Fault Lines
The fluorescent tube above Myra's desk flickered weakly, casting pale blue light over textbooks stacked like barricades. Rain tapped the windows in uneven rhythms. The small dorm room smelled faintly of instant coffee and the tension that comes from two people forced into close quarters during exam week.
Dhriti paced tight circles across the floor, notes clutched like a lifeline. Her eyebrows were drawn, hair messier than usual, as if panic had clawed through it.
"Must be nice to have a whole squad to waste time with when midterms are about to kill us," she snapped, tossing her notes on the desk harder than necessary.
Myra, stretched across her bed with her phone, looked up slowly. "They're not wasting time. We... just work differently."
Dhriti scoffed. "Yeah? Let's see if your 'different' works in the exam hall."
Myra zipped up her bag, her movements steady. A small, unreadable smile tugged at her lips. "It usually does."
Dhriti muttered something about "group delusions," but Myra didn't flinch. She didn't rise to the bait. Only her fingers paused for a second on the zipper before moving again.
By morning, the rain had turned to mist. The campus buzzed with an anxious hum. Classrooms opened reluctantly, like mouths about to swallow.
The exam halls stretched across the third floor—four large rooms, each packed with students from different courses. Inside Hall C, rows of rust-colored desks stretched to the walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Advik, Ved, and Shri claimed a spot toward the center—an unspoken agreement. Not too front, not too back. A quiet middle.
Ved pulled out a pen, uncapped, and frowned at the faint ink smudge it left on his skin.
"Need a backup?" Shivam, the guy behind him, offered, holding out a spare.
Ved hesitated, then took it with a tight nod. As soon as Shivam turned away, Ved passed the pen sideways to Shri. "Use it if you want. Don't trust it."
It sounded like a casual aside, but Shri raised an eyebrow knowingly. Ved had his lines—people he wouldn't take from, wouldn't accept help from, no matter how small the gesture. Shivam was one of them. Shri didn't know the full story, but he knew better than to ask.
Kunal sat near the side aisle, one leg bouncing under the desk. His fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the table edge as he rehearsed strategies in his head—when to move to Section B, how long to linger on theory. Everything accounted for. Everything he could control.
Elsewhere, Dev was tapping at his calculator like he didn't trust it either—on, off, on again. Not math anxiety, just... a compulsion to verify.
The invigilators walked in. Silence settled like dust. The exam began.
Pages flipped. Pens scratched. A tick of time passed unnoticed—until Ved's capless pen slid off the desk and clattered to the floor.
He leaned down.
And behind him, Shivam leaned forward, gaze flicking to Ved's sheet.
A sharp voice cracked the air. "You! What do you think you're doing?"
The invigilator stormed over.
Ved rose, startled. "It's not—he—sir, I dropped—"
"Save it," the man growled, scribbling something harsh and final onto Ved's paper.
Ved's jaw tightened. He didn't say anything more. But in his head, a spike of fury flared. I swear, people like you deserve to—
He didn't finish the thought.
Because in that same moment, the windows on the right wall exploded inward.
Screams.
A sharp crack split the air, something fast but precise. The invigilator jerked violently as if struck by an invisible force. His body convulsed, legs giving way beneath him. He crashed backward, skull colliding with the edge of the desk.
Where the invigilator's red ink had once scolded in measured lines, now bloomed a violent, unspoken red.
The intruders poured through the shattered windows. Tall figures shrouded in dark, close-fitting layers that moved with them like a second skin. Their faces were obscured by sleek matte helmets, featureless except for a narrow glowing slit where eyes should be. Every step was silent, every motion calculated.
Another student was dropped with the same brutal efficiency, shocked and collapsed.
Desks overturned. Shoes skidded on glass. Someone shouted for help; no one was listening.
Kunal ducked behind a podium, hands over his head, mouth silently repeating steps, contingency plans—but none of them applied here.
Ved grabbed Advik's arm. "We need to—"
Two more masked intruders crashed through the side window. They moved fast with cold efficiency.
Advik and Ved were on the floor within seconds.
Shri didn't wait. The moment chaos erupted, he bolted—not toward the main exit where students were scrambling over each other, but through the side door that led to the staff corridor. Faster. Quieter.
He burst into the narrow hallway, boots screeching on tile. His breath came hard and fast. Behind him, he could hear more glass breaking, more screams cutting short.
He turned the corner—and froze.
Two masked intruders stood at the far end of the hall, moving toward him with that same terrible calm.
Shri's eyes darted left. Hall B. The door was half-open.
He didn't think. He burst through.
Chairs had been pushed aside. Myra looked up sharply from her desk near the front. "Shri? What—?"
He forced a smile, breathless but steady. "It's fine. I'm right here. Everything's gonna be fine."
She blinked, searching his face.
For once, she couldn't tell he was lying.
Shri stepped back out, pulling the door shut behind him. He jammed the latch in place.
A second later, the two attackers rounded the corner.
"Over here!" he shouted, arms wide. "I'm here!"
They came fast. He ran.
From inside, Myra's breath caught as she peeked through the narrow strip of glass on the door.
She saw Shri—on the ground now. One of them pulling his arms behind his back. The other jamming a taser into his ribs. His face twisted, but he didn't scream.
Dev grabbed her just as she reached for the door. "No—Myra—wait—"
She screamed anyway.
But his hand clamped over her mouth, firm, desperate.
The scream never made it out. It trembled against his palm, raw and trembling.
She thrashed once, then again, until her strength left her all at once. Her knees buckled. He held her upright.
A desk somewhere behind them cracked from the strain of silence. Or maybe it was just the silence itself breaking.
Myra sagged into him, tears running unchecked. Her shoulders shook. Her fists were clenched, useless.
Through the shattered slit of glass in the door, Shri was gone.
And outside, the sound of boots thundered closer — steady, searching, unstoppable.