The air inside the penthouse was thick with the scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of cold sweat. It was no longer a sanctuary; it had become a chamber of high-frequency torment. Riya was sprawled across the cold, black marble floor of the living room, her emerald silk robe discarded and forgotten in a heap near the sofa. Her back was arched in a permanent, agonizing curve, her fingers clawing at the polished stone as the silver toy inside her—now a weapon in Maya’s hands—vibrated with a violent, bone-shaking intensity.