Riya pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the Ratan Tata Library at 10:58 a.m.

The morning crowd was thin—mostly first-years cramming for internals, a few PhD scholars lost in their own worlds, and the ever-present smell of yellowed pages and instant coffee. She had changed nothing since leaving the Kamla Nagar flat. The skirt still clung damply to her thighs, the blouse still half-unbuttoned and semi-transparent where fresh and old cum had soaked through in overlapping stains. Her hair was a wreck, lips still puffy, throat hoarse enough that speaking above a whisper hurt. Between her legs she could feel the slow, continuous leak—V and his friends had been generous with volume.