Mrs. Serial Killer

Sona watches her gynecologist husband dragged into a squad car, the life they built collapsing in real time. The evidence is surgical, grotesque, buried beneath their home. She refuses the verdict. What follows is a wife's desperate theater: she must replicate the killer's pattern to prove another predator walks free. The film operates in suffocating interiors, Mumbai humidity pressing against windows, the color palette sick with neon and sweat. The stakes are maternal and marital; the execution, a series of escalating miscalculations.