Rohan never checked his download folder again.
"You downloaded me. Now I'm here."
He almost deleted it. But the thumbnail—a lone taxi floating in a neon-drenched London rain—held him.
Karan drives. Past Tower Bridge, past streets that loop into themselves. The passenger never speaks, but the backseat mirror shows a different face each time he glances—first old, then young, then no face at all.
Outside, rain began to fall. And on the street below, idling under a broken streetlamp, a black cab with no driver hummed quietly, its meter already running.
Rohan leaned closer. The dubbing was mismatched by half a second, and yet the woman's words felt aimed directly at him: