The air in the lock-up reeked of stale sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the metallic tang of rusted bars. Panchi stood in the center of the tiled floor, her hands cuffed behind her back, wearing nothing but the thin cotton kurta she’d been caught in—now damp with rain and fear. The female constable, a hard-faced woman named Constable Meera, had already taken her belongings: a meager purse, a worn dupatta, and the cheap silver anklets that clinked with every step.

“Strip,” Meera ordered, her voice flat, professional. “All of it. Modesty inspection. Protocol.”