His job was "Vice President of Synergy" at a shadowy wealth management firm in BKC. In reality, he moved money for politicians, diverted funds from infrastructure projects, and crushed start-ups for sport. His colleagues were indistinguishable from him: Same Sabyasachi sarees for the women, same Audemars Piguet watches, same performative rage about “dharma” and “start-up culture.”

Because the constable recognized Rohit’s car. The ACP owed Rohit’s father a favor. And the local politician needed Rohit’s “donation” for the Ganpati festival.

He drove to his “safe house”—a run-down chawl in Dharavi he owned under a fake name. Inside, it was sterile. White sheets on the floor. A single halogen bulb.

He hung up. He looked at the mirror again.

He chose the Bandhgala. It was more relatable for LinkedIn.

And the city of Mumbai, glittering below like a diseased diamond, glittered back in agreement.

But tonight, he wanted something tactile.