The truck was too close.
Its engine roared like an uncaring beast, metal screaming against the morning air as it surged forward, heavy wheels grinding against the road. The driver's eyes were fixed ahead—but not low enough. Not on the broken boy lying motionless on the asphalt, body stretched awkwardly like something already discarded by the world.
Five meters.
Four.
The sound swallowed everything else.
Then—
A hand appeared.
No rush.
No panic.
No wasted motion.
Two fingers hooked into the collar of Kihoru's shirt.
In a single smooth pull, his body lifted off the road as if weight itself had momentarily been canceled. Fabric stretched. Air rushed from his lungs. His feet left the ground.
The truck thundered past.
Wind exploded outward, hot and violent, shaking dust and dry leaves into the air. The massive vehicle screeched as brakes slammed too late, tires crying in protest as it finally skidded to a halt several meters ahead.
The driver jumped down, heart racing, breath sharp.
"What the—?!"
He ran back, eyes wide, scanning the road.
Nothing.
No boy.
No blood.
No body.
Just the empty stretch of asphalt, sunlight reflecting off cracked pavement, and leaves rolling gently across the ground like nothing extraordinary had just happened.
The wind blew.
The moment passed.
Some things are never meant to be understood.
Waking
Kihoru's consciousness returned slowly.
Not with fear.
Not with pain.
But with warmth.
A gentle pressure rested on his head, steady and grounding. He frowned slightly, eyes fluttering open as the blur of shapes sharpened into form.
Alan sat beside him.
Calm.
Still.
One of Kihoru's books lay open in his hands, a finger marking the page as if he'd been reading while waiting. His posture was relaxed, like this was exactly how things were supposed to be.
When Alan noticed movement, he closed the book and placed it aside.
Then, without a word, he gently patted Kihoru's head.
"Good work," Alan said quietly.
"You passed."
Kihoru stared at him, mind foggy.
"…Passed?" he croaked.
Alan stood and offered a hand. "Get up. Dinner."
Kihoru took it.
The moment he stood, pain flooded his body all at once, like a delayed punishment. His legs trembled. His stomach twisted. His lungs burned as if they were still running.
But he stayed upright.
Dinner
They sat at a small table.
Alan placed two glasses down.
Milk.
Then a small bowl.
Dry fruits.
Kihoru blinked at it, confusion slowly overtaking exhaustion.
"Uncle Alan…" he hesitated. "That's… all?"
Alan met his eyes calmly.
"What you burned today," he said evenly, "do you want to burn it again tonight?"
Kihoru stiffened.
"…No."
"Then eat."
Kihoru lowered his head. "Sorry."
He began eating without another word.
Halfway through, something clicked.
Alan was eating the same thing.
Same portion.
Same silence.
That thought stayed with Kihoru longer than the meal itself.
Discipline Continues
After dinner, Alan stood.
"Training alone won't save you," he said. "You'll study."
Kihoru nodded immediately. "Okay."
They studied for two hours.
No yelling.
No pressure.
Alan didn't ask Kihoru what he was bad at.
He already knew.
Biology.
They stayed there until Kihoru's eyes struggled to stay open.
"Enough," Alan said finally.
Kihoru stood, bowed slightly. "Good night, uncle."
Alan paused at the door.
"Rest properly," he said. "Don't overthink."
"This is your grinding time."
The door closed.
Kihoru collapsed into sleep instantly.
The Return
The school was the same.
Noise filled the corridors. Shoes scraped against floors. Conversations overlapped, careless and loud.
Then the gate opened.
A boy walked in.
White shirt.
Red tie.
Light brown half sweater.
Red blazer.
Dark brown pants.
Black leather boots.
He walked straight.
No hesitation.
No curiosity.
Eyes followed him.
Whispers spread like ripples.
"Who's that?"
"New student?"
"Class eleven?"
He entered Class 11 — Section B.
Went straight to the last bench.
Sat down.
Opened his books.
And started studying.
Only then did he notice the markings.
Scratches.
Carvings.
Old insults.
Pig.
Coward.
Loser.
Memories surfaced—but didn't linger.
Footsteps approached.
A group of boys surrounded him.
One leaned forward. "Hey. Who are you?"
The boy didn't look up.
"Kihoru."
Silence fell.
Then laughter exploded.
"That coward?"
"No way."
"Tell Rithvik—the king of pigs is back."
That was enough.
No one saw him move.
No one saw strikes.
What they saw were results.
Bodies collapsed.
Blood sprayed.
Screams replaced laughter.
The boys ran—crying, bleeding, terrified.
Kihoru sat back down.
Opened his book.
And continued studying.
The Absence
Tiffin came.
Kihoru looked around.
Aanya wasn't there.
"She left," someone said casually. "Three months ago."
No explanation.
Kihoru nodded.
Said nothing.
Rithvik's point of view
Rithvik leaned back on his chair like the classroom belonged to him.
One leg rested casually over the desk in front. His red blazer was unbuttoned, tie loose, sleeves rolled just enough to show confidence—not carelessness. The steel glass in his hand caught the sunlight pouring through the window, lemon juice trembling slightly inside it.
Around him, boys laughed. Loud. Forced.
They always laughed around Rithvik.
Not because things were funny.
Because silence around him felt dangerous.
Rithvik liked that.
He liked being the center. The gravity that pulled people in. The unspoken rule that nothing moved unless he allowed it to. Teachers tolerated him. Students feared him. Juniors worshipped him. Seniors avoided unnecessary friction.
Power, to Rithvik, wasn't about muscles alone.
It was about certainty.
The certainty that no matter what happened, he would be standing at the end—unpunished, undefeated.
Then the laughter stopped.
The door burst open.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just… urgently.
Three boys stumbled in.
Bruised.
Bleeding.
Crying.
One had blood dripping from his nose onto his white shirt. Another held his ribs like something inside had cracked. The third—shaking—couldn't even speak properly.
The class went silent.
Rithvik didn't move at first.
He took one slow sip of lemon juice.
Sour.
Good.
Then he looked up.
"What happened?" he asked calmly.
The boys rushed to him, words colliding, voices overlapping.
"H-he came back—" "Kihoru—" "He—he didn't even—" "We didn't see—"
The name hit the room like a lie.
Rithvik's smile froze.
"…Who?" he asked.
The smallest of the boys swallowed hard.
"Kihoru."
The steel glass crumpled.
Not fell.
Not dropped.
Crumpled.
Metal folded inward under Rithvik's grip as lemon juice spilled across his fingers and desk, dripping slowly onto the floor like yellow blood.
The class flinched.
Rithvik stared at the crushed glass for a moment.
Then he laughed.
Softly.
Low.
Dangerously amused.
"Kihoru?" he repeated. "That pig?"
He stood up.
Slow.
Measured.
The chair screeched back, sharp and uncomfortable.
"Impossible," he said. "That coward didn't have the spine to come back."
The boy with the bleeding nose shook his head violently.
"I swear—he—he sat on his bench like nothing happened. Like we were air."
Another boy cried, "We didn't even touch him! He moved first and then—then—"
Rithvik's eyes narrowed.
"You attacked him."
The boys hesitated.
Rithvik's gaze sharpened.
"You attacked him," he repeated, voice colder now.
They nodded.
And that was when something unfamiliar crawled into Rithvik's chest.
Not anger.
Not excitement.
Unease.
Because Rithvik remembered Kihoru.
Not as he was now.
But as he used to be.
The fat kid who avoided eye contact.
The boy who apologized even when pushed.
The one who protected his books instead of his face.
A boy who broke when shouted at.
A boy who cried silently.
A boy who never fought back.
Rithvik had owned him.
And owned things didn't return.
They disappeared.
They stayed broken.
They didn't come back sharp.
He looked at the boys again.
"Show me."
They lifted their shirts.
Bruises.
Finger-shaped marks.
Cuts too clean to be random.
Too controlled.
Too… deliberate.
Rithvik's jaw tightened.
For the first time in years, his heartbeat changed.
Faster.
Not from fear.
From challenge.
"So," he murmured, licking lemon juice from his finger, "my punching bag grew teeth."
His smile widened.
Sharp.
Cruel.
Excited.
"Finally," he whispered to himself. "School was getting boring."
Back to Kihoru
Kihoru sat alone.
The classroom buzzed with whispers, but none of them touched him.
His pen moved calmly across the page.
Notes neat.
Breathing steady.
No tremble.
No rush.
No pride.
Just focus.
A thin line of dried blood streaked across the metal body of his pen.
He noticed it.
Paused.
Took out a tissue.
Wiped it clean.
Then wiped his fingers.
Then his desk.
Careful.
Methodical.
Like cleaning was part of discipline now.
Not fear.
The bell rang.
Classes continued.
Teachers spoke.
Students pretended to listen.
But something had shifted.
A weight had returned.
And it wasn't the same boy who left.
Kihoru closed his notebook.
Looked forward.
And for the first time since coming back—
He felt eyes avoiding him instead of hunting him.
Outside the classroom window, clouds gathered slowly.
The calm before something violent.
Kihoru clicked his pen once.