aslam started, but the words died in his throat.

"Your father is dead." Vikram said it without malice, like he was stating a weather fact. "Your father is dead, and his family belongs to me now. You belong to me now. Every breath you take in this house is a breath I've allowed you to take. And you just threw a phone at my face."

He reached out, and Aslam flinched, expecting the blow. But Vikram's hand didn't strike him. It closed around his jaw instead, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks, forcing his head up.

"I was going to be merciful tonight," Vikram said, his voice still soft, still gentle. "I was going to let you watch, let you get used to your new place in this house. But you've decided you don't want mercy. You've decided you want to be taught a lesson."

He released Aslam's jaw and turned, walking back toward the bed. Aslam sagged against the doorframe, his legs barely holding him, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his temples.

"Saqina," Vikram said, and his voice was calm, commanding. "Close the door."

Saqina slid off the bed, the sheet pooling at her feet, and she walked naked across the cold floor to the door. She didn't look at Aslam as she pushed it closed—the splintered frame catching, the door not quite fitting anymore—and the click of the latch was the sound of a cage closing.

"Aaliyaah." Vikram gestured to the chair in the corner. "Sit."

Aaliyaah obeyed without a word, settling into the chair with her legs crossed, her phone back in her hand. She was already recording, the red light blinking in the dim room.

Vikram turned back to Aslam, and the smirk was back. It was worse than the cold mask. The smirk meant he had thought of something, and whatever it was, Aslam knew he would not survive it unchanged.

"You know what I love about this house?" Vikram said, walking toward him slowly, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. "It's so quiet at night. The neighbors can't hear anything. The walls are thick. And everyone in it belongs to me."

He stopped in front of Aslam again, and his hand reached out, not to strike, but to grip the collar of Aslam's thin t-shirt. He pulled him forward, off the doorframe, and Aslam stumbled, his bare feet sliding on the cold tile.

"You're going to learn your place," Vikram said, his voice low, almost intimate. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But by the end of this lockdown, you're going to know exactly who you are and what you're for."

He released the shirt, and Aslam stumbled backward, catching himself on the door. Vikram turned away, walking back toward the bed, and Aslam thought—for one desperate, hopeful second—that it was over. That the punishment was the threat, the fear, the humiliation of being seen.

Then Vikram stopped at the foot of the bed, picked up the iPhone from the floor—the one Aslam had thrown, the one with Sahiba's face frozen on the screen—and held it up.

"Your girlfriend," he said, and the word was a knife. "Sahiba. Pretty girl. Balwaan sends his regards."

He tossed the phone onto the bed, where it landed face-up, Sahiba's dark eyes staring at the ceiling. "You know what's going to happen to her, don't you? While you're here, learning your place, she's there. With Balwaan. And Balwaan is very good at teaching."

Aslam's vision went red. His hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms, and he took a step forward—one step, toward Vikram, toward the man who had killed his father and taken his family and now threatened the only person he had left.

Vikram didn't move. He just watched, his head tilted slightly, a predator watching its prey decide to fight.

"Go on," Vikram said softly. "Hit me again. I'd love to see it."

Aslam stopped. His fists trembled at his sides, and he could feel the tears burning behind his eyes, the shameful, hateful tears that he couldn't stop, couldn't hold back.

"That's what I thought." Vikram turned away, dismissing him. He climbed onto the bed, lying back against the pillows, his body sprawling across the sheets that had once belonged to Aslam's parents. "Saqina. Come here."

Saqina moved immediately, her naked body crossing the room in a few quick steps, crawling onto the bed to kneel beside him. Her eyes were downcast, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of perfect obedience.

"You see this?" Vikram said, gesturing at Aslam, still frozen by the door. "This is what happens when you forget your place. You end up standing in the cold, watching other people get what you want."

Saqina nodded, her hair falling across her face. "Yes, master."

"And you," Vikram said, turning his head toward Aaliyaah. "You're recording this?"

Aaliyaah held up her phone, the red light steady. "Every second."

"Good." Vikram's hand found Saqina's hair, stroking it like she was a cat. "Because I want Aslam to remember this. I want him to be able to watch it later, the night he learned what happens to boys who raise their hands to their betters."

He pulled Saqina down, his mouth finding hers, and she melted into him, her body going soft and pliant under his touch. Aslam watched, his hands still shaking, his eyes still burning, and he felt something inside him break—not the crack he'd felt before, but a clean, complete snap, like a bone finally giving way.

He had nothing left. No father. No mother. No sisters. No Sahiba. No pride. No hope. He was standing in the cold, watching the man who had taken everything take the last thing he had—his dignity, his will to fight—and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Vikram pulled his mouth away from Saqina, his eyes finding Aslam across the room. They were dark, satisfied, and they held a promise that made Aslam's blood run cold.

"This is only the beginning," Vikram said softly. "You're going to learn to beg, Aslam. You're going to learn to crawl. And by the time this lockdown ends, you're going to thank me for it."

He turned back to Saqina, his hand sliding down her body, and her moan filled the room, drowning out the sound of Aslam's breaking heart.

Aslam stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching them. Then he turned, his hand finding the splintered doorframe, and he stepped out into the cold hallway, the door swinging shut behind him with a click that sounded like a coffin lid.

The hallway was dark and empty. The nightlight cast its weak glow near the bathroom, and the sound of his sisters' pleasure followed him down the corridor, muffled but unmistakable. He walked past his own room without stopping, past the kitchen where the glass of water still sat on the counter, past the dining room where his father's chair waited in the dark.

Sahiba's face was burned into his mind. Her soft smile, her dark eyes, the way she had looked at him that last day before the lockdown, her hand pressed against his cheek.

She was with Balwaan. She was learning to take care of a man. And there was nothing—nothing—he could do to save her.

He stopped at the end of the hallway, his hand on the cold wall, and he pressed his forehead against the plaster. The tears came then, silent and hot, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor. He didn't make a sound. He couldn't. The sound would have been too loud, too broken, too much like the truth.

Behind him, through the splintered door, he heard Saqina cry out, her voice rising in a pitch of pleasure that made his stomach turn. He heard Vikram's low, satisfied laugh. He heard Aaliyaah's voice, soft and teasing, saying something he couldn't quite make out.

He pushed himself off the wall and walked to his room, his bare feet silent on the cold tile. The door closed behind him, and he stood in the dark, listening to the house around him—the hum of the air conditioning, the creak of the floorboards, the distant, muffled sounds of his family falling apart.

He crossed to his bed and sat down on the edge, his hands hanging limp between his knees. The room was cold, colder than it had been before, and he realized Vikram must have turned the AC up. He sat there, shivering, staring at the wall, and he thought about Sahiba.

Her face. Her smile. The way she had said his name, soft and warm, like it was the most precious word in the world.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Minutes. Hours. The sounds from the master bedroom faded, then stopped, replaced by the deep silence of a house where everyone was finally asleep. He should sleep too. He knew he should. But his eyes wouldn't close, and his mind wouldn't stop, and he sat there in the cold dark, thinking about everything he had lost and everything he had left.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. He didn't want to look. He knew it would be another message from the unknown number, another photo, another knife in his chest. But his hand moved anyway, reaching for the device, and he looked at the screen.

A video. A thumbnail of Sahiba's face, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

He didn't press play. He couldn't. He set the phone face-down on the table and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his chest hollow and cold.

The house was silent. The air conditioning hummed. And somewhere in the master bedroom, Vikram slept in his father's bed, surrounded by his mother's and sisters' bodies, dreaming of whatever it was that monsters dreamed of.

Aslam closed his eyes, and the darkness swallowed him, and he dreamed of nothing at all.

Aslam dreamed of nothing, and then the dream was ripped away by a scream.

Not a pleasure scream. Not the moans he had grown used to, the sounds that leaked through the walls like water through a failing dam. This was a scream of pure, animal terror, and it came from Aaliyaah's throat.

His eyes snapped open. The ceiling was still there, grey in the thin morning light. The scream came again, cut off mid-sound, and then there was a crash that shook the floorboards beneath his bed.

He was moving before he understood why, his bare feet finding the cold tile, his body pushing through the door and into the hallway. The master bedroom door was open. Vikram had left it open.

He saw it all in pieces, like frames of a film stripped of their connective tissue.

Saqina on the bed, naked, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and fixed on the center of the room.

Aaliyaah in the air.

Not standing. Not falling. In the air, her feet kicking uselessly a foot above the floor, her hands clawing at the massive fist wrapped around her throat. Vikram held her there, one arm extended, his body still loose and relaxed, like he was holding a glass of water instead of a grown woman.

Her face was turning blue.

Her legs kicked, slow and weakening, the movements of a body that had stopped fighting and started dying. Her lips were parted, purple, and her eyes — her eyes were rolled back, showing only white.

Aslam's feet stopped. He stood frozen in the doorway, his hands shaking, his heart a trapped bird in his chest.

Vikram wasn't even looking at her. He was looking at the wall, his head tilted, like he was listening to something far away. His bicep was flexed, the muscle standing out in sharp relief, and his hand — his hand was the size of Aaliyaah's whole neck, and it was squeezing.

Her feet slowed. Stopped. One hand fell limp.

Aslam opened his mouth to scream, to beg, to do something, and then Vikram laughed.

He tossed her.

She hit the floor like a dropped doll, her body crumpling in a heap of limbs, her head cracking against the hardwood. She lay there, gasping, her chest heaving, her hands clutching at her throat, and she was laughing — a broken, wet, hysterical laugh that bubbled out of her between desperate breaths.

"Good girl," Vikram said, looking down at her. "You took that well."

Aaliyaah rolled onto her back, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mascara smudged into dark rivers that ran into her ears. She was still laughing, still gasping, her body shaking on the cold floor.

Aslam stood in the doorway, his legs refusing to move, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He had seen Vikram do terrible things. He had watched him take his mother, his sisters, his father's chair, his father's bed. But he had never seen him kill.

He had never seen him come so close.

Saqina let out a small moan. Aslam's eyes snapped to her, and he saw her lower lip caught between her teeth, her thighs pressing together, her eyes bright with something that made his stomach turn.

She was aroused.

His sister was aroused by the sight of their other sister being choked within an inch of her life.

"It's breeding time, loves," Vikram said, and his voice was light, almost cheerful, like he had just suggested a game of cards.

Then his head turned, and his dark eyes found Aslam in the doorway.

Aslam's blood went cold.

Vikram moved faster than a man his size should be able to move. His hand shot out, closed around Aslam's collar, and yanked him into the room. Aslam stumbled, his glasses slipping, his feet tangling, and then his head was slammed into the mahogany table.

His vision exploded white. He felt the impact through his skull, felt his teeth clack together, tasted blood. His glasses flew off, skittering across the tabletop.

"You watched," Vikram said, his voice close to Aslam's ear. "You watched her suffer, and you didn't move. You didn't help. You just stood there, frozen like the coward you are."

Aslam tried to speak, tried to say that he had been about to move, that he had been frozen, that he was nothing — but Vikram grabbed his hair and dragged him across the floor, scraping his knees on the tile.

"You want to see what happens to people who don't know their place? You want to watch?" Vikram's hand closed around Aslam's jaw, forcing his mouth open. "Then watch. Taste it."

He shoved Aslam's face against Aaliyaah's feet.

Her skin was cold, slick with sweat, and Aslam could taste the salt on his tongue as Vikram forced his mouth against her sole, rubbing his face along the arch of her foot. Aaliyaah watched, her eyes still wet with tears, her breathing still ragged, and she didn't pull away.

She held her foot still, letting him.

"Lick," Vikram commanded.

Aslam's tongue moved before his mind could refuse. He dragged it along her skin, tasting the sweat, the dirt, the fear. Aaliyaah let out a small, broken laugh.

"Good boy," she whispered, and the words were a knife.

Vikram pulled him away, and Aslam gasped, his face wet with tears and saliva. He tried to scramble backward, but Vikram's foot caught him in the groin, and the pain exploded through him, doubling him over, sending him to the floor.

"Strip him," Vikram said.

Saqina moved immediately, sliding off the bed, her naked body crossing the room in quick, eager steps. She grabbed the hem of Aslam's t-shirt and pulled it over his head, then hooked her fingers into the waistband of his shorts and yanked them down.

He was already soft, shrunken, his balls pulled tight against his body from the pain. Saqina looked at him, and her face flickered — a moment of something that might have been pity, or might have been disgust — and then it was gone, replaced by the same glassy obedience she wore for Vikram.

Vikram tossed her a length of rope, and she caught it.

"Tie him," Vikram said. "Tight."

Aslam tried to fight, tried to push her away, but his body wouldn't obey. He was shaking, his vision blurry without his glasses, his balls throbbing with a pain that made him want to vomit. Saqina knelt in front of him, her face close to his, and she wound the rope around his penis and balls, pulling it tight, so tight that he whimpered.

"Shh," Saqina whispered, her breath warm on his cheek. "It's better if you don't fight."

She tied the rope in a cruel knot, and the pressure around his genitals intensified, a dull, aching burn that made his vision swim.

Vikram wrapped a white sheet around Aslam's waist, hiding his pathetic, shriveled cock from view. "Can't have the girls vomiting at the sight of it," he said, and Aaliyaah laughed, a wet, broken sound.

Then Vikram grabbed Aslam by the hair again, dragged him to the door frame, and hoisted him up. He tied the rope to a hook above the door, and Aslam's arms were yanked above his head, his feet barely touching the floor, his body swaying like a carcass in a butcher's window.

Vikram picked up Aslam's phone from where it had fallen, and Aslam's heart stopped.

"Let's get a good angle," Vikram said, and he shoved the phone into Aslam's mouth, the screen facing out, the camera app open, the red light blinking. "Record this. I want to watch it later."

Aslam gagged on the device, his teeth scraping against the metal, his tongue pressing against the cold glass. He could taste the screen, taste his own fear, and he could see, through the lens, his family arrayed before him.

Saqina, kneeling on the bed. Aaliyaah, still on the floor, her body streaked with tears and sweat.

And Vikram, standing over them, a curved blade in his hand.

The karambit glinted in the morning light, its edge wickedly sharp. Vikram knelt beside Aaliyaah, taking her foot in his hand, and she didn't flinch. She watched him with the same glassy devotion, her lips parted, her body open.

"You licked her foot," Vikram said, not looking at Aslam. "You put your tongue on her skin. Now you're going to taste it properly."

The blade pressed against the sole of Aaliyaah's foot, just below her toes, and she let out a small, sharp gasp. Vikram drew the blade across her skin, a shallow cut, and blood welled up, bright red, running down her arch and dripping onto the floor.

Aaliyaah whimpered, but she didn't pull away. She held her foot still, offering it to him.

Vikram pinched the edge of the cut, peeled back a thin strip of skin, and sliced it free. A piece of her flesh, no bigger than a coin, lay in his palm, glistening with blood.

He stood, walked to Aslam, and shoved the flesh into his mouth, past the phone, pressing it against his tongue.

"Swallow," Vikram said.

Aslam gagged, the taste of copper flooding his senses, the texture of it — the slick, warm, impossibly real texture — making his stomach heave. But Vikram's hand closed over his jaw, forcing it shut, and Aslam swallowed.

The flesh slid down his throat, and he felt it land in his stomach like a stone.

Vikram released him, and Aslam hung there, gagging, his eyes streaming, the phone still in his mouth, recording everything.

"Now," Vikram said, turning back to the bed. "Where were we?"

Saqina crawled to him, her mouth open, her eyes hungry. Aaliyaah rose from the floor, limping, her foot leaving a trail of blood, and joined her sister on the bed.

Vikram dropped the karambit on the table, the blade landing with a dull clang, and he climbed onto the bed between them.

Aslam watched through the lens of his own phone, his body hanging from the door frame, his genitals burning, his stomach churning with the taste of his sister's flesh.

Vikram took Saqina first.

He pushed her back onto the bed, spread her legs, and drove into her without preamble, without gentleness, her moan filling the room as he bottomed out inside her. Aaliyaah moved behind him, pressing her body against his back, her hands sliding down his chest, her mouth finding his shoulder.

"Master," Saqina gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist. "Please, master—"

"Beg," Vikram said, his voice a low growl.

"Please," she sobbed, her hips bucking against his. "Please fuck me, master, please—"

He didn't answer. He just fucked her, his hips slamming against hers, the sound of his body hitting hers filling the room, wet and rhythmic. Aaliyaah's hand slid down his stomach, wrapping around his cock as it slid in and out of her sister, and she moaned, her fingers slick with Saqina's wetness.

Aslam watched. He couldn't look away. The phone in his mouth recorded everything, the red light steady, the lens capturing every angle, every thrust, every moan.

He could taste blood in his mouth. His own, from where the phone had cut his lip. Or Aaliyaah's. He couldn't tell anymore.

Vikram pulled out of Saqina, and she whimpered at the loss, reaching for him, but he pushed her away. He flipped Aaliyaah onto her stomach, grabbed her hips, and drove into her from behind, his hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back.

"You liked that, didn't you?" he said, his voice harsh. "Being choked. Being thrown around like a doll."

"Yes," Aaliyaah sobbed, her voice breaking. "Yes, master."

"You're a slut," he said, and he slapped her ass, hard, the sound echoing off the walls. "You're my little breeding slut, aren't you?"

"Yes, master," she cried, her body arching into him. "I'm your slut. I'm your breeding slut."

Saqina watched from the bed, her hand between her legs, her fingers working herself as she watched her sister get fucked. She was moaning, her head thrown back, her other hand squeezing her breast.

Aslam's vision was blurring. The pain in his groin was a constant, throbbing ache. The taste of blood and flesh was still on his tongue. His arms were going numb from the rope.

But he couldn't look away.

Some part of him, the part he hated most, was watching. Was recording. Was feeling something other than horror.

He was getting hard.

The rope was tight around his shrunken cock, and it was swelling against the constraint, the pressure building, the blood trying to flow. He could feel it, the traitorous, shameful arousal, and he wanted to scream, to tear himself down from the door frame, to rip out his own eyes.

But he couldn't.

He just hung there, his phone in his mouth, his sister's flesh in his stomach, and watched his family fall apart.

Vikram flipped Aaliyaah over, drove into her again, and her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his back. "Cum in me," she begged, her voice desperate. "Please, master, cum in me. Breed me. Make me yours."

"You're already mine," Vikram said, and he thrust into her, deep, his body shuddering, his groan low and satisfied. "You've always been mine."

He pulled out, and his cum spilled out of her, running down her thigh, mixing with the blood from her foot. He turned to Saqina, and she was already on her knees, her mouth open, waiting.

He grabbed her hair, pulled her to him, and she swallowed him, her cheeks hollowing, her throat working. She moaned around him, her eyes closed, her hands gripping his thighs.

Aslam watched the phone record it all. The red light. The angle. The way his sister's throat moved as she took Vikram's cock.

He wanted to die.

He wanted to close his eyes, to stop seeing, to stop feeling. But his body wouldn't obey. His eyes stayed open. His cock stayed hard, straining against the rope. His stomach churned with the taste of his sister's flesh.

Vikram pulled Saqina off his cock, stroked himself, and came on her face, painting her cheeks, her lips, her closed eyes with his cum. She opened her mouth, catching what she could, and swallowed, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.

"Good girl," Vikram said, and she beamed up at him, her face a mess of cum and adoration.

He turned to Aslam, his eyes dark and satisfied. He walked to the door frame, reached up, and pulled the phone from Aslam's mouth.

"Did you get all that?" he asked, his voice light, almost amused. He tapped the screen, stopped the recording. "I'll send it to Sahiba. She can watch it with Balwaan."

Aslam's heart stopped.

"No," he whispered, his voice raw, broken. "Please. Not her. Anyone but her."

Vikram smiled, and it was the worst thing Aslam had ever seen. "You should have thought of that before you raised your hand to me."

He turned away, pocketing the phone, and walked back to the bed, where his two sisters waited, eager, hungry, ready to be bred again.

Aslam hung from the door frame, his body shaking, his vision blurring, and he watched his phone disappear into Vikram's pocket, carrying with it the last proof of his humanity.