The bell rang three minutes late that morning, and somehow that felt like a warning.
Anaya noticed small things like that — delays, pauses, sounds that came at the wrong time. The corridor outside Class XI-B usually roared between periods, but today the noise was uneven, like a radio signal fading in and out. Students clustered in doorways whispering instead of shouting. Even the teachers' footsteps sounded quicker.
Something had shifted.
She slid into her seat near the second window row, placing her notebook square with the desk edge. Routine made the world predictable. Predictable made it safe.
Riya dropped into the chair beside her and leaned close.
"Did you hear?"
"Hear what?" Anaya asked without looking up.
"Administration office was locked since morning. Like — fully locked. Curtains drawn."
"That happens during audits."
"Not with two security guards outside."
That made Anaya glance up.
Before she could ask more, the classroom door opened — not with the usual push, but slowly, like whoever stood outside was deciding whether entering was worth it.
The principal stepped in.
And beside him — a boy no one recognized.
No introduction smile. No welcoming tone. Just a pause heavy enough to bend attention toward him.
"This is a transfer student," the principal said. "He will be joining effective immediately."
That was it. No backstory. No previous school mention. No polite encouragement to help him settle in.
Just: transfer student.
But the room reacted like someone had said something much larger.
Anaya felt it — the way conversations died mid-breath. The way curiosity didn't feel bright — it felt cautious.
The boy stood still, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert. Not nervous. Not arrogant. Watchful.
He scanned the room once — quick, efficient — like mapping exits.
His gaze did not linger on faces. It measured space.
"Take your seat," the principal said, already turning to leave.
The boy walked in without a sound. No dragging bag. No chair scrape. Even his footsteps were controlled — heel barely touching first.
He chose the last bench near the back wall. Window on one side. Door in view.
A defensive position.
Why would someone pick a seat like that on the first day?
Chalk snapped against the board as the math teacher resumed class, but attention never fully returned. Eyes drifted backward in turns.
Rumors start fastest in silence.
Riya scribbled on a torn paper and slid it across:
He looks like he knows something about us.
Anaya almost smiled — but then a book fell.
Two rows ahead, someone's physics text slipped and hit the floor with a hard crack.
The sound wasn't loud.
But the reaction was.
The new boy jerked — sharp, involuntary — chair legs screeching half an inch as his body tensed like a pulled wire.
Not surprise. Not annoyance.
Recognition.
His breathing changed — once — twice — then steadied through visible effort.
The teacher frowned. "Problem?"
"No," he said quietly.
His voice was low — controlled — and tired.
Not sleepy tired.
Used-up tired.
Anaya didn't realize she was still looking at him until he looked back.
Eye contact lasted less than a second.
But something passed there — not threat, not anger —
a warning.
Not stay away from me.
More like:
Something around me is dangerous.
She turned back to her notebook, pulse slightly off rhythm.
Beside her, Riya wrote again:
Okay that was weird.
Anaya didn't reply.
Because weird wasn't the right word.
Precise was.
People who react like that aren't startled — they're remembering.
Lunch break stretched louder than usual — the backlash of suppressed curiosity. Groups formed fast, theories forming faster.
"He got expelled."
"No — juvenile case."
"My cousin says police came to his old school."
"My brother said records were sealed."
Every version had confidence. None had proof.
Anaya sat under the neem tree with her tiffin, half listening. Gossip usually bored her — stories built without facts always did.
But this time, the absence of facts was the story.
Sealed records. Guarded office. No introduction.
Patterns mattered.
She noticed him again when the wind shifted.
He was alone on the far boundary bench — not eating — not using his phone — just watching the main gate like people watch a clock that decides something important.
No fidgeting. No boredom.
Waiting.
For what?
Twice students approached him.
Twice they turned back before reaching.
Social gravity pushed outward from him.
Riya followed Anaya's gaze.
"Creepy."
"Alone," Anaya corrected softly.
"Same thing sometimes."
"No," Anaya said. "Not the same."
Riya studied her. "You're curious."
"I observe."
"That's curiosity with homework."
Anaya almost laughed — but stopped.
Because at that moment, the boy stood — suddenly — like he sensed something before it happened.
A white car slowed outside the school gate.
He tracked it with his eyes until it passed.
Only then did his shoulders lower.
Fear, she realized — not of people —
of arrival.
The afternoon period brought heat and drowsy chalk dust. Even rumors grew tired.
Until the teacher called names for project pairings.
"…Anaya Sen…"
She looked up.
"…paired with —"
A pause.
Paper shuffle.
"…transfer student."
The class reacted before the teacher finished saying his name.
Whispers flared like struck matches.
The boy didn't react.
Didn't look at her.
Didn't look at anyone.
The teacher cleared his throat. "Temporary pairing. Seating adjustment tomorrow."
Temporary — another careful word.
Anaya gathered her notebook and walked back after the bell. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steady.
Up close, details sharpened.
Faint scar near his wrist — old — pale — non-accidental.
Ink stain on thumb — left-handed writer.
Eyes — darker than they first appeared — not cold — guarded.
She set her notebook between them on the desk.
"Hi," she said simply.
He looked at the notebook. Not her.
"That's safer," he murmured.
"What is?"
"Talking to the notebook first."
It took her a second to realize that was humor.
Dry. Unexpected.
"I'm Anaya."
"I know."
That surprised her. "How?"
"Attendance sheet is public information."
Precise again.
"And you are?"
A small pause.
Like names had consequences.
"Arin," he said.
Not reluctantly — carefully.
"Okay," she said. "Arin. We have a project."
"Yes."
"That usually involves speaking."
"Yes."
"Are you going to make me do all of it?"
"If that keeps you uninvolved, that would be better."
"In what?"
Another pause.
"Me."
There it was again — not arrogance —
containment.
She studied him openly now. "You think you're dangerous?"
"I think proximity to me is inefficient."
"That's a very strange way to say yes."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
But it vanished before it fully formed — like an expression he no longer allowed himself to finish.
"Work outline," he said, turning the notebook and writing — fast — structured — organized. His handwriting was sharp, disciplined.
Military neat.
No wasted curves.
When he finished, he slid it back without their fingers touching — deliberate distance.
She noticed.
"Do you always calculate space like that?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
His gaze lifted — steady — unreadable.
"Because mistakes happen in small distances."
Before she could ask more, he stood and left.
Not hurried.
Not rude.
Just — done.
That evening, when Anaya opened her locker to take her practice files —
an envelope fell out.
No name.
No stamp.
Just one line written in dark ink:
Do not stand near him when the sound repeats.
Her pulse slowed instead of racing.
Because fear makes noise.
Truth goes quiet.
And this —
this felt like truth trying not to be heard.