Time: 1:00 PM.
Finally! The electric bell screamed through the silent hallway, shattering the tension like a glass pane. It signaled the end of the Cost Accounting nightmare, a three-hour ordeal of balance sheets and break-even points that felt longer than a test match.
For most students, it was the sound of sweet salvation. For Siddanth Deva, it was the starting gun to get the hell out of there.
The invigilator snapped out of his cricket daydream, checking his watch with a start. He clapped his hands loudly. "Stop writing! Pens down! Tie 'em up right now! Anyone writing past the bell gets disqualified! I mean it!"
Deva? He'd tied his sheets ages ago. He sat totally still, hands resting on the desk, watching the invigilator collect the papers with the patience of a monk, though inside, his legs were twitching to run.
As soon as his sheet was snatched up, Deva stood up.
He didn't wait around to chat. He didn't look back at the girl who'd been a total pain in his neck for three hours. He just grabbed his pouch, threw his backpack over one shoulder, and bolted for the door. He fixed his surgical mask, pinched the nose wire tight so it wouldn't slip, and slid his dark sunglasses on before he even stepped over the threshold.
Head down. Walk fast. Don't look at anyone. You're just a shadow.
He jumped into the stream of students pouring out of the classrooms. The hallway exploded into a riot of noise and post-exam post-mortems instantly. The air grew thick, smelling of nervous sweat, cheap ink, and relief.
"Question 4 was totally out of syllabus!" someone shouted near his ear.
"I forgot the formula for Break-Even Analysis! I'm failing!" another groaned.
"Forget it, let's go grab some biryani at Prince Hotel!"
Deva moved through the crowd like he navigated a cricket field during a high-pressure chase—finding the gaps, moving smooth, shrinking his broad frame so he wouldn't bump shoulders with anyone who might recognize the build.
He kept his head down, the rim of his cap pulled low to hide his face. He was almost at the stairs. Almost safe. The parking lot was just fifty meters away, and freedom was waiting.
"Oye! Hero!"
The voice cut right through the noise like a whip. It wasn't a question; it was a command, delivered with the kind of authority usually reserved for traffic police or angry umpires.
Deva froze mid-step. He knew that voice. It was the voice that had demanded answers to Question 3. It was the voice that had threatened his shins with physical violence.
He thought about pretending he didn't hear and just sprinting down the stairs—he could outrun anyone here without breaking a sweat.
But his [Predator's Focus], usually locked on a cricket ball hurtling at 150kmph, told him she was close. Way too close. He could practically feel the pressure of her standing right behind him.
A hand slapped his shoulder. Hard. It wasn't a friendly tap; it was like an anchor dropping, holding him in place.
Deva turned around slowly, resigning himself to the confrontation.
There she was. Hands on hips. Blocking the flow of students like a boulder in a fast-moving stream.
In the bright hallway light, she looked even more imposing than she had in the exam hall. She was striking, with a sharp, confident look that didn't need any makeup to announce itself.
She wore a simple navy blue salwar kameez, but she rocked it with this careless arrogance, like she had way better things to do than worry about fashion. Her long dark hair was messy, escaping her ponytail, framing a face that was staring him down with zero hesitation. Sharp, intelligent eyes were narrowing at him like lasers scanning a target.
"Heading out?" she asked, tilting her head, daring him to lie. "Or were you planning to vanish into thin air like a magician?"
Deva adjusted his sunglasses, checking his mask again. He felt totally exposed, like he was batting without pads. "Just home," he mumbled, dropping his voice an octave, trying to sound gruff and uninteresting.
"Name?" she demanded, taking a step closer.
Deva hesitated. The pause was too long. He couldn't say 'Siddanth Deva'. Even with the mask, that name was a trigger. It would turn this hallway into a mob scene in seconds, and he'd never make it to his meeting.
"Siddarth," he lied smoothly, grabbing the most common name he could think of in the heat of the moment. "Siddarth... Reddy."
"Okay, Siddarth Reddy," she stepped closer, right in his personal space. She crossed her arms, looking him up and down like she was inspecting a used car. "What was up with the drama back there?"
"Drama?" Deva blinked, genuinely confused.
"The whole Gandhi act!" she threw her hands up, exasperated. "I tapped you. I poked you. I asked nicely. 'Show me the answer'. And you sat there shaking your head as I asked for your house papers! Like I asked for a kidney donation! What's your problem? Are you the Education Minister's son or something? Do you have a moral allergy to helping people?"
Deva blinked behind his shades. He wasn't used to this. For the last six months, people had bowed to him, cheered for him, or asked politely for selfies with trembling hands. No one shouted at the World Cup winner.
This was the first time in months that someone spoke to him without any hesitation or reverence. She didn't see a celebrity; she saw a stingy classmate who broke the backbencher code of solidarity.
"I... it's an exam," Deva defended weakly, feeling ridiculous. "Copying's wrong, you know?"
She rolled her eyes so hard Deva thought they might get stuck in her head. "Wrong? Give me a break, Harishchandra! We're writing Supplementary Exams, Siddarth! We're the failures! The backbenchers! We're already in the mud! If we don't help each other, who's gonna do it? The government? The Vice-Chancellor?"
Deva was speechless. Her logic was completely messed up, but she delivered it with such conviction that he almost believed her.
"I showed you the paper eventually, didn't I?" Deva pointed out, trying to save some face.
"Eventually!" she scoffed. "Yeah, after I kicked your chair three times! My toe still hurts, by the way. Next time, don't make me kick you. I wear heavy boots." She pointed to her feet, which were actually clad in sturdy leather boots that looked tough enough to do damage.
She checked out his shoes. Expensive Nikes. Limited edition. She looked at his crisp shirt, the way he held himself.
"You wrote well, though," she observed, her tone changing abruptly from angry to analyzing. "I copied your stuff. It looked correct. Handwriting's weird—a bit rushed, like a doctor—but the numbers balanced. You knew your formulas."
"Thanks," Deva said dryly.
"So," she uncrossed her arms and leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you're so smart, you can finish in an hour... why are you here? Why the retakes? Did you fail on purpose? You like exams or something? Is this a hobby?"
Deva froze. This was the question he dreaded. He couldn't exactly say 'I was busy winning the IPL, so I missed the finals.'
"I... uh..." Deva stammered. He needed a lie. A good one. "Medical issue."
"Medical issue?" She raised an eyebrow, looking at his broad shoulders and athletic stance. "You look fit. You stand straight. You run fast. You don't look sick."
"Internal," Deva said quickly, tapping his jaw through the mask. "Mouth surgery. Wisdom teeth. All four at once. Infection. Swelling. Couldn't eat, couldn't speak, couldn't study. Total nightmare."
It was a pathetic lie. He'd handled press conferences with millions watching, yet here he was, crumbling before one girl in a hallway, inventing infectious dental disasters.
Krithika stared at him. She looked at his masked face. Suddenly, the disguise made sense to her. "Is that why the mask? Swelling?"
"Yup," Deva nodded fast, grabbing the lifeline. "Swelling. Very ugly. Chipmunk face. And... contagious."
"Contagious swelling?" She looked skeptical, lips twitching like she wanted to laugh. "Right. Whatever. Rich boy problems. You just wanted to hide your face."
She checked her battered watch. "Anyway, listen. We have five more exams. Mercantile Law, Auditing, Income Tax... the whole lot. You're writing them all, right?"
"Yeah," Deva sighed. "Unfortunately."
"Perfect," she clapped her hands. "We're partners now. It's decided. I sit behind you, you write, you slide the paper, I copy. Easy. No kicking required if you cooperate."
Deva's jaw dropped. "What? No! I can't—"
"Don't start the Gandhi drama again, Siddarth," she cut him off, poking his chest. "I gotta pass. My dad's threatening to marry me off to some boring software engineer in America if I don't get this degree. You want that on your conscience? You want to be responsible for my misery?"
"I don't even know you!"
"I'm Krithika," she said, like that solved everything. "You're Siddarth. Now we know each other. We're practically besties. And speaking of knowing things..."
She stepped closer, her expression turning serious. "Next exam is Mercantile Law. Thursday. Are you good at Law?"
Deva blinked. "I'm... okay. I read the book."
"Good. Because I am terrible," she declared. "I'm going to text you tonight. We can meet an hour early before the exam for revision. You can teach me the Case Laws."
"I don't think—"
"That wasn't a question, Siddarth. It was a notification. Be there at 9 AM sharp. Or I kick the chair again. Harder. Now, give me your phone number."
"My number?" Deva stepped back.
"Yeah. Your number. So I can text you if I get here early. Or if I need help studying. Law is not my thing."
Deva stared at her. She was a force of nature. A freight train with no brakes. He'd faced Shoaib Akhtar running in from the boundary, and he felt safer then than he did right now. This girl had no filter and absolutely no fear.
He realized the only way to get out of this without a scene was to just give in.
"Fine," Deva surrendered. "9-8-4-9..."
He rattled off his personal number—the one only family and close friends had. He didn't know why. Maybe shock. Maybe fear of another kick. Maybe it was just easier to give in to the freight train than stand on the tracks.
She typed it in lightning fast. Gave him a missed call.
Buzz. Deva's pocket vibrated.
"That's me," she said, putting her phone away. "Save it as 'Krithika Exam'. Don't block me, Siddarth Reddy. If you do, I'll find you in the hall and shout the answers out loud so we both get kicked out. Don't test me."
She put her phone away and looked at him one last time, a grin spreading across her face. It totally changed her look. The aggression melted, leaving this conspiratorial, almost charming warmth. She looked less like a bully and more like a partner in crime.
"See ya later, Partner. Don't be late. And ice those cheeks!"
She turned on her heel and walked away, long hair swinging, striding confidently through the crowd like she owned the place.
Deva stood there, surrounded by students, totally dazed.
He was the Captain of the Deccan Chargers. Man of the Tournament. Millionaire. Signed with Nike yesterday.
And he'd just been bullied into an academic alliance by a girl named Krithika who thought his name was Siddarth and that he had contagious wisdom teeth.
He watched her disappear around the corner.
He shook his head, a small, bewildered laugh escaping behind the mask.
"Freight train," he whispered. "Total freight train."
Deva shook it off. Checked the time. 1:15 PM.
Back to reality. He wasn't Siddarth Reddy anymore. He was Siddanth Deva, and he had a meeting.
He pulled his cap down, skipped the stairs, and hit the parking lot. The sun was blazing now, heat radiating off the asphalt. The bikes were shimmering in the haze.
He found Sameer's beat-up black Pulsar. Unlocked it, helmet on, kick-start.
Thrummm.
He backed out, dodging students talking about answers and autos honking for passengers.
He hit the main road. The wind cooled the sweat on his neck.
He revved the engine, weaving through Mehdipatnam traffic, heading for Hi-Tec City. Heading for NEXUS.
Student mode off. CEO mode on.
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Krithika (Samantha Ruth Prabhu)