The classroom had transformed from a sterile learning space into a cage of frantic chaos. After the initial, shocking sound of gunshots, the stillness of terror had been replaced by a deafening symphony of fear. There were screams, sharp and thin, from the back of the room. Desperate, sobbing prayers. The scrape of desks being overturned as students scrambled for cover, their instincts screaming for survival. Mr. Sharma, the teacher, was a huddled, trembling mass behind his own desk, his face buried in his hands.
But Kanha did not move. He knelt beside his desk, his legs numb, his mind a whirlwind of static and a single, horrifying thought. He had done this. The wish, so flippant and desperate, had not been a joke. It had been a command. The beggar woman finding money had been an accident, a coincidence. But this… this was too specific, too terrible to be anything but his fault. He was a god, a monster, a cruel, uncaring force that had conjured up a nightmare to avoid an algebra test. The guilt was a physical weight in his stomach, a hot, nauseating lump that made him want to vomit.
He had to fix it. He had to wish it away. His mind, the same source that had conjured this catastrophe, could surely erase it. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut with a force that made spots of light dance behind his eyelids. He tried to focus, to calm the frantic thumping of his heart. The chaos of the room faded into a dull roar. He needed a hero. Someone who could undo all of this. His mind latched onto the only figure of power he knew in the school.
Mr. Bheem Karma.
The school's Physical Training teacher. A broad, barrel-chested man with a booming voice and a physique that seemed carved from stone. He was a legend among the students, a mythologized figure of strength and discipline. He was the most powerful person Kanha knew, the only one who could possibly stand up to this. The wish formed in Kanha's mind, clear and desperate. Please. Please let Mr. Bheem be a secret agent. A hidden commando. A spy. Let him be the hero that saves us. Let him take them all down.
The wish felt different this time. It wasn't a casual, hopeless prayer. It was a command, a conscious act of creation born from a terrible sense of responsibility. A fleeting, insane burst of hope bloomed in his chest, a single, tiny flower in a desolate field of dread. He felt sure. He felt, in that one moment, that he had understood the rules of this terrifying game. He was the source. He could reverse this. He could be a hero. He could fix what he had broken.
He scrambled to his knees and crawled toward the nearest window, careful to stay low below the sill. He peeked over the edge, his heart hammering against his ribs. The once-familiar school grounds were now a scene of utter carnage. Students were running, screaming, scattered like lost ants. Two figures in tactical gear, their faces hidden behind masks, were herding a group of teachers with assault rifles.
Then he saw him.
On the asphalt near the main office, a figure lay on the ground, struggling. Kanha's hope-fueled vision of a heroic rescue evaporated in a single, gut-wrenching moment. It was Mr. Bheem. He wasn't fighting back. He wasn't the secret agent Kanha had wished for. He was on his back, his massive body rendered helpless, pinned to the ground by one of the terrorists. Another terrorist, a man with a cold, almost bored expression on his face, knelt beside him. He held what looked like a tire iron.
Kanha watched, his eyes wide and unblinking, as the man with the tire iron swung it with brutal, methodical precision. The sound was a sickening crack, followed by a choked, desperate grunt from Mr. Bheem. He swung again. Another crack. A scream, a sound so raw and guttural it didn't even sound human, tore from the PT teacher's throat. Kanha watched, paralyzed, as the two terrorists stood up, leaving their victim moaning on the ground, his legs bent at unnatural angles.
In that single, agonizing moment, the universe delivered its answer.
It was not him. This was not his fault. His wish had failed. Mr. Bheem was not a secret agent. His desire had not created a hero; it had only condemned one. The terrorists hadn't appeared because of him; they had been here all along. The shots he had heard, the chaos in the halls—it was all real. It was an attack, an event completely outside of his control. He was just a boy. A normal, helpless, terrified boy. A terrible, crushing wave of relief washed over him. The guilt was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing terror. He wasn't a god. He was just a victim.
A sharp, metallic rasp made him flinch. The classroom door handle turned, slowly, deliberately. The students froze. The silence was absolute, a heavy shroud of dread. The door creaked open, and two men entered. They were dressed in black, their bodies wrapped in gear, their faces hidden by dark balaclavas. Their eyes, visible through the holes in the masks, were flat and cold, devoid of any humanity. The first man held a rifle, its barrel glinting under the fluorescent lights. The second carried a large duffel bag.
The man with the rifle raised the gun, his movements fluid and practiced. He pointed it at the ceiling and, without a word, fired three shots in rapid succession. The blasts were deafening, a physical blow to the senses. Plaster rained down from the ceiling. A cloud of dust hung in the air.
"Everyone out," the man said, his voice a distorted, gravelly whisper. "Now. Don't do anything stupid. Don't scream. Don't talk. Walk out of the classroom one by one. Or you all die."
His words were cold, efficient, and final. He was a professional. This wasn't a game. It was a terrifying reality. The students, petrified, began to slowly stand up, their movements stiff and uncoordinated.
From the corner of the room, Bhola, his face still ghostly white, did something that made Kanha's heart leap into his throat. He had been watching the scene unfold with a horrifying, detached fascination. Kanha had always known Bhola had a flair for the dramatic, a heroic streak fueled by action movies. In that moment, a flicker of that misplaced courage seemed to take over. Bhola's eyes, fixed on the man with the rifle, narrowed with a strange, impossible bravado.
Kanha wanted to scream at him. Bhola, no! Don't be a hero! But the words were trapped in his throat, held captive by the sheer terror of the moment.
Bhola moved. Not with the frantic panic of the other students, but with a deliberate, foolish purpose. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, sharpened pencil. He held it out like a dagger, his arm cocked back, his expression a desperate, movie-inspired grimace.
The terrorist's head snapped toward him. He didn't even blink. He just raised his rifle, and in one swift, unhesitating motion, he pulled the trigger. The sound was a single, deafening crack, a stark, brutal contrast to the silence that had followed. Bhola's heroic stance shattered. His body, in a moment of terrible, fragile disbelief, seemed to pause. A single, dark red flower bloomed on his chest. He looked down at it, then his eyes, full of a fleeting, crushing surprise, met Kanha's. The pencil fell from his fingers, clattering softly on the floor.
Bhola crumpled, his legs giving way beneath him like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He fell forward, a heavy, silent heap, his body collapsing into a stillness more profound than anything Kanha had ever witnessed. A pool of crimson began to spread across the linoleum floor, a dark, growing stain that seemed to devour all the light around it. It was the last, terrifying consequence of a wish that had never even been real.