We left the hotel just before dawn—skin still sticky, clothes thrown on in a hurry. Priya drove with one hand on the wheel, the other between her thighs again, idly rubbing slow circles over her swollen clit through the thin skirt. The city was waking up slowly: milkmen on bicycles, stray dogs stretching in the first pale light, but the back lanes we took were still empty and shadowed.

She pulled into a narrow service alley behind an old warehouse—barely wide enough for the car. Brick walls on both sides, overflowing dumpster at one end, a single flickering sodium lamp overhead casting everything in sickly orange. No cameras. No windows. Just us.