The morning began like any other—horns, heat, and half-burnt sunlight sliding through Delhi's smog.Aryan walked into the school gate, headphones in but no music playing. It was habit—so no one would talk to him unless they had to.
Inside the campus, whispers had already started.
"That's the Ghost guy, right?""He fought Raghav that day.""Someone said he's ex-military or something…"
Aryan kept walking. He had learned long ago: words couldn't hit as hard as silence.
New Seating Arrangement
In class, Kabir had switched seats. Now he sat directly behind Aryan."Morning, Ghost," Kabir said casually, tapping his pen.Aryan didn't turn. "My name's Aryan."Kabir smirked. "Sure. But nicknames spread faster than truth."
The teacher entered, and the conversation died.But Aryan could feel Kabir's gaze on his back — calm, assessing, like someone studying target movement.
Lunch Break
The canteen was half-full. Aditya waved Aryan over with a sandwich in hand."You heard?" he said between bites. "Raghav's guys are meeting near the basketball court after school. Someone said they're planning to 'test' you."
Aryan sighed quietly. "Let them test the air instead."
Aditya frowned. "You're really not going?"
"Fights don't prove anything," Aryan said. "They just make people remember pain."
"Yeah, but they already think you're—"Aditya stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flicked behind Aryan.
Kabir had joined them, tray in hand."Talking about Raghav?" he asked lightly. "I heard they're bringing seniors. Should be fun."
Aditya tried to change topic, but Kabir kept going."You're not scared, right, Aryan? I mean… after all, you handled them once."
Aryan looked up slowly. His voice stayed level."Fear isn't the problem. Repeating mistakes is."
Kabir smiled, like he'd found the answer he wanted."Good philosophy. I like that."
After School
The courtyard was almost empty. A few students lingered, phones out, pretending to wait for autos.Aryan could sense it — the shift in air, the silent expectation before violence.
He walked toward the gate anyway.
Behind him: footsteps. Four, maybe five.He didn't turn.
Raghav's voice came from behind. "You think you can walk away after humiliating me?"
Aryan stopped."I'm not here to fight."
"Then maybe you're here to bleed," Raghav snapped.
A bottle hit the ground near Aryan's feet — not thrown at him, but close enough to make the point.
He turned, finally meeting their eyes.No anger, no challenge — just calm calculation.
"Five of you," Aryan said softly. "If you want to fight, make it quick. I have homework."
The boys laughed — but the laughter ended fast.
The Ghost's Style
When Raghav swung, Aryan didn't block — he shifted his weight an inch left.The punch missed completely, momentum carrying Raghav off balance. Aryan's elbow met his ribs, light but precise.Raghav gasped, folded, dropped. Not broken — just empty of breath.
The next one charged from the side; Aryan sidestepped and hooked the boy's wrist, redirecting the attack into another.No fancy stance. No noise.Every movement looked accidental, almost lazy — but each hit landed where it hurt most: neck, ribs, knee.
Within thirty seconds, it was over. No one was bleeding — but no one could stand either.
Aryan exhaled slowly. "Next time, walk away before it starts."
The Observer
Kabir watched from the second-floor balcony, hands in pockets.He wasn't smiling anymore.
He pulled out his phone, typed a short message:
Target confirmed. Operates like trained field unit.Ghost = Aryan Singh.
He hit send. The message went to a number saved under one word: Circuit.
Aftermath
That night, Aryan sat in his room, looking at his knuckles — unmarked, steady.He hated that part of himself — the reflex, the ease. It reminded him of the private camps, the missions, the blood under desert skies.
He closed his eyes. Jackal's voice again:
"You're not a soldier anymore, little brother. You choose what kind of man you want to be."
A faint metallic sound pulled him back.Something slid through his locker vent — a folded paper, later that night at school.
He opened it under the corridor light.
"Syria wasn't your last battlefield. — J"
His blood froze.No one here should've known that word.Not Syria. Not J.
He looked around. The corridor was empty.Only his reflection stared back from the glass — silent, unreadable, like a ghost looking at its own body.