Rony’s phone buzzed at exactly 6:03 PM.

Nisa’s name flashed on the screen, but when he answered, it wasn’t her voice.

“Da, come to Kottayam junction. Last cabin, Ernakulam train, seven-twenty departure,” Muneer said, his tone heavy with mocking control. Behind him, low laughter, chatter, and the rattling thud of a nearby train. They’re already there, Rony thought—and then the line went dead.

Her office closed at five. They must be in those abandoned railway bogies by the station—my wife, and the sanitary worker who’d taken her before. Probably again, tonight.

The image took hold—Nisa, naked, skin glistening with heat, surrounded by rusted metal. Muneer grunting as he thrust his dirty cock inside her. Warm and thick.

By the time he reached the station, sweat slicked his skin. Kottayam was steeped in sticky August dusk, the cloud cover trapping the heat like a heavy, suffocating blanket under the iron roof.

A train waited—the Kollam-Ernakulam passenger. The bogies were crowded: office workers with creased shirts and slung bags; labourers, families, endless chatter filling the air.

The last bogie sat apart—brown, its sheen long lost. The carriage, marked for disabled passengers, was rusted where paint had peeled. At the doorway, a figure leaned against the frame—the station master, known to Muneer for years—the man who looked away when steel disappeared from the abandoned track.

His shirt unbuttoned at the throat, he wiped sweat from his temple.

If the heat outside was oppressive, it didn’t compare to the stifling air inside. As Rony climbed in, it swallowed him whole. The fans hung still overhead, their blades thick with dust. The scent of rust, sweat, and faint soap mingled with something fouler, heavier, and filthy.

Inside, on the right side, ten men pressed close—five on the blue hard-cushioned seats, facing each other. Shirts clung to backs, collars damp, hair shining with sweat. Dim light caught beads crawling down necks, disappearing into collars.

On the left, separated by the aisle, sat Nisa—her white kurta clinging to her body, her full breasts struggling against the fabric. Dark patches bloomed under her arms and along her chest. She wore her favorite blue jeans, tight and flattering her legs and hips. Next to her, Muneer’s hand rested loosely on her inner thigh. Damp strands of hair clung to her cheek. Her breathing was quick but steady, eyes flicking from one man to another.

Opposite her sat three more men. Rony knew them all—connected in some way. He knew what was coming. Muneer’s hand on his wife’s thigh, while the others—cheap men, maybe labourers or friends from the sewage drains—watched silently, was a cruel prelude.

He was claiming her—Rony’s wife—as his whore. The word slammed into his mind. And more than that, he wanted Rony to watch, while he shared her with his mates.