The location arrived at dusk, a single address in SoBo with no explanation. Colaba. An old Parsi cafe that had been shuttered for decades, its windows boarded, its sign faded to ghost letters. Priya stood on the cracked pavement in a sapphire lengha skirt and a cropped choli, her grandmother's silver anklets chiming with every uncertain step. She had followed his instruction. She had worn something she could dance in. The admission felt like a surrender she had not yet processed.

A side door swung open. Reyansh stood in the threshold, backlit by the warm glow of a hundred candles. He wore black trousers and a charcoal kurta, the sleeves pushed up, his feet bare. The sight of his bare feet on the dusty floor struck her as strangely intimate, more vulnerable than any confession he had made in Dharavi.