Raghava Rao had trained talented boys before.
What unsettled him about Arjun wasn't skill—it was intent.
During practice matches, Arjun began doing something new. He spoke. Quietly. Between balls. Between overs.
"Third man's too fine.""He'll drag the length now.""Single here keeps the bowler nervous."
At first, teammates ignored him.
Then they listened.
Fielders moved without being told by the captain. Bowlers adjusted mid-over. Partnerships stabilized after collapses.
The captain—older, louder—felt it slipping.
One afternoon, after a narrow win, Rao overheard a boy say, "Ask Arjun. He knows."
That night, Rao couldn't sleep.
This isn't normal, he thought. He's not reacting. He's orchestrating.
The next day, Rao tested him.
He deliberately set absurd fields during a practice match. Left gaps wide open. Bowled the wrong bowlers at the wrong times.
Arjun noticed instantly.
But he didn't challenge Rao.
Instead, he adapted.
He played against the field, not the ball. He nudged runs into protected areas, forcing fielders to move, slowly correcting the setup without anyone realizing who was doing it.
By the end of the session, the field looked sensible again.
Rao called Arjun aside.
"You changed my field," he said.
Arjun met his gaze. "I thought you were testing us."
Rao searched his face. "And if I wasn't?"
"Then we would have lost," Arjun said simply.
Rao felt a chill.
"Do you want to be captain?" he asked suddenly.
Arjun didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was steady. "Not now."
Rao exhaled. "Why?"
"Because captains get blamed," Arjun replied. "And I'm still learning how people break."
Rao realized then—this boy wasn't just learning cricket.
He was studying humans.