The sun rising over the chawl didn’t bring warmth; it brought a deadline.

Rohini stepped out of the black sedan at 6:00 AM, the cool, synthetic air of the car’s interior replaced by the humid, heavy scent of the city waking up. The transition was always jarring—the silence of Malabar Hill traded for the clatter of buckets and the distant whistle of pressure cookers. Her legs felt like they were made of lead, and her eyes burned with a dry, gritty heat. She clutched her laptop bag and the empty steel tiffin—now a heavy, metallic reminder of her failed attempt at humanity with Aarav—and began the climb up the narrow, uneven stairs of her building.