Rohan stared at the file on his laptop screen, its icon sharp against the dark room. He didn’t remember queuing it for download. He hadn't searched for assassin movies in weeks—not since the accident. Not since the doctors told him his own clock was ticking.

The notification pinged at 3:47 a.m.

“Subah ho gayi, uncle,” Rohan said. Morning has come.

Outside his window, the city hummed, indifferent.

Rohan exhaled. He closed the laptop lid.

For the first time in months, he opened his front door before dawn. The air smelled of rain and roadside chai. He walked to the corner stall, bought two cups, and handed one to the old watchman who always sat alone.