The morning smelled like burnt milk and wet cement.
Piyush Singh stood barefoot on the cracked floor of the hostel bathroom, brushing his teeth in silence while staring at his reflection—eyes too tired for seventeen, skin too dull for youth, and a body shaped more by stress than food. He rinsed his mouth, wiped his face with the same towel he used to dry his shoes last night, and grabbed his half-wet school shirt from the rusted hook.
His routine was the same every morning. Wake up. Bathe in cold water. Fold the mattress. Run to the corner tea stall before school started.
Delhi was never kind to small-town boys, but Piyush had learned not to ask for kindness. Not in this city. Not in this life.
He zipped up his schoolbag, now ten years old and fraying at the edges, and stepped into the narrow alley outside the hostel. His shoes made a squelch with every step—they were still damp from the rain that fell like punishment last night.
The tea stall was already open.
"You're late today," Uncle Ratan grunted without looking up, stirring the boiling milk with the kind of focus only a man with debts could master. His vest was stained, his paunch pushing past his lungi, and his tone never changed.
"Sorry, Chacha," Piyush said, tying the dirty apron around his waist. "Had to wash my shirt again. It smelled."
"Everything in this city smells, bitwa," the old man muttered. "Now get to work. Wash the glasses. The drivers will be here soon."
Piyush nodded.
He washed glasses. Swept the roadside. Served tea to men who didn't care if he existed. It was thankless work, but better than staying in the hostel and listening to other boys laugh through walls thin enough to hear dreams shatter.
By 7:20 AM, he was cycling toward school, the city blurring past him—rickshaws honking, dogs barking, and the occasional whiff of garbage rotting in open drains.
St. Gabriel's Public School was everything he wasn't—polished, rich, unwelcoming. It stood like a palace in the middle of a crumbling city, with security guards who never smiled and students who carried branded bags heavier than his family's monthly ration.
He parked his cycle where no one would see it, behind the staff washroom.
The moment he stepped into the school courtyard, it began.
"Look who's here," a voice sneered from the left.
Piyush didn't turn.
"Hey Bihari, forgot your cow today?" another voice laughed. Laughter followed, loud and practiced.
He kept walking.
Ignore them. Just ignore them.
But that never worked with Dev Pratap Singh.
The school bully. Son of a local MLA. Gold chain under his collar. AirPods even in class. A name that came with bodyguards and zero consequences.
Dev stepped into his path near the water cooler.
"Still wearing that same shirt? Tell your village to at least invest in soap, bro."
Piyush tried to sidestep him.
Slap.
A casual one. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just enough to remind him where he stood.
Dev leaned closer. "Scholarship kids shouldn't walk like they own the place. You're a guest here. Learn to keep your head down."
Piyush didn't say a word. His lips were trembling. His hands had curled into fists without him realizing.
He wanted to hit back.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Dev smiled and patted his cheek. "Good boy. Now go clean your sweat, it's stinking up the corridor."
More laughter.
He walked away slowly, trying to breathe, trying not to cry.
But Dev wasn't done today.
Later, during break, Dev and his two friends found him near the storeroom at the back of the school auditorium. The teachers rarely came here. The CCTV never worked. The perfect place for silence.
"Thought you could walk away from me earlier?" Dev whispered, pushing him against the wall.
"I didn't—" Piyush began, but the first punch landed before he could finish.
Then another.
And another.
Until he was on the floor.
Bleeding. Dizzy. Shaking.
The three of them laughed as they walked away, throwing his schoolbag into the corner like garbage.
The storeroom door shut behind them.
And silence returned.
---
He didn't know how long he lay there. Minutes? Hours?
The sunlight had shifted by the time his eyes fluttered open again.
But something was wrong.
He wasn't on the cold floor anymore. He was… on a bed?
He blinked rapidly, sitting up. The room was unfamiliar—painted walls, a working fan, the faint smell of cologne.
His eyes darted around.
Where the hell was he?
And then—he saw his hand.
Not swollen. Not bruised. Not fat.
Lean. Clean. Long fingers.
He threw off the bedsheet and ran to the mirror.
What stared back was not him.
A stranger. Tall. Sharp jawline. Dusky skin, broad shoulders, perfect posture. Eyes that looked too calm. Hair that fell perfectly into place.
But somehow… when he touched his face, it felt real.
He opened his mouth. "What the fu—"
The voice was deeper. Controlled.
He stumbled back.
"No… no, this isn't…"
His heart pounded.
"Where's my face? Where's… me?"
---
To be continued…