The monsoon did not just arrive; it declared a war of attrition against the architecture of the poor. By midnight, the sky over the Mumbai slums had transitioned from a bruised, electric black into a rupturing void. The clouds did not release rain so much as they collapsed, a vertical ocean falling with a violence that made the corrugated iron roofs of the chawl scream in a rhythmic, metallic agony. The building, a precarious stack of neglected concrete and rusted rebar, began to lose its battle with the elements. Water didn't just leak; it surged. It erupted from the warped floorboards and cascaded through the fresh cracks in the ceiling like the blood from a thousand weeping wounds.