The lock-up at Dharavi police station smelled of piss, sweat, and the copper tang of old violence. Kiara sat on the wooden bench, her hands cuffed behind her, her lip split from where Rathore's backhand had caught her when she'd talked back during processing.

Inspector Vikram Rathore stood in the doorway, filling the frame with his bulk. Thirty-eight years old, ex-army, with a reputation that kept even the local goondaas in line. He was watching her like a predator watches prey that's already trapped—no rush, just the certainty of the kill.