Vivaan Trivedi One It was past midnight in Mumbai, the hour when the city slipped off its mask and sighed through the cracks of honking horns and neon reflections on wet roads. Marine Drive, with its gentle arc along the Arabian Sea, lay mostly hushed except for the soft sloshing of waves and the occasional murmur of lovers seated at intervals, cocooned in their whispered dramas. Under the dim glow of old streetlamps, an old tea stall flickered with yellow light, attracting late-night wanderers like moths. Ayaan Verma, clutching a leather-bound notebook filled with half-finished dreams, walked with a restless…