Mira delivered the video at dawn. The client loved it. She got paid that afternoon.

Frustrated, she slammed her laptop shut and walked to a tiny cybercafé wedged between a pawn shop and a tea stall. The owner, an old man named Zubin with goggles perched on his forehead, saw her despair.

“You know who made it, don’t you?” Mira asked.

“You look like your RAM just died,” he said, sliding a cup of chai toward her.