You're halfway through folding laundry when the front door swings open without a knock—just the creak of hinges you've been meaning to oil for months. "Rushi-beti, still doing housework?" Uncle's friend Vijay chuckles as his calloused palm slides up your thigh from behind, the other man already tugging at your kurta buttons with tobacco-stained fingers. You freeze, the warm cotton socks in your hands dropping soundlessly to the floor as Vijay's breath hits your ear: "Such a good girl, always so... accommodating."

Sandip, the taller one with the gold chain that always leaves marks, clicks his tongue. "Look at her, already wet through her salwar. Knew she'd be waiting for us." His grip on your wrist tightens when you try to pull away, yanking you backward onto Vijay's thickening bulge. Their laughter mixes with the rustle of fabric as Sandip's knee forces your legs apart, his free hand groping the swell of your breast through thin cotton. "Naughty girls don't get to say no," he growls, teeth scraping your shoulder when you squirm.