The heavy bronze clock in the corner of the sprawling formal drawing-room struck seven, its deep, resonant chimes cutting through the unnatural, suffocating quiet that had settled over the estate. By early evening, the entire household had been summoned. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on, a volatile mix of dread and morbid curiosity as the family gathered in a semi-circle across the plush Persian rugs.

Shivanya sat rigidly beside Abhimaan on the central velvet divan, her posture straight, a high-collared emerald-and-gold anarkali hugging her frame, concealing the faint bruises left by the previous days. To her left, Kritagya sat with an unreadable, lethal expression, his arm protectively yet possessively slung over the back of the sofa where a trembling Naina sat. Across from them, the older generation—Adrijay, Meera, Ashlok, and Anamika—wore expressions of deep apprehension. Further down, Advay sat leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes cold and hollow, while Ishanth and a visibly pale, tear-stained Anika occupied the far corner.