The sun had gone. Shadows stretched across the empty courtyard. Twenty-two Forsaken circled them, sneers and taunts hanging in the air like a challenge.
Vihaan cracked his knuckles, bruises from the last encounter still faintly visible. Rishi's stance was calm, coiled like a spring. And Aarav? He didn't even breathe fast. His eyes measured distance, weight, speed. Every angle.
The first strike came.
Vihaan met it head-on, fist colliding with fist. The attacker staggered back, off balance — and Vihaan didn't stop. A swift knee to the gut, a spinning elbow, and the man hit the ground hard.
Rishi moved like liquid. One grabbed him from the side, thinking to tackle. Rishi twisted, dropped his weight, slammed the attacker's shoulder to the ground, and immediately kicked the next one in the shin. A chain reaction — two attackers down before the third could react.
Aarav's movements were minimal but lethal. He sidestepped a charge, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and with a sharp twist, sent him tumbling into two others. His palm slammed into a jaw — crack! — and the man froze, stunned. Aarav's calm voice cut quietly:
> "Don't waste energy. Kill the opportunity, not the man."
The Forsaken attacked in waves, but the trio moved like one organism. Vihaan was the storm — wild, aggressive, fast. Every punch, kick, elbow, and knee a blur of controlled chaos. Rishi was the anchor — balanced, technical, precise, using enemy momentum against them. And Aarav… Aarav was the eye of the storm, silent, calculating, striking only when the result was guaranteed.
One big Forsaken tried to overwhelm Aarav. He jumped in, fists swinging. Aarav sidestepped, caught an incoming punch with a single finger at the wrist, and snapped the arm aside. A swift uppercut to the chin sent the man staggering back into two others. They all fell like dominoes.
Vihaan spun low, sweeping legs out under three attackers at once. Two fell; the third stumbled but Vihaan didn't pause — a brutal knee to the ribs and he collapsed.
Rishi caught another who charged at him with a heavy swing. He ducked, twisted behind the man, and slammed him into the ground with a shoulder throw. He followed immediately with a punch to the side of the head, disorienting the next attacker.
Blood and sweat mixed, but none of the trio faltered. Their breathing was controlled, movements fluid. Every attack, every counter was precise — professional, measured, and devastating.
Aarav's voice cut through again, cold and sharp:
> "Numbers don't matter. Control the flow. Predict, strike, repeat."
The Forsaken leader tried to regroup, but panic was creeping in. Every attack met resistance, every charge met a counter. Within minutes, almost half of the attackers were either on the ground or nursing bruises, faces pale with shock.
Vihaan spat blood but smiled, wild and fearless.
> "Three against twenty-two. Looks like numbers aren't everything."
Aarav didn't smile. His gaze swept the survivors. Every face told a story — fear, hesitation, chaos. Exactly what he wanted.
> "This wasn't a fight. It was a lesson. Next time, they'll come prepared. That's when we start shaping them."
They stood in the courtyard — bruised, bleeding, and undefeated. Calm in the aftermath. Every strike, every move had been deliberate. Every one of them had fought like a professional.
> Three against twenty-two. Not a scratch on our strategy.
Scene — The Ghost Joins
The courtyard still reeked of sweat and blood. The Forsaken staggered back, recovering from their humiliating losses. Three against twenty-two. They hadn't expected skill — only easy revenge.
And then, a faint movement caught Aarav's eye. Almost nothing — a shadow slipping along the edge of the wall.
Ishaan.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't charge in. He appeared where no one thought to look, as if the air itself bent around him.
A single attacker moved toward Rishi, thinking to finish him off. Before anyone could react, the man's knees buckled. He fell forward, face scraping the concrete. Not a hand touched him — Ishaan's foot had connected with surgical precision, silent and invisible.
Another Forsaken sprinted at Vihaan, fists swinging. Ishaan dropped from above, landing behind the man. A quick elbow to the neck, a knee to the back, and the attacker collapsed, dazed and helpless.
Vihaan's eyes flicked to the newcomer, slightly puzzled. Rishi noticed too.
> "Who…?" Vihaan muttered, already moving to engage another attacker.
Ishaan didn't answer. He didn't need to. Every movement was deliberate, silent, invisible — a predator moving among prey. His strikes were precise, brutal, and unnoticed until they landed. A punch here, a kick there, each attacker down before they even realized what had happened.
Aarav's lips curved into the faintest smirk. This is him. The one who could turn the tide without being seen, whose presence alone was a weapon.
Aarav whispered to himself:
> "Perfect. Silent, lethal, undetectable. The kind of power we need."
Forsaken scrambled, trying to regroup. Twenty-two against four now. But no one could predict where Ishaan would strike next.
He moved like wind — light, unseen. Two attackers lunged together; he slid between them, twisting one's arm, sending him crashing into the other. Another came from behind Vihaan — Ishaan was already there, catching him in a perfect arm lock, flipping him onto the ground.
It was over almost as soon as it began. Within moments, Forsaken were scattered, bruised, bleeding, and terrified. Only four stood undefeated, calm, and deadly.
Ishaan finally stepped forward, face still expressionless. The faintest glint in his eyes suggested he enjoyed the efficiency of it all.
Vihaan grinned, blood dripping from his lip.
> "You… just appeared out of nowhere. Who are you?"
Aarav walked beside him, voice low, measured:
> "He's Ishaan. And he's exactly what we need."
Ishaan tilted his head slightly, no words, no emotion — just presence. Silent, lethal, and untouchable.
The Forsaken stared at them, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
Three skilled fighters were deadly enough. Four? Invisible, surgical, and unstoppable.
Aarav's mind already raced ahead, calculating: alliances, leverage, potential. Ishaan was not just strong — he was the ghost in the storm, a weapon he could guide, a piece moving exactly where it needed to be.
> Four against twenty-two. And now the balance has shifted.
They moved away from the courtyard like a small, unannounced procession — four shadows slipping through alleys until the abandoned five‑story building swallowed them with its hollow hush. Inside, under a single bare bulb, they claimed an empty room as if it had always belonged to them: cardboard boxes for chairs, a threadbare blanket thrown over a crate for a table. It was raw, practical, enough.
Introductions came like weapons, blunt and necessary.
Vihaan laughed first, spit and bravado rubbing the edge off his bruises. "I'm Vihaan. If you see me smiling after a fight, don't ask why. I like the taste of it." He cracked a grin that tried to be more friendly than threatening — it worked.
Rishi offered a calm, measured nod. "Rishi. Don't expect philosophy. I break balance and put people on the ground. Simple."
Ishaan watched them, expression neutral. When it was his turn he only said, "Ishaan." Two syllables, airtight. It carried more weight than any speech.
Aarav sat back against the wall and let the room do the talking for a moment — the way the light pooled, the quiet that followed violence. Then, with the same economy he used on the field, he introduced himself. "Aarav," he said. "I see things before they happen. I plan outcomes."
They turned the empty room into a mock living room: a matchbox of instant noodles boiled on a scavenged gas burner, three cups of water pulled from the hostel block, a packet of stale biscuits. The dinner was humble — but in that simplicity, something like ease took hold. Men who had been violent an hour ago now traded small jokes like warm plates.
Vihaan animated a story about a campus rival who'd missed a step and ended up in a fountain; Rishi laughed at the timing and mimed the splash with exaggerated movement. Ishaan's rare, small smile was a shadow — barely there — but when it came, the others noticed. For the first time that night they weren't actors in a plan; they were young men eating terrible noodles and pretending the world outside could be paused.
Aarav watched them — not with curiosity but with measurement. He let the levity make the room safe enough to speak plainly.
When the plates were empty and the jokes had thinned to comfortable silences, Ishaan's voice cut through, casual but precise. "Why this? Why form a group?"
It wasn't a challenge. It was a scalpel probing for motive.
Aarav answered without theatrics, the way someone states a mathematical truth: calm, inevitable. "We help people who are helpless," he said. His words were simple but carried iron. "I can't fight every fight alone. I'm human — I have flaws, limits. Alone I stumble; together, we become something useful."
He let that land, then added the logic beneath the sentiment, the cold arithmetic that made him dangerous. "Strength is collective. One man can be a spark; a group can be a controlled burn. I won't force you to join. I'm asking. You already know what's happening in college — humiliation, power plays, people who take pleasure in breaking others. I want to stop that. Not for glory. For efficiency. For consequence."
Ishaan considered him, quiet as a wound healing. The building's thin walls kept the night in; even the city's distant noise felt far away. Vihaan shifted, impatient for action yet oddly moved by the directness. Rishi's fingers rubbed a small burn mark on his palm — a subconscious rhythm that meant he was thinking beyond the surface.
"You don't sound like a savior," Ishaan said finally. "You sound like someone who hates waste."
Aarav allowed a sliver of a smile — not warm, not kind, but honest. "Waste is an outcome I refuse to accept. People suffer because others are careless with power. We won't be careless."
A silence spread, not empty but full of potential. Four men, a handful of food wrappers, and a purpose that smelled of iron and calculation. They had not sworn oaths; they had not christened a name. They had, instead, agreed on a direction.
Ishaan stood and walked to the single window, looking at the college lights far off. He didn't give an answer. He didn't have to. His presence alone said something: observation. Consideration. Threat in waiting.
When he turned back, there was a new angle in his gaze — curiosity edged with approval. "Then let's see how useful you can make me," he said simply.