The sheer black fabric splits open at the seam, a deliberate tear running up the inner thigh where fingers clearly pressed too hard, too impatiently.

You trace the ragged edge with your eyes — nylon curling back to reveal bare skin underneath, nothing else between her and the cold air of the room.

She didn't bother changing. That's the detail that stays with you: the tights still on, still clinging to her legs, the damage left exactly as it happened, raw and unplanned.