The rain never stops in Bombay. It slicks the streets, blurs the neon, and drowns the screams no one wants to hear. I drive through it all—night after night—steering my taxi like a ghost through the city’s veins. My name is Ravi Kishore Verma. I used to have a sister. Roopa. She loved monsoon nights. Then she fell—from a brothel window—after they told her she was sick. I saw the article. I saw the photo. I didn’t sleep for weeks.

Tonight, I pick up a woman at Grant Road. She’s barefoot, shivering, eyes wide with terror. I recognize her. Pooja. We used to talk by the chai stall. Before Maharani took her.

She begs me to drive her anywhere. I do. But they find us. Always do. So I go back. I pay. I mortgage my taxi. I stand in that cursed room while Maharani watches, demanding proof I’m not in love. I almost break. But I can’t give her that.

Now, the knife is in my hand. The fire is spreading. And I’m done asking for permission.