January 3rd, 2026. 8:15 AM.
The fog in Dhaka is thicker than usual today, mirroring the hazy, smoke-filled memories of last night. I am walking through the massive corridors of Central High. The zipper on my old school bag is slightly torn, snagging every few seconds. But my pace today is slower, more deliberate. With every step, I feel the weight of the earth beneath me.
Class 8, Section A. Every student here is the child of either a business tycoon or a high-profile official. When I entered the room, there was no sound except the familiar hum of the air conditioning. Everyone was buried in their expensive smartphones. Not a single person looked up.
But I know they are watching. The viral video from last night is still flickering on their screens. I walked to the very back and took my seat at the corner bench.
First period: Mathematics. Our teacher, Mr. Asad, entered the room. He is the strictest teacher in the school. While he scribbled complex equations of calculus and functions on the board, I was busy with a different kind of calculation on the very last page of my notebook.
It wasn't math. It was a blueprint.
The abandoned gymnasium behind the school. 8:00 PM. CCTV range: 15 meters. Guard: 1 (cannot be bought with Rudra's money, but can be moved with fear). Shaon will have at least four others with him. Weapons: Hockey sticks or baseball bats. What do I have? These two hands and the titanium brass knuckles in my pocket.
"Aryan! To the board."
Mr. Asad's sharp voice snapped the thread of my thoughts. The entire class turned to look at me. Shaon, sitting on the front bench, was whispering and snickering with his friends.
"Solve this equation. If you can't, then this school is not the place for you," Mr. Asad said, adjusting his glasses.
I walked toward the board with steady steps. As I picked up the chalk, the old callouses on my fingers seemed to burn. The strain from the shadow boxing I did last night with those worn-out gloves was still buried in my muscles.
I looked at the board. A complex differential equation. While even the brightest students were scratching their heads, I took exactly thirty seconds. The classroom fell into a dead silence at the rhythmic scritch-scratch of the chalk.
I didn't just solve it; I used the shortest, smartest method possible. To me, education isn't just about grades—it's a weapon to sharpen my mind. The better you are at math, the better you understand your enemy's next move.
As I dropped the chalk and walked back to my seat, Shaon tried to trip me. I stopped exactly one second before his foot touched mine. I looked into his eyes. A pair of ice-cold eyes. For a moment, Shaon visibly flinched. He realized that somewhere between the 'dog' from yesterday and the Aryan standing before him today, something massive had changed.
"Excellent, Aryan. Sit down," Mr. Asad said, sounding genuinely surprised.
During the break, I didn't go to the library. Instead, I headed toward the old gymnasium at the back of the school. It had been abandoned for a long time. I peered through the dust-coated glass windows. Inside lay rusted gym equipment. There was no AC there—only a stifling darkness and the stale scent of sweat.
Despite being a modern school in 2026, this place remained 'analog.' There could be no better stage for Aryan's revenge.
Suddenly, my phone screen lit up. A message from an unknown number:
"Tonight, brass knuckles won't be enough, Aryan. Rudra's men will be there. They aren't going to film a video; they're going to cripple you. If you want to stay alive, meet me by the lake at 6:00 PM. - Sara."
I read the message and deleted it. Was Sara trying to save me, or was she leading me into an even bigger trap? I don't know. But I am certain of one thing—blood will spill tonight. Either mine, or Shaon's.
I went back to class. There's an important test at 3:00 PM. I have to get 100 out of 100. Because before I become a Don, I must survive as the best student in this school. Raw muscle can only act as a thug, but only a sharp mind can build an empire.
The evening sky is turning blood-red. The fog is descending again. The titanium steel in my pocket has grown warm with the heat of my body.