When he spoke, his voice was different — quiet, but carrying weight.
"Sir. You made a mistake."
Harish stiffened. "Excuse me—?"
"You dismissed us without understanding the consequences."
The way Aryan said it — flat, emotionless, almost surgical — made Harish's throat tighten.
He opened his mouth to argue, but Aryan raised a hand.
Not aggressively.
Just lifting two fingers slightly.
But the gesture had force behind it — like someone stopping traffic with a glance.
Harish closed his mouth without knowing why.
Aryan stepped closer, eyes locked onto his.
And everything in Aryan's perception accelerated.
The room breaks into layers.
Harish's micro-expressions flicker like subtitles.
The tension in his jaw = defensive.
The twitch in his fingers = afraid of paperwork, not of authority.
The way he sits = lazy caution.
The half-stamped paper = leverage.
The unfiled circulars = weakness.
The dusty corner stamp = routine.
The untouched in-tray = negligence.
His head throbbed harder.
But the pain only made the clarity cleaner.
Every object in the room floated into position like pieces on a chessboard.
Move 1:
Force him out of comfort.
Move 2:
Tie responsibility to his name.
Move 3:
Offer him escape that feels like victory.
Move 4:
Use silence.
And if he resists...
Move 5.
A darker, quieter voice inside him whispered:
Break him.
Back to Reality
"Sir," Aryan said, tone level. "You think a permit is paperwork. It isn't."
He stepped closer.
"Your negligence at the gate puts students in danger. Every fight, every vendor clash, every traffic jam — it's all recorded. If DHARA cross-checks incident logs, they'll trace it to poor gate management."
Harish's eyes widened. "Wha— how do you—?"
Aryan leaned forward slowly, hands on the front of the desk, fingers spread like he was anchoring himself.
"You didn't read last year's DHARA update, did you?"
Harish swallowed.
Aryan could feel it — his fear spiking. His breathing shallow. His pulse increasing.
He watched it all like data streaming.
Every flicker of muscle told him what to say next.
"You don't need to approve anything," Aryan said, sliding the paper toward him with a slow, deliberate push. "You only need to move it. Pass it. Shift the blame upward, not downward."
Harish opened his mouth, trying to regain control.
"You can't talk to me like this. You're a—"
"A child?" Aryan cut in softly.
Harish fell silent.
Aryan tilted his head.
"Sir… I don't want to disrespect you. But I want you to understand something."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"If something bad happens at that gate, and someone asks why no one acted when students had a solution… the blame hits your desk first."
Harish's throat bobbed.
Aryan continued, his voice dropping lower, quieter — more dangerous because of its softness.
"One signature saves you. One refusal ruins us. Which one do you want to explain to the Headmaster later?"
Harish broke.
His hand shook as he pulled the file toward him.
"How… how do you know all this?" he whispered.
Aryan didn't answer.
Not because he was hiding it — but because he was fighting the urge to clutch his head as the pain flared violently behind his eye.
But his face stayed perfectly still.
Harish quickly wrote the forwarding note, stamped it, and slid the form toward him with trembling fingers.
"There. Done. Take it. Go."
Aryan didn't immediately take it.
He stood still for two seconds.
Watching.
Calculating.
Then he reached forward, picked the paper up slowly, and nodded once.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
This time his voice sounded almost normal.
Almost.
The moment he stepped out, the world slammed back into him.
Sound returned violently —
laughter, footsteps, a teacher shouting, someone dropping a steel tiffin box.
The light felt too bright.
The floor felt too loud.
His heart started racing belatedly.
He stumbled against the wall, breath trembling.
A wave of dizziness hit him, bending the hallway sideways.
He pressed his palm against the wall.
The other hand crushed the paper unintentionally.
His knees almost buckled.
Too much…
I pushed it too far…
I'm not supposed to use that again…
Images flashed in his mind —
her face,
the shouting,
the coldness that had taken over him,
the moment he felt something inside him break that day.
His breath hitched.
"That fight…" he whispered.
It had taken him two years to push that power down.
Today, he let it out again.
Just for a moment.
Just enough to win.
But he could feel it —
It was waiting now.
Closer than before.
Awake.
The edges of his vision blurred and then re-sharpened painfully.
His breathing broke, shallow and uneven.
Too… much…
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to anchor himself.
His pulse was racing now — late, delayed, like his heart had woken up after his mind was done fighting. Sweat dampened the back of his neck.
He forced one deep breath.
Then another.
Then the hallway noises merged into something softer.
"Aryan?"
Aditi's voice.
She had come back up the stairs to look for him.
She froze when she saw him leaning on the wall, eyes strained, hand trembling slightly.
"You look— are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly.
Too quickly.
Aditi stepped closer, concern tightening her voice.
"You don't look fine. Your face is pale. You're sweating. Did he shout at you?"
"No," Aryan said, forcing steadiness into his tone. "It's just the… headache."
She didn't fully believe him.
Her eyes softened, but she didn't pry.
She just placed her hand lightly on the paper he was holding.
"You got it?"
He nodded.
She smiled — small, relieved, warm.
"Good. Let's go. You need water."
Before he could answer, another voice chimed in behind her.
"You both vanished from class."
Sagar stood there, arms folded, studying Aryan with a quiet intensity. He wasn't expressive, but his gaze lingered too long on the tremor in Aryan's hand.
"You look… drained," Sagar said slowly. "Did something happen?"
Aryan shook his head once.
"Nothing. Just tired."
But Sagar didn't look convinced.
He didn't ask more — he never pushed — but the way he kept watching Aryan's face said he noticed everything.
"Come on," he said softly. "We're late."
Back to Class
They walked together, but Aryan stayed half a step behind, trying to hide the slight wobble in his steps.
Every breath still scraped against his ribs.
Every heartbeat felt like someone tapping a hammer against bone.
By the time they reached the classroom door, he had forced his expression back to normal.
Aditi smiled at him again.
Sagar gave one last lingering glance.
Aryan stepped inside.
The noise of the class swallowed everything.
But the pain behind his eye pulsed again — deeper, colder.
Not fading.
Not letting go.
His fingers curled slightly.
I haven't gone that far since that day with her.
The thought came uninvited, heavy, echoing.
He sat down quietly, placed his head in his hands for a second, and breathed.
The price had returned.
And it was bigger than before.