Meera sat in the back seat of the black SUV. The car moved slowly through Mumbai’s late-night traffic. Neon signs flashed outside the window—red, blue, pink. Rain started to fall, soft at first, tapping on the roof like small fingers.

She looked at her phone. The small recorder file was safe. Ravi’s voice played in her head: “Travo… private island… yacht… strong security.” Every word felt like a step closer to the man she wanted to kill.