There were three rules at Space Academy — unspoken, unwritten, but burned into the very walls.
Don't challenge Fab 5.
Don't enter their rehearsal room uninvited.
Especially, don't lock eyes with Manik Malhotra unless you're prepared to bleed.
Nandini Murthy broke all three before lunch.
The corridor was empty now — the echo of murmurs long faded, swallowed by the heavy wood door in front of her. The infamous Room 107. Fab 5's territory. And her assigned space for music practice.
She took a deep breath, clutched her violin case tighter, and pushed the door open.
Darkness.
Not metaphorical — literal. The curtains were drawn, and the only light in the room came from a sliver slicing through the blinds. A single figure stood at the center, guitar slung low, head bowed, body still.
Manik.
He looked like something carved, not born. All sharp edges, tension, and silence. The kind of silence that doesn't feel empty — it feels loaded.
She stepped inside, her shoes making the softest creak against the floor.
He didn't look up.
"This room's taken."
The words were casual. Cold. Like she was air. Or worse — noise.
"I'm here for my session. Room 107 is assigned to me," Nandini replied, her voice steady.
That made him look.And when he did… she forgot how to breathe.
Dark eyes. Not just in color, but in weight. In depth. In the way they seemed to pull everything good and leave nothing behind.
"Then find another room," he said, like he owned the place.Like he was the place.
She blinked. Once. Slowly. "This is my slot. I booked it."
He stepped closer, a slow, deliberate invasion of space.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Do you?" she shot back, chin lifted.
That stopped him.
Not because of the words. But because of her voice.
It wasn't defiant. It wasn't trembling.It was something worse: unaffected.
People usually looked at Manik with awe. Fear. Lust.She looked at him like she was trying to tune him.
"You think you can just waltz in here with that toy box and—"
"It's a violin," she corrected, "not a toy."
His jaw clenched. Her eyes didn't flinch.
And for a moment — just a flicker — there was something else in the room.Not hate.Not anger.Something electric.
"Fine," he said. "Play."
"What?"
"If you're so sure you belong here—play. Now."
He stepped aside and waved toward the stool like it was a throne and she was some brave idiot trying to sit on it.
Nandini didn't move at first.
Then she did.
She walked past him, quietly, unzipped her case, and pulled out the violin with calm precision. Her fingers brushed the strings once.
Then she played.
The sound was soft. Not weak. Gentle — but piercing. It didn't ask for space. It took it. The melody crawled through the cracks of the room, through the air, through him.
Manik didn't breathe.
He didn't blink.
He didn't know when his hands clenched around the edge of the speaker beside him.He only knew he hated it — the way her music made him feel like everything he'd built was suddenly too loud. Too messy. Too fake.
And when the last note fell, she stood up.
"That's why I belong here."
Then she walked out.
Leaving behind a boy who hadn't blinked in minutes.And a silence that somehow screamed louder than his guitar ever had.