He lubricated their assholes brutally, his fingers probing and twisting. Then, he drove the dildos into them, one for each. The machines were turned on, set to a slow, deep, and merciless rhythm. The girls screamed, the sound a unified chorus of agony. But the torture wasn’t just the penetration. A screen lowered in front of them, showing a live feed of the men watching—Basheer, Abhay, and hundreds of faceless others, their faces contorted in lust as they watched the daughters being destroyed.
As the machines fucked them relentlessly, The Artisan began to whip their backs, methodically, one stroke at a time, crossing the welts from the previous day’s punishment. He spoke to them in a calm, gentle voice, a voice that was more terrifying than any shout. “You are one now,” he said. “You are not Hindu. You are not Muslim. You are not Saniya. You are not Tanisha. You are a single vessel of pain. Your only purpose is to suffer for their pleasure. Your bodies belong to them. Your pain belongs to them. Your souls belong to them.”
He kept whipping them as the machines pumped faster, their bodies rocking in unison under the yoke. They screamed until their voices were hoarse, then silent, then just guttural, animalistic grunts. Their minds finally snapped, the last threads of their identity sheared away by the overwhelming, unending agony.
When it was over, they were left there, chained together, impaled on the machines, their backs a bloody canvas. They didn’t move. They didn’t make a sound. Their eyes were open, but they saw nothing. They were no longer people. They were an object, a two-headed sculpture of suffering, a permanent exhibit in the dungeon, ready for the next session, and the next, and the next. They were the perfect booty, the ultimate prize, broken beyond recognition, their fate sealed in an eternity of torture.
The files leaked. Not just the videos of Saniya and Tanisha, but the entire financial ledger, the client lists, the internal memos from Basheer and Abhay, the live streams from the dungeon. For a day, the internet in India went silent, stunned into a state of collective shock. Then, it exploded. The dam of civility, already cracked and fragile, burst entirely. The leaked files were not just evidence; they were a blueprint. They were a declaration of war, and the weapon was sex.
**Scene 1: Jama Masjid Market, Delhi**
The narrow, winding lanes of the market, usually choked with the scent of kebabs and the cacophony of haggling, fell silent. Then, a new sound rose—the rhythmic, heavy tramp of boots. A mob of Hindu men, their faces twisted into masks of righteous fury, poured into the streets. They weren’t carrying trishuls or swords. They carried ropes, knives, and the burning, righteous conviction of the violated.
They swarmed into the market, overturning carts of fragrant spices and sweet jalebis. They smashed the lanterns, plunging the ancient lanes into a chaotic, strobing darkness lit only by the fires they started. A Muslim shopkeeper, a man who had sold sweets to Hindu children for thirty years, was dragged from his shop. His pleas for mercy were cut short by a boot to his throat.