The classroom, once a hive of layered whispers and sensory overload, had settled into a deceptive quiet. The faint scratch of pen on paper became the new rhythm, punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of a chair or a soft sigh of frustration from students wrestling with the quiz.
Aarav Sen leaned back in his chair, his quiz sheet lying casually on the desk as if it were an afterthought.
But his body betrayed none of the indifference he projected.
His grip on the pen was precise, fingers curved at the perfect angle, his wrist resting lightly, poised for fluid movement. It wasn't a conscious adjustment. His body had settled into a writing posture so naturally aligned that it irritated him.
He scrawled his name at the top of the sheet.
The letters were clean.
Neat.
Deceptively disciplined.
The quiz questions were designed to trip up inattentive students—basic concepts with twists that required actual focus. Normally, Aarav would have skimmed through them, picked random answers, and settled for Kunal's eventual mockery.
But today, his mind processed them differently.
The words didn't blur.
They structured themselves.
He read a question about chemical bonding, and within seconds, the answer slotted into place in his mind as if someone had whispered it.
No effort.
No hesitation.
His hand moved, filling in the answer with a fluidity that unsettled him.
Seated two rows ahead, Anaya Rathore glanced back.
It was a fleeting movement, masked by the pretense of adjusting her pen grip, but her eyes were sharp.
She noticed.
Aarav wasn't doodling.
He wasn't slouching into his usual half-hearted scribbles.
He was writing.
Efficiently.
Precisely.
Her gaze narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as she turned back to her own paper. She knew Sen's patterns. His rhythm of laziness. And this wasn't it.
Aarav caught the glance.
Of course he did.
His senses wouldn't let him miss it.
He let a slow, smug smirk spread across his face, though internally, he was far from amused.
"Keep watching, Rathore," he thought. "I'm figuring this out myself."
His pen glided across the sheet.
Question after question folded under the weight of his answers.
It wasn't that he had studied.
His mind simply... knew.
The facts surfaced, structured, and aligned themselves without him digging for them. It was as if his brain had shifted gears overnight, working with a clarity that felt both empowering and alien.
Beside him, Kunal let out a low groan, his pen tapping erratically against his quiz sheet.
"Sen, I need divine intervention. This quiz is a crime."
Aarav didn't look up.
"Pray to Rathore. She's closer to godliness today."
Kunal chuckled softly, oblivious to the silent Cold War simmering between Aarav and Anaya.
Aarav continued writing, though his focus flickered towards Anaya briefly. She was immersed in her paper, her handwriting neat, methodical, every line a reflection of her controlled persona.
But Aarav noticed the subtle shifts.
The way her pen paused for a fraction longer after glancing back.
The slight, almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders.
She had noticed the glitch.
And it bothered her.
Good.
Aarav leaned back as he scribbled his last answer, stretching deliberately as if to announce his completion.
The stretch wasn't for show.
It was an attempt to shake off the energy coiling within his muscles, a subtle thrum that had been building since morning.
He placed his pen down with a quiet clack, exhaling slowly.
Finished.
Half the class was still hunched over their sheets.
Kunal glanced sideways, eyes widening.
"Dude, you done? Already?"
Aarav gave a lazy nod. "Either I aced it, or I've crafted the most creative fail in history."
Kunal chuckled, returning to his sheet with a shake of his head.
Anaya didn't look back again.
But her posture remained rigid, a clear indication that she had filed this anomaly away for later analysis.
Aarav leaned into his chair, crossing his arms behind his head, his expression the perfect mask of a student who couldn't care less.
But beneath the facade, his mind was anything but still.
His senses remained hyper-aware, cataloging every minor shift in the classroom.
The faint scratch of a pencil.
The subtle creak of a desk leg.
The rhythmic flutter of Anaya turning a page.
It was exhausting.
The Cold War had always been a game of surface-level taunts, of sharp words and cooler dismissals.
But today, it had shifted into silence.
Into glances.
Into details.
Aarav's internal monologue was sharp, his smirk hiding a deeper realization.
"This cold war's getting complicated."
Mrs. Nair announced the last five minutes of the quiz.
The classroom shifted with a subtle urgency, pens moving faster, papers rustling louder.
Aarav remained still, his quiz sheet completed, his body poised yet relaxed.
Anaya didn't look back again, but her rigid posture was a statement of its own.
She had noticed.
And she wouldn't forget.
Neither would he.
The quiz wasn't a test of academics today.
It was the beginning of something far more nuanced.
The bell rang.
And Aarav Sen leaned back, ready for whatever came next.