The inter-city bus roared down the deserted highway, its interior dimly lit by flickering overhead bulbs. Meera sat in the back row, her lush, hourglass figure straining against the thin fabric of her tight cotton salwar suit. Beside her, her ten-year-old son was completely absorbed in a mobile game, his ears covered by heavy headphones.

The bus was nearly empty, save for a few sleeping passengers and the conductor, a tall, fair-skinned man with broad, muscular shoulders named Vikram. Meera had been tracking him with her eyes since she boarded, her blood reaching a terminal, white-hot velocity. When he walked past to check the rear door, she reached out and grabbed the hem of his uniform shirt.