They left the river island at first light — or what passed for light under the heavy monsoon clouds. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, but the sky stayed dark grey, promising more violence. Vikram had bandaged his wounds roughly with strips torn from his shirt; blood still seeped through. Asha walked beside him, naked except for a large palm frond he had torn off to wrap around her like a makeshift skirt. It did little — her boobs remained bare, bouncing with every step, nipples dark and sore from constant exposure and abuse. Her body ached everywhere: bruises blooming purple across throat, wrists, thighs; pussy and ass still tender, leaking faint traces of his cum mixed with river water.

They climbed upward again — away from the backwaters, into the Western Ghats foothills. The path was steep, rocky, overgrown with ferns and thorny vines. Mud sucked at their feet. Vikram moved ahead, machete in hand, clearing branches when needed. He spoke little. When he did, his voice was low, almost gentle — a stark contrast to the killer she had seen fighting crocodiles and corpses.