episode 1

She stands by the window now, her arms folded tight across her chest like she’s holding herself in. Outside, the street is alive — rickshaws rumble by, a child drags a schoolbag too big for his shoulders. She tries to focus on that life. The normal. The safe.

"Don’t stand so far away, baby," his voice breaks the silence. It’s warm, almost teasing — like he’s scolding a lover who forgot to kiss him goodbye.

She flinches when he steps behind her. His hands circle her waist — the same hands that held her down hours ago. He presses his lips to her hair. She stands frozen.

"Look at you," he murmurs. “Mine. Always so stubborn, but you come back to me every time.”

She tastes bile but forces a nod. He likes that. He likes when she doesn’t fight back — it makes him feel like he’s won.

"Where would you even go, huh?" His grip tightens. She feels his fingers dig into the bruise already forming beneath her sweater. “No one knows you like I do. No one can touch you the way I can.”

She squeezes her eyes shut — for a second she’s back there again, pinned, helpless. Her pulse roars in her ears. She wonders if he can feel her heart trying to escape.

"Say it," he growls now, the sweetness gone — replaced by the sharp edge she’s come to fear more than his fists.

She swallows. Her throat is dry sand.

"Yours."

"Louder."

"I’m yours."

The words taste like rust and betrayal on her tongue — betrayal of herself.

He smiles, satisfied. A predator with his prey properly collared.

"Good girl," he purrs, planting a kiss on her neck. She wants to scrub it off. “Now, make us some tea, hmm? You’ll stay in today — I don’t want you running around. Not after last night.”

She nods again. Her mind screams run. Her feet don’t move.

"Smile for me," he says when she doesn’t. He catches her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up. His thumb brushes her lip — rough, possessive, familiar. “I love you. You know that, don’t you? Everything I do is because I can’t stand losing you.”

She smiles — a hollow, dead thing. In her mind, she’s already counting: the door lock, the spare key, the window ledge she might climb over if she’s ever brave enough.

"Good girl," he says again. He doesn’t see the storm gathering behind her eyes — not yet.

She stands in the kitchen, staring at the steam curling from the chipped kettle. Her fingers tremble as she sets two cups on the tray. Her mind is miles away — rehearsing again how she might slip the hidden key into her pocket, how she might run when he’s drunk enough to pass out.

"What’s taking so long?"

His voice slams into her chest like a fist. She flinches, dropping a spoon with a sharp clang. Before she can answer, he’s there — filling the doorway like a storm cloud.

"I asked you a question, didn’t I?"

She forces herself to speak. “It’s ready, I —”

The slap comes out of nowhere — the crack of his palm against her cheek echoes in the tiny kitchen. The sting burns hot and then goes numb.

"Always so slow," he spits. He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. Tears well in her eyes — not from the pain but from the raw humiliation. She hates that he sees them. He loves that he does.

"You think you can leave me, huh? I see the way you look at that door."

His grip shifts from her face to the back of her neck. He drags her through the flat, ignoring the teacups that shatter as the tray clatters to the floor.

He throws her onto the bed like she weighs nothing. The mattress springs squeal in protest. She scrambles back but he’s already crawling over her, all heat and fury, the smell of stale sweat and cheap aftershave filling her nose.

"You’re mine," he snarls, pressing his knee between her thighs. She twists away but he slams a fist into the pillow next to her head — a threat that doesn’t need words.

"Don’t," she whispers. It slips out before she can choke it down. His eyes flare with a cruel light. “Don’t?” He mimics her voice, high and mocking. “Don’t? You forget who you belong to, sweetheart.”

She tries to shove him off. His hand finds her hair, yanking her head back so hard her scalp screams. She doesn’t scream. She knows better. The slap comes again — across the other cheek this time. Her ears ring.

"Don’t fight me. You know you like it when you’re good."

He rips at the thin fabric of her clothes — not caring what tears. She turns her face to the wall. She counts the cracks in the plaster. Anything but here. Anything but now.

She feels every rough push. Every hateful word. The bed creaks beneath them, a witness to her ruin. His weight pins her down — a prison she can’t escape.

When it’s over, he collapses next to her, breath ragged. He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t kiss her. He just rolls over, pulling her tight against him like a ragdoll.

"Mine," he murmurs, half-asleep already. “Always mine.”

She lies there, her bruised face pressed into the damp pillow, her body sore and shivering. She stares at the crack in the ceiling — the same one she counted last night. And the night before that.

She closes her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice whispers: Not forever. Not if I can find a way.

The room smells like sweat, fear, and something broken. She lies curled on her side, her body still trembling where he’s bruised it — where he’s claimed it like property.

He shifts beside her, groaning as he swings his legs off the bed. She watches his back through a blur of tears — the careless way he stretches, scratches his ribs, hums to himself like they just shared something tender instead of monstrous.

He pulls on his shirt, then his pants. She pulls the corner of the sheet around herself, but her hands shake too badly to hold it tight. It slips down her shoulder, exposing the purple blooming across her collarbone.

Then — knock knock.

She flinches so hard her teeth clack together.

"Who’s that?" she whispers, her voice no louder than a breath.

He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just the guys. Relax.”

She wants to scream. Relax? She grips the sheet tighter, tries to shrink into the mattress. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears.

He swings the door open. There they are — two men, older than him, reeking of cheap liquor and stale cigarette smoke. They clap him on the shoulder, laughing too loud.

"Ay, man — we didn’t know you were busy," one snickers when he sees her. He doesn’t look away. His eyes roam over her bare shoulder, the way she’s clutching the sheet to her chest like it’s a shield made of paper.

"Get out," she croaks. The words slip out before she can stop them.

The bigger man laughs, leaning on the doorframe. “What’s the matter, princess? Shy all of a sudden? We’re all friends here.”

She curls tighter, pulling her knees up, burying her face in the scratchy pillow. She tries to become invisible — bone, bruises, and shame pressed into cheap linen.

The rapist — her husband, her prison — turns back to her with that same cold smirk. He doesn’t tell them to leave. He doesn’t cover her. He just shrugs.

"She’s mine," he says, like he’s bragging about a car or a new watch. “Don’t mind her. She likes to act shy — but she knows who she belongs to.”

The men laugh. The sound drills into her skull — hot and filthy. One takes a step inside. She feels the heat of his eyes crawling over the parts of her she can’t hide.

Her ears buzz. Her vision goes black around the edges. Somewhere deep inside, something snaps — not loudly, not yet, but a hairline crack she knows will split open one day.

"Please… don’t look at me," she whispers, but they don’t stop. One of them whistles low.

"Pretty thing, isn’t she?" the taller one says. He reaches out — just enough for her to flinch away like a trapped animal.

They laugh again. The husband grins, pride swelling in his chest at the proof of his power. He’s not just hurting her — he’s showing her off like a trophy. A possession that breathes.

She squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t run — not now. But inside, that tiny crack grows wider. She pictures a knife. A door left unlocked. The taste of freedom she’s never had but dreams of.

Not forever, the voice whispers. Not if I can help it.

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