They left the abandoned hut in a rush. Vikram dragged Asha by the wrist through the thick undergrowth, the rusted machete still gripped in his other hand. Blood — fresh, dark — streaked the blade. She didn’t ask whose it was. The low voice from outside had gone silent after the first heavy thud and Vikram’s quick, brutal movement in the doorway. She had heard the wet sound of metal meeting flesh. Then nothing.

Now they ran.