There was nothing extraordinary about the school rooftop.
Just concrete, open sky, and a rusted water tank that hadn't worked in years. But to Aryan, it was the only place that didn't ask questions. It didn't stare at him like the other students. It didn't whisper when he passed by. It didn't wonder how someone who didn't even look like a fighter could break a brick with a single punch.
It had only been two days since he transferred to this school.
He wasn't big.
He wasn't loud.
But he was different — and somehow, everyone felt it.
Not because he tried.
Because of something else.
Something he couldn't turn off, no matter how much he wished he could.
There was a pressure around him — like gravity bending differently in his presence. The kind that made people nervous when he walked by. The kind that made rumors follow him, even when he didn't move a muscle.
---
Yesterday, he'd broken a boy's pride with a single hit.
Not just any boy — Ishaan, one of the school's loudest, toughest seniors. Member of the kendo club. Known for running his mouth and treating the school hallways like his territory.
The fight wasn't supposed to happen.
Aryan hadn't even wanted to look at him. But Ishaan had tried to bully the quiet new guy.
"You think keeping your head down makes you better than the rest of us?"
Aryan didn't answer.
Being ignored by a junior pissed Ishaan off even more.
And then, when he charged forward...
Aryan dropped him with one strike.
One punch.
One sound — like a bag of meat hitting concrete — and Ishaan was out cold before the last word left his mouth.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a message.
Though not the one Aryan wanted to send.
---
He didn't celebrate.
Didn't wait around.
Didn't say a word.
Because she had seen it.
The girl.
The kind of quiet that didn't demand silence but invited it. Eyes like soft glass — not weak, just... still. Focused. Kind. Sharp in a way that made people straighten up around her without realizing why.
She didn't speak much either. Maybe that's why he noticed her.
Or maybe… it was because she reminded him of someone he couldn't forget.
Not clearly — just flashes.
He barely knew her.
At least, that's what he told himself.
But somewhere deep in the fog of his childhood, a memory stirred — a small hand gripping his. A soft voice whispering, "Don't be afraid. I'll stand in front."
And for a second — just a second — her presence reminded him of that.
Was it her?
He didn't know.
And his heart didn't care.
Now, thanks to that punch, she probably thought he was just another violent jerk.
A street dog.
A walking threat.
---
Aryan flexed his hands. His knuckles still ached.
Not from the impact — that had barely registered.
But from holding back.
His hands bore the weight of years. Years spent striking wood, stone, steel. Punching until bone bruised and running until exhaustion took over.
Training not for medals or recognition — but for one purpose:
To be strong enough to never lose someone again.
That was the reason behind every hour spent training. Not pride. Not revenge.
Just the quiet need to never freeze again.
Because once, he had.
---
His father died in front of him, when Aryan was seven.
Not in some grand battle — just a rainy night, a shortcut through an alley, and three drunk men tangled in their own chaos.
Aryan remembered the shouting first — loud, angry voices bouncing off the alley walls.
The men were arguing over something stupid. Money, maybe. A bottle dropped and shattered. One of them accused the other of stealing.
One of the men shoved the other, and a bottle slipped from a hand and smashed on the ground. The noise echoed sharply.
They could've turned around. They should've.
But Aryan's father wasn't the kind to walk away when someone might get hurt.
"Hey! That's enough!" his father had called out, firm but calm.
He stepped in, holding Aryan behind him, shielding him.
One of the drunks staggered toward him, bottle still in hand, face twisted with intoxicated anger.
"You think you're our father now? Huh?!" the man barked.
"I'm just saying calm down," his father replied, palms open, non-threatening.
"You're making a scene."
That was enough to set him off.
Maybe it was the rain, the booze, or just the kind of night where everything went wrong.
The bottle swung wide and fast — not aimed with intention, just thrown in rage.
A sickening crack echoed louder than the thunder.
The bottle shattered against the side of his father's head.
He collapsed instantly, crumpling to the wet ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Blood began pooling fast, shockingly fast, mixing with the rain and broken glass.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry.
He just stood there — small, frozen, unmoving — as the drunken men stared at what they had done.
They didn't speak.
Didn't check.
Just looked at the body, the blood, the child — and then bolted into the night like rats from a sinking ship.
His father didn't move again.
But even as his eyes dimmed, his face turned just enough to find Aryan one last time.
Not with panic.
Not with pain.
Just that same quiet look — like he was sorry for leaving.
The men were caught. Police handled it.
Justice — at least the kind written in reports — was served.
But Aryan never cared about revenge.
He never wanted to hurt them.
They were done.
The part that haunted him wasn't them.
It was himself — the boy who stood still when he should've moved.
So he trained.
Not to punish the past, but to be ready for whatever came next.
Because next time — if there was a next time — he wouldn't hesitate.
He'd move.
---
The bell rang faintly from below, snapping the world back into motion.
Aryan stood slowly.
The world always felt heavier after memories.
He descended the stairs like a shadow.
No one greeted him.
No one blocked his path.
People moved around him instinctively — like animals giving space to a predator.
He didn't want their fear.
He just wanted peace.
He reached his classroom.
The lesson was boring, as always.
He fell asleep at his desk — exhausted from the previous night.
The teachers had piled him with punishment homework for knocking out a senior.
He hadn't even been able to sleep properly.
No one bothered to wake him after class.
He slept for nearly six hours, waking up at 9:02 p.m.
The school gates weren't locked — construction and repair work had left them wide open.
He walked out calmly, the night air cooler than expected.
---
He reached the vending machines by the street corner — and there she was.
The girl.
Her martial arts jacket was tied around her waist.
Sweat still shimmered on her neck.
Her breathing had settled, but her body was alert — like someone who had been taught to expect trouble.
She saw him.
Their eyes met.
Aryan stopped.
Not because he was afraid — but because she looked at him like she expected something.
And he didn't know what that was.
He wanted to speak.
Just one sentence.
Something to untangle the knot in her eyes.
But what could he say?
"I'm not like them."
"I didn't want to fight."
"I think we met when we were kids."
None of it would come out.
Not because it wasn't true — but because words had never worked well for him.
She stared at him for a few seconds more... then turned to walk away.
But halfway down the path, she paused.
Looked over her shoulder.
"Aryan, right?" she asked quietly.
He nodded, surprised she knew.
A small smile touched her lips — calm, unreadable, and somehow familiar.
"I'm Meera," she said.
Then she was gone.
---
Aryan stood there for a moment longer, still unsure if the moment had really happened.
And as the last echoes of her footsteps faded…
he felt something strange.
Something warm, cautious, and completely unfamiliar.
Hope.
Just the hope that maybe — someday — someone might look at him and not see a threat.
---
[To Be Continued...]