The discussion just kept grinding on—but let's be real, it sure didn't feel much like a classroom anymore. Nah, it was basically a theater, maybe even a weird game show, and Vikram was the only contestant anyone could hear. The guy sat back with that too-easy confidence of someone who's never had a ramen-for-dinner week, let alone counted every rupee at the pharmacy. It's like you could smell old money just by sitting near him. And, honestly, the way he talked? You've heard of humblebragging—this was straight-up humble-scorning.
He gives this big, sweeping gesture, like he's starring in a Bollywood biopic about his own life. "Look around you! Half these so-called 'startups' fail," he says, voice dripping with cynicism. "Why? Because people here actually care too much. Sentimentality kills business. It's all about showing you're on top, stepping on the competition and keeping them down. That's how my family wins, how we always win."
Awkward little snicker from a frazzled professor floated across the room. Then came the clapping—oh wow, the clapping. Some went wild like maybe they saw a future job there; others just sort of joined in, looking over their shoulders, afraid that being the silent one would be social suicide. You could sense the tension, like everyone was walking on a floor made of eggshells.
Way in the back, pretty much invisible, sat Arjun. He had his pen and his notebook, but mostly what he had was anxiety. Each jab Vikram tossed out felt personal—not a paper cut, but a slow, twisting knife right under the ribs. Arjun knew that pain. After all, this city's got a habit of chewing up anyone who starts out broke. It wasn't just business; for him and loads of others, it was a struggle to breathe, to matter.
And then—here's the curveball—the System's interface peeked out again, lighting up like a secret sidekick only Arjun could see.
Prompt Detected: Counter-Argument Opportunity.
Suggested Approach: Data-driven rebuttal.
Estimated Impact: 72%.
Arjun's heart? Going at full marathon pace. The idea of talking back to Vikram? That'd be like challenging the lead actor in his own movie. Totally off-script for a guy who has to UberEats his way through tuition. But the System, with all its neat little lines and calculated calm, nudged him gently. All the stuff he'd been poring over last night started sliding together, neat as puzzle pieces, in his cluttered mind.
He hesitated, didn't jump right in. Instead, his fingers moved fast, scribbling words like "monopolies," "manufacturedshortages," "pricegouging." Vikram tossed these things out as "just inefficiency," but Arjun had the receipts. Like, actual numbers. He clung to that as he shrank into his seat, waiting out the next round.
Bless Professor Menon, honestly, because he couldn't just let this become the Vikram Hour. He steps in, voice a little too bright: "Thank you, Mr. Singhania. I wonder if maybe another student would like to share a perspective?"
Instantly…the room's silent. Everyone ducked—not physically, but you could feel it. Every face just screamed, "Not me." No one wants to go viral for all the wrong reasons, right? And definitely no one wants a front-row seat in a clash with the guy who practically prints money with his last name.
That's when Riya, one row ahead, just kind of…looked back. It wasn't dramatic, but she found Arjun. Their eyes met, and she didn't have to say a word; her look alone basically said, "Come on. You got this."
So Arjun, feeling his face burn, lifted his hand. Too late for regrets now.
And, wow, the gossip mill ramped up straight away:
"Arjun Mehra? The guy still delivering food around campus?"
"Well, this'll be awkward to watch…"
"You think he's gonna bomb?"
Vikram, for his part, raised his brows like he'd just been offered instant noodles at a five-star restaurant. "Oh, the back row joins the party. By all means—enlighten us."
Arjun stood carefully, his notebook betraying a bit of a tremor, though when he started to speak, he found a level voice he didn't even know he had.
"With respect, business isn't just about who's king of the hill. It's demand and supply. Honestly, the biggest inefficiency isn't laziness—it's the corruption eating away at supply chains."
That shook people awake. Heads swung, professors leaned in, you name it.
He kept going, feeling the System quietly feeding his brain with facts:
"Take generic drugs. Demand in Mumbai's suburbs spiked more than forty percent this quarter alone. But what happened? Stock dried up, prices shot up. Not because pharmacists are bad at their jobs, but because shady middlemen are playing games—blocking supplies to pump profits. Who pays for that? Regular folks. Who benefits? Monopolies. But sure, let's call that 'efficiency,' huh?"
You could see the gears turning in the room. Even students who'd been nodding along with Vikram earlier sat up, fidgety now, unsure what side to pick.
Vikram just laughed, sharp and dismissive. "Medicines? Seriously? The world doesn't run on cough syrup, friend."
Arjun didn't drop the ball. "Tell that to parents who skip meals for their kid's insulin. Or to someone losing a loved one because antibiotics cost more than rent. Business isn't just an equation. Real people get caught in the crossfire. If you don't see that, maybe you shouldn't be deciding their future."
Now, the room really stopped. It wasn't loud, but you could almost feel the collective wow ripple through, professors sharing loaded glances, students peeking at each other like, "Did someone say what we were all thinking?"
Riya looked stiff, but if you looked close, there was a flicker of pride there. She saw him, and she was rooting for him.
For maybe the first time in his life, Vikram hesitated, his famous smirk flickering. He stared coldly. "Easy to talk big if you've never been in charge of anything. You sure you're not just repeating something you found online? Ever actually seen the scale of a real business?"
System piped up again.
Response Suggested: Comparative Market Example. Probability of Rebuttal Success: 81%.
No hesitation this time. Arjun even managed a tiny smile. "You want scale? Gujarat co-op two years back ditched those corrupt middlemen, built their own network. Medicine prices went down by thirty percent—a real, measurable change. And that wasn't some rich guy's trickle-down story—it was regular families who won. That's what real efficiency looks like. You can keep your dominance; some of us actually want results."
There was a moment—just one—of stunned silence. Then a few students, shy at first, started clapping, quick and self-conscious, but…actually sincere.
Professor Menon, trying not to smile too much, chimed in, "Excellent point, Mr. Mehra, thank you."
The applause wasn't an earthquake, but it had real warmth to it. For Vikram? That was clearly a punch he hadn't seen coming. His jaw was rigid, smile all teeth and no cheer, knuckles rapping out some nervous drumbeat on the desk.
He tried to cover—"Well, maybe run a company before giving us the Gandhi speech. I'll leave you to your fairy tales."
The moderator hurried things along, clearly eager to get back to safer ground, but the mood had shifted. You could tell: for once, Vikram wasn't the only star in the show. Someone else had gotten the spotlight, and—let's face it—it looked good on them.
Arjun eased back into his seat, still trembling. But inside? Something had shifted. Turns out, even at the bottom, people are watching. And sometimes, you can surprise the whole world—including yourself.