Aayra Singhania hides behind the wide desk, her back curved and tight, her body folded into fear. The wood smells old and dusty, and the floor beneath her feels cold through her clothes

Her hands shake so badly that the knife trembles with her, the metal knocking softly against her fingers. She forces her grip harder, pressing her palm tight around the handle as if pain can keep her awake, as if pressure can stop her from falling apart