Monday morning, the rain had cleared into the particular sharpness Pune produces after a downpour — the air washed thin, the light unforgiving in the way that flatters nothing and reveals everything.

Aditya wore the oldest sneakers he'd brought, on Meera's instruction, and met her outside her office at eight-fifteen. She was already in motion when he arrived — rolled drawings under one arm, a hard hat dangling from two fingers, talking to someone on the phone in the rapid, clipped Marathi-English hybrid that Pune professionals used like a second nervous system. She didn't pause for him, just tilted her head toward a white Scorpio idling at the curb, and he understood: *get in, we're already late, this is normal.*