The campus was a hive of buzzing phones and stifled laughter. Every corner of Christ University, from the library's silent reading halls to the bustling canteen, was alight with the glow of screens replaying the same short, shaky video. The clip, now infamously titled "Rajat's Gutter Splash," had achieved legendary status in under twelve hours. It was a digital guillotine, and Rajat Sharma's social standing was the head in the basket. Students huddled in groups, their faces contorted with glee as they watched the millionaire heir, dripping with sewage and sputtering with rage, haul himself out of the murky drain. Each replay was met with fresh waves of giggles and derisive commentary. The tyrant had fallen, not with a bang, but with a squelch.
Amidst the sea of celebratory mockery, Rajat sat alone. He had chosen the most isolated corner of the sprawling canteen, a table usually ignored near the noisy dish return. But the physical distance did nothing to shield him. He could feel the hundreds of pairs of eyes, the poorly concealed smirks, the phone cameras sneakily pointed in his direction. Each whisper was a needle, each laugh a hammer blow to his ego. His designer shirt, the most expensive one he owned, felt like a stinking rag. The ghost of the gutter's stench clung to him, a phantom of his humiliation. He wasn't just angry; he was incandescent with a fury so pure and hot it threatened to consume him from the inside out.
His knuckles were white as he gripped his phone, his thumb scrolling past dozens of notifications, each one a new share, a new mocking comment. But his mind wasn't on the video. It was on the ambush. It had been too coordinated for a random prank. The masks, the timing, the sheer audacity of it. Someone had planned it. Someone had dared to lay hands on him. He didn't know who, but a venomous certainty was taking root in his mind. This had to be connected to Aarav. It was the only thing that made sense. Since that low-born scholarship student had entered the picture, his perfectly controlled world had started to crumble.
With a final, vicious tap, he sent a short, coded message to three of his most trusted lackeys. The message was simple: "West staircase. Ten minutes." He pushed his chair back with a grating screech that momentarily silenced the nearby tables. Ignoring the sudden dip in conversation, he strode out of the canteen, a lone storm cloud moving through a field of cheerful sunshine.
The west staircase was a forgotten part of the oldest university building, a spiral of concrete and peeling paint that led to a perpetually locked rooftop door. It smelled of damp and disuse, the perfect place for a clandestine meeting. His three subordinates were already there, shifting nervously in the gloom.
"You saw the video," Rajat stated. It wasn't a question.
They nodded, their eyes carefully averted.
"Everyone is laughing," he continued, his voice dangerously calm. "They think it's hilarious that Rajat Sharma was treated like garbage." He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over them. "But what happened this morning wasn't a joke. It was a declaration of war. And we are going to respond."
He began to pace the small landing, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. "Physical attacks are messy. Clumsy. They leave evidence." He stopped and looked at them, a cruel, calculating glint in his eyes. "Beating him up would be a temporary satisfaction. No, we need to destroy him. We need to dismantle his world, piece by piece. And the best way to do that is to destroy the thing he values most."
"Ayushi," one of the boys breathed.
"Exactly," Rajat hissed. "But not her body. Her reputation. Her character. That's where we'll strike. We are going to start a fire, and the fuel will be rumors."
He leaned against the railing, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Here is the plan. I want you to spread it everywhere. Tell everyone that Aarav and Ayushi are getting a little too 'close.' I want you to talk about the long hours they spend alone, 'working on the project.' Twist it. Make it sound sordid. Imply things."
He pointed a finger at one of them. "You. Focus on her. Talk about her 'culture.' How a girl from her traditional background shouldn't be spending so much time alone with a boy. Question her character. Ask aloud if her family knows what she's 'really' doing at university. Use words like 'shameless' and 'forward.' Let the gossip mongers do the rest."
He turned to the other two. "You two, your target is Aarav. I want you to paint him as a predator. Talk about his 'possessive gaze.' Mention how he's always watching her. Twist his protectiveness into obsession. Frame him as a desperate, low-class boy trying to trap a girl from a good family. Make him seem dangerous. Make people afraid for her."
He looked at them, ensuring his instructions were sinking in. "I want you to be creative. Twist every fact. Every late-night study session, every shared laugh, every time he's helped her—turn it all into something ugly. I want the entire campus whispering by the end of the week. I want Ayushi to be so isolated, so ashamed, that she can't even look Aarav in the eye. And I want Aarav to be seen as a creep who brought this all on her. We will poison the very air they breathe."
The boys exchanged nervous glances, but the promise of Rajat's money and the fear of his wrath were powerful motivators. They nodded in unison. The plan was set. The seeds of a far more insidious attack were ready to be sown.
Meanwhile, in the relative peace of their dorm room, a different kind of storm was brewing. The door had barely clicked shut behind them when Aarav rounded on Akash, his face a mask of fury and fear.
"Are you insane?" Aarav's voice was a low, intense shout. "A gang? Masks? You threw him in a gutter, Akash! What were you thinking?"
Akash, who had been riding high on the success of his mission, was taken aback by the ferocity of the attack. He dropped his bag on his bed, his cheerful demeanor evaporating. "I was thinking he deserved it! Did you see Ayushi's face after what he pulled on the trip? Someone had to do something!"
"And that someone had to be you?" Aarav shot back, pacing the small space between their beds. "Akash, this isn't a game! Rajat is not some cartoon villain you can just prank. He's dangerous. What if he'd had his bodyguards with him? What if one of you had been caught? Did you even think about the consequences?"
The raw worry in Aarav's voice cut through Akash's bravado. "We were careful. Nobody saw anything."
"You got lucky!" Aarav yelled, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "This isn't your fight, Akash. You don't know the whole story. You have no idea what's really at stake here. Why would you jump into this on your own? Why didn't you at least tell me?"
He stopped pacing and faced his friend, his shoulders slumping. "You're my best friend, man. How am I supposed to protect Ayushi if I'm constantly worried about you getting yourself into serious trouble for my sake?" The anger in his voice was finally replaced by the deep, aching fear that had been simmering beneath it. "I can't watch you fall into danger because of me."
The accusation, born of genuine concern, hit Akash harder than any shout could have. His throat tightened, and a raw emotion he rarely showed surfaced in his eyes.
"You're my friend," he said, his voice thick. "That's why."
He took a step forward, his gaze locked on Aarav's. "When my father's business went under, and I thought I'd have to drop out, who went to the dean and argued my case? Who tutored me for free every single night so I could pass my exams? You did. When I was heartbroken over Riya, who sat with me all night, listening to me rant and making sure I didn't do anything stupid? You did."
Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn't blink them away. "You've stood by me unconditionally, through everything. You never asked for anything in return. So don't you dare stand there and ask me why I would do this for you. How can I not? I see this monster hurting people you care about, trying to ruin you, and I'm supposed to do nothing?"
He shook his head, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. "You're my brother, Aarav. I'd walk through fire for you. I'd jump into an abyss if you were on the other side. This? This was nothing. This was just reminding a piece of trash where he belongs."
The raw, unwavering loyalty in Akash's words washed over Aarav, extinguishing the last embers of his anger and replacing it with a profound, overwhelming sense of gratitude. He saw not a reckless prankster, but a true brother who had been willing to risk everything for him.
Speechless, Aarav closed the distance between them and pulled Akash into a fierce, tight hug. He held on, his own eyes stinging. For two years, he had been carrying the weight of his secret mission entirely on his own, a solitary soldier fighting a war no one else could see. But in that moment, he realized he wasn't alone. He had never been.
"I'm sorry," Aarav whispered, his voice muffled by Akash's shoulder. "You're right. I'm so lucky to have you as my friend."
They stood there for a long moment, the unsaid emotions of their deep bond filling the silence of the small room. A war was coming, fueled by poison and whispers, but for now, the two friends stood united, a fortress of loyalty against the storm.