It was a peaceful kind of life.
No shadows. No whispers. Just lectures and late submissions. Office hours. Walks between ivy-covered buildings.
Nivrit Vashirayan was a grad student, double majoring in Computer Science and Mathematics. Smart, approachable, quietly funny. A polite voice. Eyes that never lingered too long.
He lived alone. Kept to himself. Turned in assignments on time. Didn't party. Didn't chase clout. Professors liked him. Classmates forgot him.
And that was exactly how he liked it.
---
7:43 AM. The café smelled like burnt beans and deadlines.
Nivrit stepped in quietly, letting the door swing shut behind him. He didn't draw attention—but not because he tried not to. He just didn't have to.
Lean frame, a little over six feet tall. Indian features—sharp but calm. Neat stubble along his jaw. Messy black hair that somehow looked deliberate. Glasses perched on his nose. White cotton t-shirt with the sleeves casually rolled. Faded blue jeans. Crocs.
He collected his black coffee from the counter with a small nod and slid into a corner seat by the window.
His phone buzzed just as he took the first sip.
Incoming video call: Mom.
He picked it up without a thought.
"Hey, Mom."
Selene Vashirayan's face lit up the screen—hair pinned back, dressed in a crisp shirt, background softly blurred. She was in Japan for some conference or summit—he hadn't really asked.
"Finally," she said, smiling. "A whole week without a call? I was starting to wonder if you'd been abducted by your textbooks."
Niv blinked, then sipped his coffee. "Yeah. Sorry. Got buried in work."
"Mhm," she said, unconvinced but gentle. "You look tired. Are you eating?"
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"And I'm always right."
She gave him a look, the kind only mothers could pull off across time zones. Then softened.
"Alright. Just checking in. Call your brother sometime. He gets grumpy."
"Got it."
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too, Mom."
The screen went dark.
Niv pocketed the phone, drained the last of his coffee, and stood.
---
10:06 AM. Lecture hall, Room 206.
The professor's voice droned on about algorithmic efficiency, equations scribbled across three whiteboards like war plans. Niv sat near the back—head down, notes fast, laptop open.
He was present. Sharp. But silent.
The hours blurred. Math bled into code. Abstract theory into proofs. His workload didn't allow breathing room, and he never asked for any.
---
6:41 PM.
The door shut behind him with a click.
Niv dropped his bag, kicked off his Crocs, and fell backwards onto the couch—arms out, head tilted up, staring at the ceiling.
---
7:52 PM.
Lo-fi beats murmured in the background, looping through the same sleepy chord progressions. Niv lay sprawled on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tossing a rubber ball into the air.
Catch.
Toss.
Catch.
A half-eaten sandwich sat on the table next to a crumpled snack wrapper. He wasn't hungry. Just needed something in his hands besides code and proofs.
The ball hit his palm just as the phone buzzed.
Incoming call: Ethan.
Niv swiped it open without moving from the couch.
"Yo."
Ethan's face filled the screen—grinning, chaotic energy in full force.
"Let me guess," Ethan said. "You're horizontal, listening to lo-fi, and haven't touched grass in four days."
"Three," Niv corrected.
"Dude. You're not even denying it."
"I've had lectures, assignments, a midterm—"
"You're a double major, I know. That's your whole personality now."
Niv smirked. "Was gonna order something, play a couple of matches, crash early."
"Overwatch?"
"Yeah."
"I'd join, but you're not getting out of this," Ethan said, cutting him off. "You've been inside too long. We haven't hung out in forever. Come out tonight."
Niv didn't respond immediately. He let the ball drop to the floor with a soft thud.
"…Alright," he said finally. "Where are we going?"
"There's this party one of my buddies from school invited me to. It'll be fun! You in?"
Niv was silent. Thinking.
"Come on, man. You've been ghosting the planet. Everyone's gonna love you.
Also—it's more fun with you around. You know that. "
"Do I need to bring anything? "
"Just that freakish calm energy you carry everywhere. I'll handle the rest."
Niv stood, stretching again. His joints cracked.
Lo-fi paused.
He crossed the room, the quiet returning with him, and opened his closet.
Simple clothes. Plain colors. Nothing that screamed money or power.
Just clean, quiet, comfortable.
He paused a beat, then pulled out a blue T shirt and dark jeans.
Time to look a little less like he'd been fighting mathematical demons all week.
---
8:41 PM.
The street outside Niv's building was quiet, except for the low, feral purr of a machine built to be stared at.
A Lamborghini Revuelto—matte midnight blue, limited edition hybrid V12, bodywork like folded lightning. The headlights idled with a faint pulse, like the car was breathing. It looked out of place next to cracked sidewalks and campus lampposts—like someone had parked a warship on a bicycle lane.
The gullwing door lifted with a hiss.
"Get in, nerd."
Niv pulled his hoodie tighter against the wind, walked down the steps, and slipped into the passenger seat without ceremony. "Subtle."
Ethan grinned behind the wheel. "I was going to bring the Rolls, but I didn't want to seem obnoxious."
He was dressed like someone who didn't need to prove anything—tailored charcoal trousers, soft grey silk shirt with a perfect collar roll, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a Patek Philippe Grand Complications. Not flashy. Just devastatingly expensive.
"You look like a catalog ad for power," Niv muttered.
"Don't hate. You clean up alright."
Niv said nothing, settling into the passenger seat as Ethan pulled away from the curb.
"Anyway," Ethan continued, navigating the city streets like he owned them—which, in a way, his family probably did—"the party's at the Astra. Friend of mine. His family owns the place."
Niv raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. That Astra. Seven stars, rooftop view, champagne fountains, full orchestra remixing Kendrick. It's going to be deranged."
"Sounds like hell."
"You say that, and yet—you always make it more fun."
Niv blinked. "How?"
"You don't talk much. But when you do, everyone listens. You don't pretend to care, so when you do, it hits different. And people—especially the rich ones—can't stand that they can't figure you out. It's hilarious."
"I'm not trying to be mysterious, Ethan. I'm literally just tired."
"Exactly," Ethan said. "That's the secret sauce. Everyone's busy performing. You just show up, say one line that cuts someone's ego in half, and go back to sipping your drink like it was a TED Talk. It's art."
Niv leaned his head against the window, watching the blur of traffic and streetlights.
"I was gonna play a few matches and sleep."
"Boring," Ethan said. "Come hang out with me instead. Break some rich hearts by just existing."
Niv sighed. "One drink. Two max."
Ethan smirked and shifted gears. "Famous last words."
The city swallowed them whole.
---
They became friends after one of the dumbest, most glorious gaming matches in recent memory.
Niv had carried the team with surgical precision; Ethan had carried it with reckless chaos and very creative swearing. Together, they'd turned a guaranteed loss into a last-second win that made the enemy team rage-quit.
Ten minutes later, Ethan slid into his DMs with: "Okay, who the hell are you and why do you play like a hitman with a PhD?"
They started talking. Realized they were not only on the same server, but the same campus.
Since then, they'd been best friends.
Somehow, it worked—Ethan was the human equivalent of an energy drink; Niv was more like black coffee and bad decisions made calmly.
Balance. Sort of.
---