The storm didn't start in the sky; it started with a vibration on a mahogany nightstand in Malabar Hill. It was 4:00 AM in Mumbai, that strange, silent hour when the city’s humidity felt like a physical weight, but in London, the sun was still setting over a world of steel and glass.

Aarav didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was. There was a specific, rhythmic pulse to the way his father’s calls came through—authoritative, relentless, and impossible to ignore. He sat up, the silk sheets sliding off his chest, and answered.