Morning in Class 3 always felt heavier than it should. Maybe it was the building itself—old, cracked paint, and windows that screeched like tortured ghosts whenever the wind passed. Or maybe it was just Kihoru's life pressing down on him again.
His bag was bigger than him, sagging on one side because of the extra books he carried "just in case." A habit from home. His mother never checked his homework but still shouted if he forgot anything. His father pretended not to see him, even when they sat at the same dining table. The silence was worse than yelling.
So school… school was supposed to be the escape.
But it wasn't.
As Kihoru walked through the dusty corridor, a few boys immediately turned to stare.
"There he is—walking vending machine."
"Bro carries enough snacks to feed a whole section."
"Look at his shirt buttons. About to explode."
The jokes weren't new. Neither was the laughter. But today it hit harder because he had barely slept. His parents had fought again the night before, and even though he wore headphones, the screams were loud enough to shake his chest.
He kept walking, eyes on the floor, pretending not to hear anything.
Until a foot casually stretched out.
Kihoru tripped, barely catching himself.
A small chuckle followed.
Rithvik.
The name alone tasted bitter. He was taller than other kids, sharper in the eyes, always carrying a confidence he hadn't earned. His father was some local businessman who donated money to the school every year. Teachers treated him like royalty.
"Oops," Rithvik said, not even bothering to hide the smirk. "Watch where you're walking, dumpling."
Kihoru didn't answer. Talking back never helped. The teachers pretended bullying didn't exist unless it involved their favorite students.
He went to his seat—last bench, near the wall, where the windows didn't reach. That corner had become his fortress. Safe from eyes, but also isolated. He didn't mind. Being ignored was better than being noticed.
The First Crack
Classes went on—Math, Environmental Science, and then English. Words blurred together as he stared blankly at his notebook. His stomach growled quietly, but he held it. Eating in class meant attention, and attention meant trouble.
But attention came anyway.
Rithvik sat diagonally behind him, flicking tiny paper balls at the back of Kihoru's neck. One. Two. Three.
He didn't react.
Then the fourth one hit his ear.
That one stung.
When Kihoru turned slightly, Rithvik mouthed, Cry.
Kihoru immediately faced forward again.
The teacher kept reading from the textbook, oblivious. Or pretending to be.
A strange weight settled in Kihoru's chest. Not anger, not yet. Something smaller. A seed of something unfamiliar. A feeling he didn't recognize because he had never allowed himself to feel it.
But it was there.
And it wouldn't go away.
Lunch Break
Kihoru opened his lunchbox slowly, shielding it from view. It was aloo paratha—cold, oily, and folded sloppily like always. He wasn't picky. Food was food.
But someone else noticed.
"Oi, vending machine! What's today's menu?"
Rithvik and his group approached, forming a half-circle. Kihoru swallowed hard.
He didn't want trouble.
He didn't want attention.
He just wanted to eat.
Rithvik snatched one of the parathas, bit into it, and made an exaggerated face. "Tastes like poverty."
The group laughed.
Something inside Kihoru cracked. Just a little.
"This is why you're fat. And still weak. Useless combination."
Kihoru lowered his eyes. His hands trembled under the desk. Not from fear—but from holding something inside.
A spark.
But it was tiny, and he wasn't ready to let it out.
Not yet.
After School
Classes ended. Students rushed out like they had been trapped for years. Kihoru stayed seated until the room was almost empty. That was his routine—wait until the crowd disappears, then leave quietly.
He packed his bag slowly, still thinking about Rithvik's words.
He didn't know why today felt different. Maybe because the bullying was getting worse. Or maybe because he was starting to understand something dangerous:
He didn't deserve this.
The realization scared him.
When he finally stepped outside, the sun felt too bright. He didn't like bright things; they exposed too much.
"Kihoru!"
He flinched.
It was Aanya—one of the only girls in class who ever talked to him normally. She had two ponytails and a smile that made even Mondays feel lighter.
"You forgot your pencil box," she said, handing it to him.
"Oh. Thanks," Kihoru mumbled.
She hesitated. "Did something happen at lunch?"
"No."
"Kihoru…" she frowned gently. "You know you can tell someone, right?"
He shook his head.
Telling someone only made things worse. Teachers would call parents. Parents would fight. Rithvik would get angry.
Aanya sighed but didn't push. "Okay. But… don't disappear silently. I notice things, you know."
He nodded awkwardly and walked away.
Her words lingered longer than they should have.
Evening Thoughts
He sat on his bed that night, legs crossed, textbook open but unread.
His mind replayed the events of the day—Rithvik's laugh, the paper balls, the stolen lunch.
The humiliation.
But mixed with it was Aanya's voice:
I notice things, you know.
Why did that matter so much?
Maybe because no one else ever noticed him unless they wanted something from him—or wanted to hurt him.
The seed in his chest pulsed again.
He didn't know what it meant, but it felt like the beginning of something.
Something he wasn't ready to name.
Something he would one day grow into.
But for now… he was still the same Kihoru.
The same quiet, chubby boy in the last bench.
The same broken child.
But every crack had a purpose.
Every wound was carving something inside him.
Something sharp.
Something that would one day cut back.
And destiny… destiny was waiting patiently.
Because the boy sitting alone in that dim room had no idea—
He wouldn't remain ordinary for long.
The world would learn his name.
The bullies who laughed at him would fall silent.
And the day he returned, after disappearing for six months into a secret MMA gym…
The entire school would look at him like they were seeing a violent miracle.
But for now—
Chapter 3 ended with a quiet boy staring at his worn-out textbook.
And a future quietly burning inside him.