The classroom was too quiet for applause.
When it finally came, it felt late—like everyone needed a moment to understand what they had just witnessed.
Ayaan stood near the projector, his hands resting easily at his sides. Behind him, lines of code still glowed on the screen, frozen in the middle of the demonstration. There was nothing flashy about it. No colors. No animations. Just a clean interface responding instantly to every input he'd given it.
"This," the computer teacher said slowly, pushing his glasses up his nose, "is university-level work."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Someone whispered his name. Someone else let out a short laugh, half disbelief, half awe.
Ayaan didn't smile.
He had expected the software to work. Systems usually did—if they were built properly.
"So you designed this alone?" another teacher asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You didn't use any external framework?"
"No."
A pause followed.
Then the applause returned, louder this time. Real.
The principal, who had walked in halfway through the presentation, nodded with visible approval. "Students like you," he said, "are the future of this institution."
Future.People loved that word. It made them feel safe.
Ayaan shut down the projector, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made his way back to his seat while his classmates stared at him like he'd just climbed down from somewhere higher.
Someone leaned over. "Bro, you're unreal."
Ayaan gave a single nod.
The bell rang.
By the time the school emptied, the sky had darkened into something heavy and dull. Ayaan didn't hurry. He never did. He preferred places after people left them—classrooms, hallways, libraries. Spaces felt more honest when no one was performing.
The library lights were still on.
He took a seat at a corner table and finished homework he had already understood days ago. Pen moving. Page filling. Order restored.
Time slipped by without announcement.
When he finally looked up, the librarian was watching him.
"It's late," she said, gently.
Ayaan glanced at the clock.
Much later than he'd planned.
He packed his bag, nodded in thanks, and stepped outside.
Streetlights flickered as he walked home.
That was when he noticed them.
A boy and a girl, a short distance ahead. Close. Careful. Their voices low, their laughter restrained—the kind people use at night when they don't want to be noticed.
Without realizing it, Ayaan slowed.
From across the road, shadows peeled themselves loose. Too many. Too assured.
The moment stretched thin.
Hands moved. Voices rose. The girl went stiff. The boy froze.
One of the men laughed and said something Ayaan couldn't hear—but didn't need to. He knew that tone. Ownership wrapped in humor.
The boy took a step back.
"No," he said. Too quietly.
"Go home," one of them replied, casually, as if offering advice.
The boy looked at the girl.
Then at the ground.
Then he ran.
Everything happened quickly after that.
The girl vanished into bodies and darkness. The street swallowed the noise. The men drifted away.
Ayaan remained where he was.
He didn't shout.He didn't run.He didn't follow.
People liked to think hesitation came from fear.
But fear wasn't what held him there.
It was calculation.
By the time the street fell empty again, the city had already agreed it hadn't seen anything.
Ayaan resumed his walk home.
That night, lying awake, one truth settled into him with absolute clarity:
The world doesn't punish evil.
It waits.