That night, the city breathes in and out like a restless sleeper. Ayaan rides home with plans rehearsed: tell his mother he’s got steady work; tell himself he’ll refuse anything that crosses the line. He tells the story again until it sounds plausible even to his own ears. Mina, at her printing press, runs her fingers across typeset letters, imagining herself on a stage, a hundred eyes reflecting something she has never shown.