The following night felt heavier, thicker with anticipation—like the monsoon air before the first real downpour. Arjun, the gardener, was twenty-three, lean and sun-darkened from years tending the Kapoor compound’s lawns and flowerbeds. He had the quiet, coiled strength of someone who worked with his hands all day—broad shoulders, calloused palms, and a perpetual light sheen of sweat that made his white kurta cling to the ridges of his chest. Maya had passed him a dozen times in the garden over the last month, always averting her eyes when he smiled that slow, knowing smile. Tonight she couldn’t afford to look away.

At ten-thirty Rajesh summoned him.