The city of Mumbai never slept. Even at this late hour, it breathed in a chaotic symphony—honking cars weaving through congested lanes, motorcycles zipping past with reckless precision, street vendors calling out their final sales of the night, and somewhere far below, the rhythmic pulse of the waves hitting the shore. The city’s heartbeat was relentless, urgent, demanding attention from anyone who dared live within its confines. Yet, in a high-rise tucked away from the clamor, one room existed like a bubble, perfectly detached from the frenzy below.

Inside, the hum of fluorescent lights was the only constant companion. Their white glare bounced off the polished surface of the desk, glinting off stacks of patient files and the sleek metal of a pen that Kiara Mishra wielded with precision and barely contained irritation. Her handwriting was neat but deliberate, each stroke a small rebellion against the avalanche of reports that demanded her attention. The walls, a sterile off-white, seemed to close in, echoing with the soft rustle of papers, the low buzz of fluorescent tubes, and the occasional click of her pen as it tapped against the desk.