The Varma Interceptor cut its engines a mile out from the Mahim Creek, drifting silently into the shadows of the mangroves. From here, the city didn't look like the shimmering silver needle of the Varma Tower. It looked like a living, breathing beast of corrugated iron, blue plastic tarps, and a billion flickering lights.

"We walk from here," Arjun said, pulling a rough, dark cotton hoodie over his tactical gear. He handed a faded pashmina shawl to Isabella. "Cover the silk. In Dharavi, expensive things are either stolen or worshipped. We need to be neither."