The notebook had grown heavier. By the end of the ninth week it held twenty-six dated entries in Rajesh’s precise handwriting, some pages stained at the edges by the humidity that never left the apartment. The memory card beside it contained the longer voice recordings. Both objects sat on the low shelf near the open balcony doors like ordinary household facts, no longer hidden, no longer remarkable to anyone who entered through the unlocked door.

On a Saturday evening in the tenth week the original man arrived first. He did not touch Priya. He picked up the notebook, opened it to the most recent entry, and waited until Rajesh and the others—her father-in-law, Vikram, the junior colleague, and one new face who had only watched recordings until now—were present in the living room. Priya stood naked under the gray monsoon light, the continuous dark map across the soft undersides of her breasts fully visible, milk already beading at the nipples from the cool air and the weight of being watched.