Caught once again, Izaan and Nirbhay were sentenced to stand in class and "study." In reality, they spent more time dozing on each other's shoulders than reading. The teacher just held his head—these two will never learn.
During the next period they bolted again. Nirbhay, being taller, hopped the boundary wall in a flash. Shorter Izaan kept leaping and slipping back down. Nirbhay had just extended a hand to help when the principal came around on inspection—and spotted them both.
Only two names echoed through the whole school:
"Izaan… Nirbhay…"
This day is doomed, they thought as they waited outside the principal's office.
"Shut up, Izaan—this is all your fault! Why didn't you jump faster?" Nirbhay hissed.
"I tried! The wall is too high," Izaan defended himself.
"Your height is too low, idiot—you should've planned ahead!" Nirbhay grumbled.
"Shut up, you idiot!" Izaan growled back, a bit too loudly.
Just then the office orderly appeared.
"Come on, boys. The principal wants you—time to write down your punishment."
Inside the office their breathing stalled. The principal glared at them as if his morning tea went bland without their troublemaking.
"Izaan… Nirbhay…" He sighed, closed his eyes, and muttered,
"Lord, why did You give me these two?"
His voice hardened into thunder.
"Explain! What were you doing by the wall?"
Without blinking, Izaan said,
"Measuring it, sir."
Nirbhay added in a snap,
"Getting vitamin D, sir."
Silence. They glanced at each other.
The principal slammed his desk.
"Does my face say 'fool' to you?"
Izaan whispered,
"Just a little…"
"What??" The principal lunged.
"Nothing, sir!" Both straightened instantly.
"Regular complaints! Is there any day I don't get a report about you two?"
His face flushed red. Nirbhay, all innocence, murmured,
"Sunday, sir…"
For a heartbeat, dead quiet.
Then the principal's fiery gaze fixed on Nirbhay.
"Izaan—you'll sweep the football ground after school.
Nirbhay—you'll shelve the new library books by category."
"But sir—" Nirbhay began; the principal's glare cut him off.
"Want me to add more punishments?"
"No, sir…" Both bowed their heads.
"Then out! I'm watching you. Try running off again and I'll call your parents. Understood?"
Nodding miserably, they shuffled out.
Detention duties
Nirbhay headed to the library, sorting science, history, fiction—each book feeling less like paper and more like the weight of fate.
Izaan swept the football ground: dust, leaves, crushed bottles—even the sole of an old shoe showed up.
After what felt like ages, he straightened, wiping sweat.
"Haah… done."
He lifted the trash bin and started toward the gate—when a bunch of boys strode onto the field, clearly two rival teams: one in yellow jerseys, the other in blue.
Just keep out of trouble, Izaan told himself, edging away.
But then—
"Move it!"
"We don't play with cheaters like you!"
"Cheater? You just talk big—can't play to save your life!"
Shouts erupted. The two teams were practically brawling—shoving, cursing, ready to throw punches.
"Whoa, a fight!" Izaan brightened as if a live-action movie had begun.
A voice behind him: "Izaan!"
He turned—there stood Nirbhay, brushing dust from his shirt.
"Finished?" Nirbhay asked.
"Yep! Plus free entertainment!" Izaan pointed excitedly.
"Entertainment?" Nirbhay frowned.
Izaan indicated the field where players looked about to tear each other's hair out.
Just then—
Rrrr-rrr-rrr… Motorbike engines growled into the grounds.
A pack of boys in red hoodies rolled in—hard faces, razor-sharp eyes, bikes crawling menacingly.
"What's that?" Izaan gasped.
Nirbhay's face drained of color.
"Gang of Hell…"
"What?" Izaan's jaw dropped.
"That's their uniform," Nirbhay explained shakily. "The most dangerous boys in school—suspended three times. Nobody dares cross them: top muscle, top connections, top fear."
Izaan's eyes gleamed.
"Wow! They're so cool!"
Nirbhay glared.
"Shut up, Izaan! We need to leave. If they notice us, we'll be beaten senseless."
"What, we scared?" Izaan laughed.
"Izaan, they outnumber us—we can't fight…" Panic tinged Nirbhay's voice.
He grabbed Izaan's wrist, tugging hard.
"Come on—something bad's coming!"
Izaan kept glancing back at the red-hoodie gang.
"But, dude—"
A scream ripped the air.
"Aaaahhh!"
Both boys whirled.
The Gang of Hell's president—tall, hulking, feared—lay on the ground.
A blue-jersey player planted a foot on his chest.
The boy's face was calm, eyes steady, posture unnervingly composed. He didn't shout, didn't tremble—just stood there like a rock amid a storm.
Chants rose all around:
"YUG! YUG! YUG!"
The crowd roared. The entire blue team stood behind him.
Present day
"…And that was the first time I ever saw Yug—Yugant Singh Rawat. January 21, 2010…"
The tea boiled over, spilling onto the stove. Startled, Izaan cut the flame, wiped the mess, strained the remaining tea into a cup, and with a soft "Ahh…" sat before the TV.
Breaking headlines flashed in red:
"SHADOW OF VENOM STRIKES AGAIN"
"Who is responsible for 200 deaths?"
"Small settlement stormed—streets run red, police stunned!"
Shaky footage showed bodies in alley corners, screaming women, blood-spattered walls.
"Thousands affected; survivors utter one name—Shadow of Venom…"
Izaan took a sip, eyes narrowing, worry lines deepening on his brow.