Chapter 1: The Principle of Friction
The back row of Lecture Hall 4 was a dead zone. It was where dreams went to die, and where Aryan Khanna—the university's most notorious "tyrant"—spent his mornings sleeping through Advanced Calculus.
Ishaan Mehra, the university topper, adjusted his glasses, his knuckles white as he gripped his textbook. He hated the back row. He hated the smell of stale cigarettes and leather jackets. But most of all, he hated the man currently using a ₹5,000 textbook as a pillow.
"Aryan," Ishaan hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and annoyance.
The giant in the leather jacket didn't move. A stray lock of messy black hair fell over eyes that had seen more street fights than library books.
"Move your feet," Ishaan whispered louder. "You're blocking the aisle."
Slowly, Aryan stirred. He didn't move his feet. Instead, he opened one eye—dark, piercing, and dangerously amused. A slow, shark-like grin spread across his face as he looked at the "Golden Boy" of the college.
"And if I don't, Topper?" Aryan's voice was a low growl that sent a shiver down Ishaan's spine. "What are you going to do? Report me for taking up too much space?"
"I'm the head of the student council," Ishaan snapped, trying to regain his dignity. "I can have you suspended for your attendance record alone."
Aryan suddenly leaned forward, his face inches from Ishaan's. The scent of mint and rebellion clouded Ishaan's senses.
"Here's a lesson for your perfect brain, Ishaan," Aryan whispered, his eyes dropping to Ishaan trembling lips. "In this row i make the rules. The rule number one? Don't wake the tyrant unless you're prepared to pay price