Shashwat sits very still, but inside he is a storm. His eyes are wide and he can feel his heart hammering so hard it hurts his ribs. He can hear the seniors talking, but their words are far away, like someone speaking behind a thick wall. A hot, tight panic that makes his hands cold and his fingers go numb. He wants to stand up, to shout, to run out of the room and find her right this second. He can taste metal in his mouth. He can feel the urge to move, to do anything, burning under his skin. But he knows he cannot.

His jaw clenches so tightly his teeth ache. He pictures the man's face, the way he touched her, the way he pushed and pulled. In his mind, he imagines tearing that man apart with his bare hands. The anger is ugly and loud and burns under his skin. He presses his nails into his palm hard, trying not to move.