Rain lashes against the panoramic windows of a high-end Mumbai apartment. Inside, a man in a crisp, tailored shirt sits hunched over a chessboard, pieces scattered haphazardly. He’s meticulously arranging and rearranging a single white pawn, his movements slow and deliberate, almost ritualistic. The apartment is impeccably decorated, modern and minimalist, but feels strangely empty. A half-finished cup of chai sits cold on the table beside him. He glances at a framed photograph on the mantelpiece – a laughing woman with vibrant eyes, her arm around his. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the outline of her face in the glass, then abruptly pulls his hand back, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He pushes the chessboard away with a sigh, the sound echoing in the vast, silent space.