She went by "Saki," a name borrowed from the song that had become her anthem. As the haunting woodwind melody of the intro swirled through the speakers, she stood perfectly still in the spotlight. Then, the percussion hit.

In a blur of gold sequins and rhythmic precision, she began to move. To the crowd, it was a performance. To Raj, it was a countdown. He reached into his leather jacket, feeling the weight of the flash drive. On it wasn't just an MP3 of the track playing, but the encrypted files that would bring down the syndicate running this basement.

As the song reached its frantic, high-energy climax, Raj caught Saki’s eye from across the smoke-filled room. She didn’t smile, but her pace quickened, her movements becoming a defiant whirlwind.

The vocals soared. The crowd roared. Raj slipped toward the back, his movements masked by the strobe lights. He reached the booth, the DJ too lost in the rhythm to notice a shadow passing by. The swap took three seconds.

By the time the final beat echoed and the lights went black for the transition, the booth was empty, the drive was gone, and Raj was already melting into the rainy Mumbai night. The song was over, but the real noise was just about to start.

Raj pushed through the velvet curtains just as the first beat of dropped. The bass wasn’t just sound; it was a physical force that rattled the ice in the glasses of the men lining the bar. He wasn’t here for the drinks or the lights. He was here for the person currently moving toward the center of the stage.