The classroom was silent in a way that felt wrong.
Not the peaceful kind.
Not the respectful kind.
It was the silence left behind after something important had already ended.
Yeshwanth stood at the doorway, fingers still resting on the cold metal handle, eyes scanning rows of empty benches. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, illuminating dust particles floating lazily in the air, like memories refusing to settle. Just yesterday, this room had been alive—laughter echoing off the walls, arguments breaking out over nothing, dreams shouted from one bench to another as if the future was guaranteed.
Today, it was hollow.
Only a single notice remained on the board, stark and unforgiving:
"Final Placement Results Announced."
He didn't move at first.
He just stood there.
Because the moment he walked inside, it would become real.
Finally, he stepped forward.
His footsteps echoed—too loudly—as if the empty room itself was judging him for being the last one left behind. He reached the last bench and sat down slowly, the wood cold beneath him.
His phone vibrated.
A message lit up the screen.
Meera:
We got the offer letters! Arjun says we should celebrate before leaving.
Another vibration followed almost immediately.
Keerthi:
You didn't come today. Everything okay?
Yeshwanth stared at the screen for a long moment. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. Then he typed:
Yeah. Just another interview today. Will catch up later.
A lie.
A small one.
But lies never stayed small.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the desk, staring at the board again. This was supposed to be the end—the reward arc. The moment when effort transformed into validation. Instead, it felt like a quiet funeral, and he was the only one attending.
By afternoon, he was sitting across from the recruiter in a glass-walled office that smelled faintly of coffee and polished metal. The man didn't look angry.
That was worse.
He looked tired.
Yeshwanth sat straight, hands clasped tightly under the table, nails digging into his palms to keep himself grounded. His mind still felt sluggish, like a part of him hadn't fully returned.
From another world.
The recruiter flipped through the file slowly. Grades were strong. Projects impressive. Skills relevant. Then came the pause—a long one that stretched until Yeshwanth could hear his own breathing.
Finally, the man sighed.
"Yeshwanth… your profile is good."
That sentence always came before the blade.
"But you were absent during multiple critical evaluations," the recruiter continued calmly.
Yeshwanth opened his mouth. I had reasons rose up instinctively. He swallowed it down.
"And you missed two internal interviews," the man added, tapping the file lightly. "No documentation. No explanation."
How do you explain that you were fighting ninjas to survive?
How do you explain that gods don't respect office schedules?
"From a corporate standpoint," the recruiter said, leaning back, "unpredictability is a risk. We can't afford that."
The words were clean. Professional. Absolute.
"I understand," Yeshwanth replied.
He stood up, shook the man's hand, and walked out.
No dramatic music.
No breakdown.
Just a quiet door closing behind him.
Evening arrived faster than he expected.
The house lights were already on when he reached home. That should have felt warm. Instead, it felt heavy. He removed his shoes slowly and stepped inside.
His parents were seated in the living room. His brother stood near the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone. They all looked… relieved.
That relief didn't include him.
"Sit down," his mother said gently. "We were just talking."
He obeyed.
"Your brother managed things well," his father said next, voice steady. "The lender came today. Everything is settled."
Yeshwanth's heart skipped.
"…Settled?" he asked quietly.
His brother glanced up, met his eyes, then looked away. A small smile touched his lips—just for a moment.
"Someone had to step up," his brother said casually.
His mother nodded. "He didn't tell us immediately. But we're grateful. At least one of our sons understands responsibility."
The room tilted.
Not dizziness—detachment.
"So… the debts," Yeshwanth said slowly. "They think you paid."
His brother shrugged. "I didn't correct them."
Silence.
That was the betrayal. Not shouting. Not mocking. Just letting the lie breathe.
"We expected you to be more mature by now," his father said, disappointment weighing every word. "Instead, you were… absent. Always somewhere else."
Absent.
If only they knew how far somewhere else was.
"Your brother didn't chase dreams," his mother added softly. "He stayed. He helped. We thought you would too."
Yeshwanth stood up.
"I paid the debts," he said.
Three heads turned.
"What?" his mother asked.
"I paid them," he repeated. "All of it."
Silence again.
His brother looked at him—really looked—then chuckled quietly.
"You don't need to lie," he said. "We're past that."
That was it.
Truth didn't matter.
Only perception did.
"I see," Yeshwanth said calmly.
He went to his room and packed a bag. No dramatic gestures. No slamming doors. Just essentials. When he stepped back into the living room, his parents watched silently.
No one stopped him.
That hurt the most.
At the doorway, he turned back once.
"Wind doesn't announce when it becomes a tornado," he said quietly.
They didn't understand.
That was fine.
He stepped outside. The door closed behind him.
The street was unusually quiet. Too quiet. Streetlights flickered as he walked, the air growing heavier with every step, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Yeshwanth stopped.
A chill ran down his spine—not fear, but recognition.
Something was watching.
He didn't turn around.
Above him, on a rooftop across the street, shadows bent unnaturally. No form. No face. Just presence. Pressure.
A voice echoed—not through the air, but through existence itself.
"So this is the one who touched god-level power… and still broke like a human."
Yeshwanth clenched his fists.
He didn't hear it with his ears.
But his soul did.
The shadow smiled—not because Yeshwanth was strong, but because he was vulnerable.
And vulnerability was the doorway to monsters.
The wind rose.
Not violently.
Not yet.
But it moved.
And somewhere beyond gods, beyond worlds, something dangerous had noticed him.