The applause didn't last forever.
It faded, replaced by a silence that felt heavier than the noise.
Aryan stood by the podium, his hand still resting on his single sheet of paper. His heart hammered against his ribs—not from fear, but from the sudden drop in adrenaline.
The "knife" behind his eye, which he had ignored for ten minutes, woke up.
It twisted.
Sharp. Cold. Punishing.
He didn't wince. He didn't rub his temple. He just gripped the wooden edge of the podium a little tighter until his knuckles turned white.
Hold it, he told himself. Just a few more minutes.
In the front row, Shaila stood up.
She didn't smile. She looked like a surgeon who had just seen a successful, complicated operation.
"Sit down, Aryan," she said. Her voice was calm, but it carried to the back of the room.
Aryan nodded, his legs feeling strangely light, like they weren't fully touching the ground. He stepped off the low stage.
Before he could reach his seat, Sagar was already vibrating in his chair, looking ready to explode.
But it was Aditi who moved first.
She stood up as he passed her row. She didn't say anything loud. She didn't clap.
She just stepped into his path, forcing him to stop.
She looked at his hands—still trembling slightly—and then up at his face. Her eyes were warm, grounding, pulling him out of the dizzying spin of the room.
"You breathed," she whispered, a small, proud smile touching her lips.
It was a call back to their art class.
Breathing is work.
Aryan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The tightness in his chest loosened, just a fraction.
"Barely," he murmured back.
"Enough," she said softly. She reached out and briefly, quickly squeezed his forearm—a silent anchor in the chaos. "You were good, Aryan. Really good."
For a second, the headache receded. The cold, clinical feeling of the pitch melted under that simple warmth.
He nodded, a genuine, tired flicker of gratitude in his eyes.
Then he sat down.
Sagar grabbed his shoulder instantly.
"Da," he whispered, his voice cracking with excitement. "You killed it. You actually killed it. Did you see their faces?"
Aryan managed a weak smile. "I saw yours."
"I almost died!" Sagar grinned. "Legendary behavior."
Two seats away, Riya sat very still. She stared straight ahead at the blank screen, her posture rigid, her file clutched tight in her lap.
Shaila picked up the mic.
"We have seen two pitches today," she began, turning to face the students.
"Riya Sharma presented a Product. It was clean, scalable, and profitable. It is exactly what a business should look like."
Riya sat straighter, but her expression remained tight.
"Aryan Kumar," Shaila continued, her eyes flicking to him, "presented a Policy. He did not sell a product. He sold stability."
She paused.
"In the real world," she said, "products make money. But policies make civilizations."
A murmur went through the seniors.
She turned to the tall man beside her. He nodded once. Then she looked at the young woman in the charcoal saree.
The woman didn't stand up. She simply leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, looking directly at Aryan.
"Aryan," she called out.
He stood up again.
"If the vendors break the rules after you give them the paper... what will you do?"
It was the most dangerous question.
Aryan looked at her.
"I won't do anything," he said.
The woman raised an eyebrow.
"The Registry isn't just permission," Aryan said quietly. "It's an asset. If they break the rules, they lose the asset. They value the spot too much to lose it. I don't need to police them. Their own fear of loss will do it."
The woman stared at him for a long, stretching second.
Then, the corner of her mouth lifted.
"Leverage," she murmured.
She turned to Shaila and nodded.
Shaila faced the room.
"Both projects are approved for Phase 1 implementation," she announced.
"Riya will lead the Merchandise Pilot."
"Aryan will lead the Gate Management System."
She closed her file.
"Dismissed."
The Corridor
The moment they stepped out of the AV Room, the noise returned.
Seniors were whispering. Class 5 students were looking at Aryan like he was a different species.
"Bro! That was insane!"
"He actually got the vendors inside..."
Aryan didn't hear them. The world was swimming.
The pain in his head was blinding now. It felt like a physical pressure, pushing from the inside of his skull against his eyes.
Too much, he thought. I opened the door too wide.
He stumbled slightly.
Sagar was there instantly. "Whoa, easy. You okay?"
"Water," Aryan croaked.
Sagar fumbled for his bottle.
Before he could open it, a shadow fell over them.
Riya.
She stood there, clutching her file. Her face was pale.
Sagar stiffened. "What do you want, Riya?"
She ignored Sagar. She looked only at Aryan.
"You cheated," she said.
Aryan blinked, trying to focus on her face. "What?"
"You didn't play Business," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You played... Human Studies."
"Is there a difference?" Aryan asked softly.
Riya opened her mouth to argue, then closed it.
She looked at him—really looked at him. She saw the sweat on his forehead. The tremor in his hand. The exhaustion that made him look older than he was.
She realized, with a sudden, sinking feeling, that she had prepared a presentation to win marks.
He had prepared a war to survive.
"I hate your pitch," she whispered.
Then she took a breath.
"But... it was better."
She turned on her heel and walked away, her ponytail swinging sharply.
Aryan watched her go.
"Did she just compliment you?" Sagar asked, confused. "Or threaten you?"
"Both," Aryan muttered.
He took the water bottle and drank deeply. The cold water grounded him.
Then, he felt another presence.
He turned.
The vendors—Murthy, Salman, and Gopal—were standing near the stairwell. They hadn't left yet.
Aryan straightened up, pushing away from Sagar. He walked over to them.
"Uncle," he said.
Murthy looked at him. The old man's face was unreadable.
"You spoke big words inside," Murthy said gruffly. "Invisible infrastructure. Policy."
Aryan lowered his head. "I had to... to make them listen."
"I know," Murthy said.
He reached out and patted Aryan's shoulder. His hand was rough, calloused from hot oil.
"You didn't make us look like beggars," Murthy said quietly. "That is enough."
Salman nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "You got the 'Contract', boss. Now we have to behave, ah?"
"Only a little," Aryan managed a weak smile.
Gopal tapped his lathi on the floor. "Go home, project manager. You look like you will faint. I am off duty in ten minutes."
Aryan let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"Okay, Uncle."
He walked home alone.
The sun was still high enough to cast long, harsh shadows. The traffic was loud, the city was moving, and everything was exactly the same as it was yesterday.
He had won.
He had impressed DHARA. He had beaten the odds. He had protected the vendors.
But as he turned into his lane, he saw it.
The small, peeling door of his house.
The blue plastic sheet fluttering on the roof where the tiles were broken.
He stopped.
The victory in the AV room felt a million miles away.
Here, there was no applause. No Shaila. No Aditi's warm smile.
Just the leak.
Just the reality that winning a pitch didn't fix the roof today.
He pushed open the door.
The house was silent.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly. 4:15 PM.
His mother wouldn't be home for another two and a half hours.
Aryan dropped his bag on the floor. The sound echoed in the small, empty room.
He sat down on his mattress, pulling his knees to his chest.
The headache throbbed—a constant, rhythmic reminder.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he felt it.
That strange, dark stillness in the back of his mind.
He didn't know what it was. He didn't know it had a name. He only knew that when he had looked at the crowd today, when he had analyzed their fears, he had tapped into something cold and efficient.
And now, he had to push it back down.
He imagined a door. Heavy. Iron.
He imagined slamming it shut.
Locking it.
Stay, he thought. Don't come out.
The pressure in his head spiked one last time, then settled into a dull, heavy ache.
He was alone.
He looked at the water stain on the ceiling.
"I won," he whispered to the empty room.
The house didn't answer.
He lay down, the silence pressing against his ears, and waited for the sound of his mother's footsteps to tell him the world was real again.