Inside the principal's office
The principal rose from his chair with a smile. "How are you, son? Hope you have a good day ahead?"
Rohit shook his hand but stayed silent.
The principal's eyes flicked to Balwinder, then back to Rohit's bruised face. Realization dawned. "Ah, right. The injury. My bad, son. Must be painful to lose your memory at such a crucial time."
Rohit almost laughed at the irony. Everyone knew what had happened to him, yet no one seemed to acknowledge his so-called "memory loss." Even if it was fake, it showed his real standing here—no one took him seriously.
The principal sighed. "I've spoken with Mrs. Singhania. She's been generous with her donations. Thanks to her, I can help with your attendance issue. But the biometric system records entry before and after lunch. Once your presence is logged, you're free to come and go. The software lets us edit, but not add entries."
"So I just need to punch in and out before and after lunch?" Rohit clarified.
"Yes," the principal nodded, "but the timer still applies. You'll have to attend atleast a class for the required duration, otherwise it won't register."
Rohit recalled the system's rules—it was designed to stop proxies, logging attendance only if the full class duration of that specified subject was completed.
The principal then ran through a few dos and don'ts, adding that the school couldn't influence marks for practicals or external exams. Rohit agreed.
Just then, the principal's phone rang. He stepped out to answer it.
Rohit noticed the CCTV camera in the corner and smirked. Moving to the principal's chair, he pretended to take a call while eyeing the desk. Two screens: one for the desktop, one showing internal and external camera feeds.
There was a risk of being recorded, but what could be worse when he was already loaded?
Dropping the act, he sat down and took control of the screens. The principal had walked far outside, even lighting a cigarette as he spoke.
Balwinder's eyebrows lifted, but instead of questioning, he stepped out to stand guard. Rohit nodded in appreciation and turned to the computer.
The desktop was already unlocked. He navigated to the CCTV footage folder—internal recordings for the past 45 minutes were missing, only external timestamps remained. The internal camera was not saving the feeds, settings must have turned off.
He quickly navigated through the drives and folders, scanning for anything worth checking. Then, his eyes caught the school management software running quietly in the background.
Opening it, he found a complete set of profile information. Spotting the matching icon on the desktop, he right-clicked it, selected "Find Location," and jumped straight to the directory.
There, he dug into the metadata and smiled—this was a goldmine. The folder contained every kind of document imaginable about everyone in the school, a true treasury of data.
But his time was limited, and he had specific targets. He searched for the phone book records and located the document. It was neatly organized, divided into wings.
He switched to incognito mode, logged into his email and cloud storage, and uploaded the XLSX files for the D Wing and C Wing. The transfer was quick, but his cloud space was limited—and he had no intention of logging in with his past identity.
Satisfied with the data he had, he shifted his focus. If the principal had recordings or videos, they could be even more valuable.
Opening the browser in the usual way was an option, but it would leave a trace, and he wasn't sure he'd have time to wipe it clean. Instead, he navigated to the 'Recent' folder and scanned for video files. Most had been deleted, but one remained—the latest.
He opened it—it was from Karishma. The same video of her with his friend Akhil. Her body moved rhythmically, breasts bouncing as she rode him
The video quality was top-notch, but he didn't have time to enjoy it as he noticed the principal crushing the remaining cigarette under his boot.
He quickly began retracing his steps, restoring everything to its original format.
"Urgh! Urgh!"
Just as he finished, his guard, Balwinder, cleared his throat. Rohit instantly took his hands off and held the phone in front of him as if he were just taking a selfie.
At that exact moment, the principal walked in and raised an eyebrow.
Startled, Rohit put on a fake look of panic and stood up.
The principal scolded, "I was out for a minute, and you've already captured my chair. Are you trying to make me resign?"
He had braced himself for a harsh scolding, but the principal, fortunately in a good mood, let him off with just a light rebuke and a warning.
As he stepped out, Balwinder looked at him and asked, "All good, young master?"
Rohit smirked. "All good."
Half an hour later,
Rohit sat at the second bench in the classroom, bored beyond reason.
When he had first entered, the professor had introduced him as "injured," and from that moment on, everyone had taken turns mocking him—some directly, others indirectly.
He knew the best way to deal with it was to keep his distance, so he'd chosen an empty bench at the beginning with the group of nerds.
Even though there was peace, there was nothing much to do.
The class was related to computers, teaching the basics of Java, while he was already a master of advanced courses.
In the middle of the session, the professor decided to discuss the practicals and progress.
Rohit was exempt, but he noticed his "team of nerds" sitting in the opposite row—friends from less privileged backgrounds, mostly scholarship students or those with minor connections, far from the elite status crowd.
Akhil was the exception, but he was absent for some unknown reason.
His eyes drifted to the class beauty, Shweta—someone his past self had known. Her name, meaning "white," seemed fitting for her fair skin. She stood out like a diamond among pebbles, her striking blue eyes drawing every gaze.
Scientifically speaking, she was a hybrid—half German, half Indian.
No one knew her father's identity, only that he was Indian.
Her mother worked at the German embassy, which explained her presence here. She carried her mother's coloring but her father's facial features.
Due to her family's diplomatic immunity, details about her background were scarce, and she avoided the topic whenever asked.
However, she too sat far away, and Rohit could only get a few glimpses. Thanks to her, he lost all interest in the other girls nearby.
Then came her turn. The professor asked, "So, Ms. Sweta, tell me what you have prepared for the project."
She confidently presented her idea for a women's safety app. Its main feature: allowing a woman to tag five trusted contacts and share her live GPS location in emergencies. Depending on network conditions, the app could send live audio or video to deter threats. She even planned for plugin integration with government apps to automatically alert the nearest police station.
It was a solid idea, but the professor began pointing out its flaws. Soon, however, his feedback took a sour turn.
He joked about "practicality," shifting the conversation toward blaming women—mocking short clothing as an "invitation" to men and suggesting women "dress properly" to avoid trouble.
Shweta, offended, calmly countered that assault was unrelated to clothing and stemmed instead from a lack of deterrence.
That only made her the professor's next target.
He called her naive, even taking a subtle dig at her absent father and implying things about her mother's character.
The class erupted in laughter. Even the girls who envied her beauty joined in. Shweta was on the verge of tears.
Rohit's patience snapped. He had already been tolerating the man's poor teaching, but this was outright injustice—crushing a valid argument with authority instead of reason.
He pulled out his phone, did a quick search, and raised his hand.
The professor, expecting something trivial, allowed him to speak. But, instead Rohit's question silenced the room:
"Sir, in countries like Pakistan, Iran, or Afghanistan, women are always fully covered under Sharia law. So why do these countries still have some of the highest recorded rape cases?"
Everyone looked at him as if he were a ghost.
The professor's face darkened.
He had options to counter argue with Saudi Arabia and the UAE, but that would have proven Shweta's point even more strongly, as those nations' strict laws kept such crimes lower.
This question was a direct challenge to his authority.
Trying to regain control, the professor mocked, "You must have lost your mind after that head injury."
Rohit didn't hesitate. "Sir, are you misdirecting the class because you don't have an answer?"
The professor's anger deepened. "You think you know better than me? Fine—tell us: what is rape, and why do people lust, despite knowing it's wrong?"
It was a trap, designed to make Rohit stumble into saying something offensive or making a remark directed toward the "women".
But Rohit stayed unflinching, avoiding any gender-specific response.
"When someone forces themselves on another gender without their consent, it is called rape.
People feel lust because it is a primal feeling—the urge to reproduce makes people desire each other.
When desire crosses a certain limit and becomes obsession, it is called lust. That's why, Professor, people indulge in lust despite knowing it's wrong!"
The class erupted in cheers.
A few students even clapped. His last line hit like a hero's moment, winning him instant admiration—except from the professor, who clenched his teeth and shouted for silence.
"Shut up! Shut up!" he yelled, but the lunch bell rang, drowning him out.
Before leaving, he shot Rohit a death glare. Someone in the back shouted, "Beware—Gandhi's turned into a sex guru!"
The class laughed and teased, while Rohit's friends swarmed him with praise.
Through it all, his attention remained on Shweta. She was smiling faintly while talking to her friends. Then their eyes met, and she quickly looked away, blushing.
That was the first spark of her interest in him.
Rohit muttered under his breath, "Thank you, professor."