The Mumbai night pressed against the windows like a voyeur, thick with the distant rumble of late traffic and the occasional bark of stray dogs. Inside the Kapoor bungalow, the air conditioning struggled against the rising body heat on the second floor.

Vikram—the morning relief guard—was twenty-eight, leaner than Ramesh but wiry, all corded muscle from gym sessions squeezed between shifts. He had sharp features, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that always seemed to be calculating angles. When Ramesh had texted him the previous night, Vikram hadn’t asked questions. He’d simply showered, changed into a clean uniform shirt (top three buttons undone), and arrived at the servants’ entrance at 11:40 p.m. sharp.