The house had become a pressure cooker by the sixth night. Whispers among the staff had started—nothing concrete, just sidelong glances, stifled giggles in the kitchen, and the way the cook now knocked twice before entering any room after dark. Everyone knew something was shifting in the Kapoor bungalow, but no one dared speak it aloud. Except Priya, who had stopped pretending altogether.

Ramesh, the night security guard, was a mountain of a man—six-foot-two, barrel-chested, arms thick from years of wrestling heavy gates and lifting weights in the tiny guard room during slow shifts. At forty-two he still moved with the easy power of someone who knew he could break things if he wanted to. His uniform shirt strained across his pecs; the top two buttons were always undone, revealing coarse black chest hair. He had watched the upstairs windows for months—catching glimpses of silhouettes, hearing muffled moans carried on the humid breeze. Tonight he wasn’t watching from outside.