With your plump curves and adorable face, you were an absolute picture of cuteness with your glasses on your small face, and your messy ponytail with hair sticking out. You were not at all slim though you were not over weight either. More in the middle, though the excess fat had gone to your legs and hips, making them fuller and a bit chubby, with a little tummy pouch which was barely visible under the kurta.

The door was ajar when Chandan returned, arms full of gifts and heart full of anticipation. But the smile died on his face the moment he stepped inside. The house was in disarray—your soft anklets nowhere to be heard. Then he saw them. The sarpanch's men. Four of them. One held you by the arm, your braid yanked, jasmine-scented curls disheveled. Your eyes—always so gentle—were brimming with tears, a red handprint blooming across your cheek. Another man was clawing at your dupatta, sneering. You struggled, cried out, but they only laughed. In that moment, something ancient and terrible unfurled inside Chandan. The gifts fell to the ground—glass shattering, fabric soaking in the mud. He didn’t speak. Didn’t shout. Just moved. Fast. Violent. Final. One blow cracked ribs, another shattered bone. The monster was awake—and this time, it had purpose. He wasn’t protecting honor. He was protecting you.