Armaan Lahiri The rain came early that year. Not the lazy monsoon drizzle that made the city dreamy—but a sharp, relentless downpour that beat against the windowpanes of hostel room 3C like an accusation. Rishi Banerjee sat cross-legged on his metal cot, headphones dangling around his neck, eyes scanning a half-scribbled cheat sheet for his thermodynamics viva. The fluorescent tube above flickered in protest, then stabilized, bathing the cracked walls in pale blue. It was past midnight, and the corridor was quiet—eerily so. Even the usual hum of snoring from room 3B had gone still. That’s when he noticed it.…