I stood in the vast, sterile living room of this architectural fortress—a place my father, Vikram Agarwal, had chosen for its isolation, its impregnability, and its ability to act as a cage. We were miles from the city, tucked away in the desolate, mountainous terrain like a secret wound. The house was all concrete, glass, and silence, a gilded prison enforced by a perimeter of unseen guards who were loyal not to me, but to the man who signed their paychecks.