Saravanan reached 50% upload when the cafe door jingled. He didn't look up. He never did. The night shift workers were regulars—a tired cab driver, a milkman on a break.

Forty thousand. That was a small stadium full of people. Saravanan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cafe’s broken AC. He wasn't a thief, he told himself. He was a Robin Hood of bits and bytes. Tickets cost ₹250. Who had ₹250? Rickshaw drivers, security guards, college kids with empty pockets. He was just… serving the people.

He was a "re-encoder." His job wasn't glamorous. He didn't direct actors or compose songs. He stole.

Saravanan’s heart stopped.