The morning light in Dharavi didn't break in a golden wave; it filtered through the gaps in the corrugated tin roof in dusty, singular needles. Outside, the symphony of the slum had already begun—the rhythmic clanging of metal, the distant cry of a tea-seller, and the persistent hum of life that never truly slept.

Inside the safehouse, the air was still cool, smelling of ozone and the faint, lingering spice of last night’s chai.