The first light of dawn kissed the Arabian Sea, spilling molten gold across Mumbai's restless waters before rising into the heart of the awakening city. Streets below hummed with their eternal symphony—horns bleating through narrow lanes, vendors calling their morning prayers to commerce, trains thundering over tracks worn smooth by countless journeys. But high above this orchestrated chaos, where sound became merely a whisper on the wind, stood the Rathore mansion.

It was not merely a home but a declaration carved from glass, steel, and marble—a gleaming blade that sliced through the Mumbai skyline with quiet, unyielding authority. The mansion sprawled across acres of prime real estate like a sleeping giant, its iron gates bearing the family crest in gold, wide enough for empires to pass through. Beyond those gates, manicured lawns rolled toward the main structure in waves of emerald perfection.