The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick layer of smog that perpetually draped Chennai, casting a weak, diffuse light over the massive, strangely serene grounds of Jai Bharath Arts & Science College. The air was a peculiar blend of the city's chaos—the shrill honk of commuter buses, the loud, overlapping chatter of students—mixed with the sickly sweet scent of jasmine from a vendor's cart and the sharp, sterile tang of disinfectant near the towering Biotech Block.
Inside the Visual Communication department, where noise was usually a prerequisite for creativity, Haris leaned against the cool metal of the stair railing. His appearance was studied apathy—a loose, slightly faded hoodie paired with cargo pants. He juggled a digital camera in one hand, its lens capturing nothing but his reflection, while casually spinning a worn basketball in the other. He had the easy confidence of someone who was perpetually waiting for something more interesting to happen.
A junior dashed past, breathless with excitement. "Bro! Court's buzzing! Final match fixed! You in?"
Haris caught the ball with a practiced flick of his wrist, his gaze distant. He allowed a slow, challenging smirk to form. "I'll be there. Tell them to save their energy; the king needs a proper warm-up first."
Just as the junior cheered and ran off, Haris's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out; the screen showed a message from "Amma."
> "Don't forget to visit Appa's grave today. He'd be proud of how you're handling things."
>
The smirk evaporated instantly. It was a subtle, involuntary reaction, but for a brief moment, the effortless mask of the campus heartthrob and unofficial leader slipped, revealing a deeper, unresolved pain. He quickly locked the screen, his fingers tightening around the basketball.
A short walk away, the atmosphere in the Biotech Lab was markedly different—a hyper-focused, antiseptic world. Preethi adjusted the cuffs of her immaculate white coat. She was petite, but her eyes held a sharp, unyielding intensity as she meticulously noted down the cyclical readings from the humming PCR machine.
Her peers were loud, oblivious to the high stakes of their work, distracted by prank videos and gossip. Preethi, however, was consumed by a specific result on her monitor: a sample of a low-grade virus, sourced from a secretive collaborative project with an OMR tech startup, showed an alarming, exponential spike in mutation. It was an anomaly that defied all known biological models.
"Preethi," Dr. Praba's voice cut in, soft but carrying the weight of authority. The professor approached her from behind. "Don't spend too long on that particular file. Some research... isn't always worth the trouble of digging deeper."
Preethi nodded politely, her expression neutral. Yet, beneath the lab bench, her fingers worked swiftly, saving a comprehensive, encrypted copy of the raw data onto her personal pen drive. She knew a warning when she heard one, and Dr. Praba's tone wasn't about grades—it was about danger.
The air in the Mechanical Workshop was thick with the smell of scorched metal and engine oil, drowned out by the thumping rhythms of loud Tamil hip-hop. Nitish wiped a smear of grease from his cheek, his grin wide and infectious as he worked on a tangled mess of wires—a half-finished electric scooter that looked equal parts genius and hazard.
"Guys, this thing might fly or it might just explode. Either way, it's gonna be damn awesome!" he shouted over the music, receiving a chorus of cheers.
He high-fived a nearby junior, but the moment was broken by a sudden, jarring power fluctuation. The lights flickered violently once, plunging the workshop into a near-blackout before stabilizing again.
"Campus voltage acting up again," someone grumbled. "The OMR power grid drama never ends."
Nitish muttered under his breath, "Just like my love life," but his eyes lingered on the wires. It wasn't a normal power surge; it felt deliberate, almost like the grid was compensating for a massive, secret drain.
Upstairs in the sterile quiet of the Girls' Hostel, Room 217, Swathi performed her daily ritual. She checked her reflection—the perfect curls, the sharp, winged eyeliner—a careful façade of untouchable beauty. But her focus wasn't on the mirror; it was on an old, slightly bent photograph stuck to the frame: a younger Haris and herself, smiling wide during a cultural fest.
She slowly peeled it off the glass, her gaze hardening, and tucked it into her diary. He doesn't care. And I don't either... anymore.
Her phone buzzed, displaying an unknown number. Hesitantly, she opened the message.
> "Tell Haris to stay away from the biotech block. Something is moving."
>
Swathi blinked, an icy dread replacing her calculated indifference. "What the... who is this?"
In a forgotten corner of the Computer Lab, shrouded in near-darkness, Karan was oblivious to the world, shielded by noise-cancelling headphones. He was surrounded by three humming screens, his face illuminated by their pale light. One screen displayed a live feed—a grainy, timestamped video from the biotech corridor at 2:13 AM the previous night. Two figures in bulky hazmat suits were moving rapidly, dragging large, covered containers.
"No news... no alerts... who are you people?" he whispered, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He wasn't just observing; he was tracing the external signal, trying to penetrate the encrypted network.