Late April – Post-Finals Chaos
The bell rings.
Chairs screech. Bags slam shut. The corridor explodes in a frenzy of freedom.
A jailbreak of teenagers surges through the hallway—laughing, shouting, some dazed like survivors of a mental warzone.
Rachna strides out, arms stretched like she's survived an apocalypse.
"Done. Cooked. Brain fried. Someone call a neurologist."
Karan, slinging his bag over one shoulder, nods solemnly.
"Exam's over. Future unknown. Let's not talk about results until we're emotionally stable."
Lalit materializes behind them, clutching his chest dramatically like a soap opera widow.
"I just wanted a simple life, man. Why did Chemistry hit me like betrayal?"
Mohit snorts, eyeing the acid burn on Lalit's shirt.
"You spilled hydrochloric acid on yourself. That's not betrayal. That's karma doing its job."
Laughter erupts. Tension evaporates, if only for a second.
Karan glances around.
"Hey… where's Arjun? And the Kabaddi squad—Vikrant, Raghav, Pranav?"
Rachna frowns. "Didn't see them after lunch…"
Lalit shrugs. "They're probably already wrestling on the ground while we're still processing trauma."
Mohit smirks. "Arjun's probably started a Kabaddi cult. Robes, rituals, high knees."
Lalit drops into a fake lunge, chanting, "Kabaddi… kabaddi…" like a monk in training.
Rachna shoves him, giggling.
"Stop before someone actually recruits you."
---
Kabaddi Ground – Golden Hour
Dust swirls in the warm evening light. The mat is stained with footprints and sweat.
Vikrant charges forward—feet light, breath steady, the chant pouring from him like steam from a boiling pot:
"Kabaddi… kabaddi… kabaddi…"
Raghav, crouched low, whispers, "He's baiting left."
Pranav's eyes narrow. "Wait. Let him commit."
Vikrant feints—then lunges.
Raghav locks a leg. Pranav grabs his waist. Muscles strain.
Arjun, off the court, his voice cold and precise:
"Now! Twist! Take his center of gravity—lock him!"
Vikrant roars—drags both defenders forward, legs churning.
Fingertips brush white chalk—TOUCH.
Whistle blast.
Lalit, watching from the fence, stares wide-eyed.
"What the hell?! He had two defenders on him!"
Mohit counts on his fingers. "Three, actually. I blinked. Counted again. This isn't Kabaddi. It's war."
Rachna points toward Arjun, who stands like a general on the sidelines.
"Is he even playing? Or mind-controlling them?"
Karan watches Arjun, the gleam in his eyes.
"He's not training players. He's building soldiers."
---
Later, Post-Raid Feedback – Shadows Growing Long
Vikrant gasps for air, sweat dripping from his jawline. Arjun walks toward him, a silent storm behind sharp eyes.
Arjun:
"You lost five seconds hesitating. Any other team—you'd be out."
Vikrant:
"I still touched the line."
Arjun (cutting):
"Barely. Your balance was off. Shoulder too forward. You almost lost everything."
Pranav nods.
"He's not wrong. My grab wasn't clean either."
Raghav mutters, "Yeah… we could've pinned him if we shifted early."
No one celebrates. Every victory is a postmortem.
--------
[Flashback – Practice Match, Dr. Anand School]
The mat smells of sweat and dust. Six defenders crouch, tensed like coiled springs. Mayank steps into the raid circle, his voice already steady.
Mayank (chanting low):
"Kabaddi… kabaddi… kabaddi…"
He eyes the formation—Rudra dead center. Arms like cables. Smirking.
Rudra (taunting):
"Come on, Captain. Let's see what you've got."
Mayank darts left—fakes—then lunges right. Rudra pounces, arms locking around him like steel cables.
Rudra (gritting):
"Give up. You're stuck."
Other defenders pile in. Mayank's breath shortens, chant still burning through clenched teeth.
Mayank (strained):
"Not done yet."
With a sudden surge, he twists, powers forward—dragging all six across the midline.
Whistle.
Only the sound of breathing remains.
---
[Post-Raid Confrontation – Sidelines]
No celebration. Just the thud of footsteps and the sting of silence.
Rudra slams a hand on the mat, jaw clenched tight.
Rudra:
"Bullshit."
Mayank walks up, cool and calm—like he's still raiding.
Mayank:
"Six defenders. One raider. Still crossed the line."
Rudra (refusing to meet his eyes):
"You got lucky."
Mayank (voice hardening):
"No. You lunged too early. Left your flank wide open—again."
Rudra (snaps):
"I don't need pointers from a guy who just had a moment."
Bhavesh steps in, hands half-raised, trying to deescalate.
Bhavesh:
"He's not wrong, Rudra. Your grip broke. Too much upper body, not enough base."
Rudra spins to him, eyes flashing.
Rudra:
"Oh great. You too? What is this—Team Mayank?"
Mayank (leaning slightly in, voice like ice):
"No one here's on a fan club. We're trying to win matches. Your pride's not helping."
Rudra (growls):
"You think you're better than everyone?"
Mayank:
"I think I'm captain. And I think if you keep letting your ego lead your tackles, we're gonna lose real ones, not just practice points."
Beat. Heavy silence. Even Bhavesh doesn't speak.
Mayank walks past, brushing Rudra's shoulder lightly.
Mayank (without turning):
"Next time—play the raid. Not your emotions."
[As the sun dips below the horizon, the Kabaddi ground empties—but four figures linger, each in their own world.]
Arjun
(arms crossed, gaze locked on the dust-smeared mat)
ZP matches…
Different tempo. Different rules. No room for weak nerves or sloppy instincts.
They'll throw fire at us. I'll throw storms back.
Vikrant
(stretching, smiling to himself)
This squad's raw—but hungry.
If we sharpen right, we can cut through anyone.
God, I missed this kind of madness.
Rudra
(seated, taping his fingers, fire in his eyes)
Arjun was always the cold, calculated one. Let's see how his brain handles brute force.
Can't wait to hit him clean. No practice. No filters.
Mayank
(alone near the center, staring at the chalk line)
ZP is more than medals.
It's my turn. My name. My match.
Let them come. I've already crossed tougher lines.
Four paths. One mat. All eyes on the same war.
ZP trials are coming. And nothing's going to be the same.