Elsewhere, Pearl.
The scent of bergamot and ambition clung thick to Pearl's opulent corner office. Sunlight hammered the chrome legs of her minimalist desk, where Mia leaned, knuckles white on the edge. A holographic prototype of their eco-luxury bamboo handbag pulsed between them—sleek, sustainable, enrobed in feminist slogans scrolling like ticker tape:
"Empowering Women, Elevating Business."
"Sales projections," Mia hissed, stabbing a manicured finger at the shimmering graph. "Down seventeen percent since Qaleek flooded their factories." Pearl traced the jagged dip on her tablet, expression unreadable. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled—a chaos of chrome towers rising from monsoon-stained slums. "We pivot," Pearl declared, voice low as distant thunder. "Shift production to Lalmoti co-ops."
Halfway across the room, Sanet's laugh cut through the tension like shattered crystal. Her CEO throne, a vintage Eames chair swiveled toward Philip, who balanced three espresso cups on a wobbling yoga block. "Seriously, Phlip?" Sanet arched a brow. "Our investors want fiscal stability, not circus acts."
Philip grinned, sweat beading his forehead. "But stability's boring! Besides," he added as foam slopped onto the Persian rug, "artisanal latte delivery builds client rapport." One cup tilted dangerously. Sanet sighed, catching it mid-air. Her polished facade wavered, just a flicker of fond exasperation beneath the Prada power-suit.
Near the glass-walled meeting alcove, Tahoe dissected market algorithms on six floating screens. Raj shuffled in, clutching a bento box leaking turmeric-stained rice. "Brought lunch!" he chirped, tripping over Zoe's discarded Balenciaga sneakers. Zoe herself sprawled on a velvet chaise, thumbs flying across her phone.
A kaleidoscope of hashtags bloomed: "#CryptoQueenVibes #TechTokGlowUp." Sam slid beside her, peeling a lychee with surgical precision. "Your Insta story," he murmured, "needs more chaos. Less... corporate." Zoe smirked, snatching the fruit. "Chaos? Watch." She angled her phone toward Raj, now frantically blotting curry off Tahoe's spreadsheets with his sleeve. "Office Disaster Panda strikes again! 😂 Tag your clumsy bae." Sam snorted. Tahoe didn't glance up. "Raj. The S&P analysis is bleeding yellow."
Philip's elbow caught the vase mid-gesture—a Ming dynasty relic Sanet snagged at Christie's for six figures. It hovered for a breath, smugly ancient, then shattered against Pearl's prototype bamboo handbag display. Porcelain shards skittered like ice across chrome. A single shard impaled the hologram's strap, freezing the scrolling slogan: "Empowering Wo—". Silence swallowed Philip's gasp.
Sanet's Korean investor zoom-call flickered on the wall-screen. CEO Min-Ji's pixel-perfect brow furrowed. "Ms. Sanet? Is that... 'celadon'?" Philip scooped shards into his palms, dripping espresso. "Just... uh... kinetic art?" He grinned, wild-eyed. "Sustainability statement! Break old patterns!" Min-Ji's smile froze. Pearl materialized, scooping a jagged fragment from Mia's stilettos. "Phil," she breathed, icy calm. "My office. Now." Her thumb brushed Sanet's wrist—hidden behind the wreckage. Min-Ji's gaze sharpened. "You two seem to share more than vision boards, I see." Sanet flushed coral. Philip dropped the shards.
— 'Clatter.' —
Inside Colony Heights Apartment 3C, Mrs. Das jolted awake. Not from Shankar's snores rattling the bedroom door, but from silence. Thick, cotton-wool silence. The drip-drip-drip of the kitchen tap was gone. Only the frantic drumming of her own heart echoed in the stillness. She pushed herself up, her worn nightdress clinging to sweat-damp skin. Dawn's grey light filtered through the grimy window, painting the tiny flat in shades of ash.
Shankar erupted from the bedroom before she could touch the stove. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, scanned the cramped space. "My Gold Flakes!" he bellowed, voice cracking. "The packet! Gone!" He slammed a fist against the sagging cupboard door. Plaster dust snowed onto the counter. "Scaly intruders! I knew it! Slithering thieves!" His gaze darted to the crack. "They came through there! Tasted the cigarettes!"
Mrs. Das flinched. She tried to ignore him, turning to the dented aluminium pot. She scooped rice, poured water like automatic motions. Her fingers trembled. The kerosene stove sputtered, the blue flame licking the pot's base. She didn't smell kerosene. She smelled wet earth. Burnt sugar. Male sweat.
Shankar paced like a caged beast, muttering about coils and cold-blooded thieves. His rage was a physical heat radiating across the tiny kitchen. Mrs. Das stared into the roiling water, seeing not rice grains, but the oily purple pulse of the stairwell stain. Seeing Chumki's peaceful, doll-like sleep. Seeing the glistening scale in the wall cavity.
"Woman! Are you deaf?" Shankar snarled, stepping too close. His elbow jarred her arm as he gestured wildly toward the crack. "They steal my smokes! My Gold Flakes! What next? Our souls?"
The pot clattered. A wave of boiling water sloshed over the rim. Onto the flame. A furious hiss erupted. White smoke billowed instantly, thick and acrid. The stench of scorched metal and burning starch choked the air. Shankar coughed, stumbling back. "Idiot!" he choked out, waving smoke away. "Burning dinner! Now?!"