The clock on Arun's phone read 11:47 PM as he stood outside Professor Nandini's bungalow, the rain-soaked leaves of the guava tree dripping onto his shoulders. He had been planning this for three weeks—ever since she'd handed him the failed slip with that cold, impassive expression. "You didn't meet the standards, Arun. Better luck next semester." As if his entire year's work meant nothing.

He'd memorized her routine. She lived alone, her husband worked in another city, the maid came at 7 AM. The spare key was under the third flowerpot, exactly where the gardener kept it.