The city hit them like a physical force. Not the heat of Chudaipur, but a dry, dusty, exhaust-choked wind. The sounds were a chaotic symphony of honking horns, blaring music from shops, and the constant hum of a million lives colliding. The haveli’s oppressive silence was replaced by a relentless, anonymous noise.

Rudra found a small, two-room apartment on the third floor of a weathered building in a crowded neighborhood. It was a world away from the sprawling, earth-and-dung courtyards of home. The walls were thin, painted a sickly green. A single ceiling fan stirred the sluggish air. It was cramped, shabby, but it had a lock on the door. To Rudra, that lock was the most important feature.