Filler
The sun beat down on the manicured lawns of Seistain University. While the rest of the freshman class was sitting in a suffocating lecture hall listening to an introduction on "Civic Duties," Malesh and Kniya were walking along the perimeter of the cricket grounds, jackets thrown over their shoulders.
"Wait a minute," Kniya stopped, kicking a pebble across the grass. He frowned, looking at Malesh with sudden suspicion.
"What?" Malesh asked, checking his watch to see how much time they had left to kill.
"I was running the numbers in my head from yesterday," Kniya said, crossing his arms. "You said you were earning 90,000 credits a month working at Durkan's. You've been working there for eight years, right?"
"Correct," Malesh replied, his face impassive.
"So, let me get this straight," Kniya scoffed. "You are the guy who revolutionized their labor sector. You built the mechanical fulcrums. You optimized their entire loading dock. And you're telling me that for eight years, Durkan didn't give you a single raise? No inflation adjustment? You just sat on a flat 90k while the price of bread went up?"
+1
Malesh stopped walking. He looked at Kniya, then let out a short sigh.
"That was the truth I was hiding from you, Kniya," Malesh admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "Durkan isn't stupid. He knows how to keep talent. Of course I got promoted. My salary wasn't 90,000 for the entire period."
Kniya's jaw dropped slightly. "You lied to the ledger?"
"I omitted data," Malesh corrected. "It increased every two years. But I didn't tell you, because if I did, you would have asked me to 'contribute' that extra capital towards the 'development of society.' Or worse, you would have bought something ridiculous like a steam-powered yacht."
"I would have invested it!" Kniya argued.
"You would have wasted it," Malesh countered. "So I hid the surplus."
"How much?" Kniya demanded. "Do the math. Right now."
Malesh looked at the sky, calculating. "Durkan gave me a performance-based hike of approximately 6% every two years. Standard corporate retention strategy."
He held up a finger, doing the mental arithmetic:
Base (Year 0-2): 90,000 credits.
· Year 2 (6% Hike): 95,400 credits.
· Year 4 (6% Hike): 101,124 credits.
· Year 6 (6% Hike): 107,191 credits.
· Year 8 (Current): ~113,600 credits.
"My current draw is roughly 113k per month," Malesh concluded. "So yes, I have a personal surplus I haven't listed in the Ghost Fund. It's my emergency brake."
Kniya stared at him, blinking. "You hoarded an extra 23,000 a month behind my back? You cheap, calculating bastard."
"I am a prudent accountant," Malesh corrected.
"Fine," Kniya laughed, shaking his head. "I know you would do this. You're too paranoid not to have a stash. And that is why... I have a confession too."
Malesh narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
"You know how I put 80,000 credits a month into the fund? " Kniya grinned, a slow, arrogant smile spreading across his face. "And I told you that was my entire stipend?"
"Yes," Malesh said slowly. "Because your parents cut your allowance."
"Yeah, about that," Kniya chuckled. "I wanted to tell you that... I was getting Royal Funding."
Malesh recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "Why do you fucking say that word? 'Royal.' We are democrats, you know? We operate in the Republic."
"I am a democrat too!" Kniya defended, raising his hands. "But my grandmother... she's old school. She sends me 'pocket money' separate from my parents. Let's not call it Royal Funding. Let's call it... a 'legacy subsidy'."
"How much?" Malesh asked, his voice dangerous.
"Approximately 200,000 credits per month," Kniya laughed. "Haha! I didn't tell you about that. It was my secret funding. While you were sweating over 6% raises at the docks, I was getting double your salary just for existing."
"Two lakhs," Malesh whispered, looking physically pained. "You had a monthly income of 280k and you let me live in that shithole apartment?"
"Hey, it builds character!" Kniya slapped Malesh on the back. "Besides, if I told you, you would have made me put it all in the savings account. I needed walking-around money."
They continued walking, bickering about compound interest and betrayal, when they rounded the corner of the library.
The mood shifted instantly.
Ahead of them, near the bicycle racks, a commotion was breaking out. A young couple—freshmen, clearly—were backed against a brick wall. Three seniors, wearing the varsity jackets of the rowing team, were looming over them.
"Look at this," one of the seniors sneered, knocking a book out of the boy's hand. "Fresh meat thinks they can walk through the Varsity Quad."
The girl looked terrified, clutching the boy's arm. The boy was shaking, trying to pick up his book, but the senior kicked it away.
Kniya and Malesh stopped. The conversation about betrayal of income and salaries vanished.
"Harassment," Malesh noted, his voice dropping to that cold, analytical tone he used when sizing up a threat. "Inefficient use of university space."
"Bullying," Kniya corrected, cracking his knuckles. "My favorite extracurricular activity."
They exchanged a look—the same look they shared when the Dean called them.
"Shall we?" Kniya asked.
"No," Malesh replied, leaning back against the tree and crossing his arms. "Not yet. I want to see how this plays out. Besides, look at the form on that big guy. It's pathetic."
Kniya snorted, watching the lead bully shove the smaller boy. "It's fucking embarrassing, isn't it? Look at his stance. He's standing so wide he looks like he's trying to hold in a massive shit while fighting."
"And that hook?" Malesh shook his head, looking genuinely disgusted. "He swings his arm like a windmill. If I threw a punch that slow, I'd sue my own arm for negligence. My grandmother hits harder than that, and she's been dead for ten years."
"He's not a fighter," Kniya laughed, loud enough to carry. "He's just a fat piece of meat with an ego. I bet he cries when he stubs his toe."
The lead bully froze. He slowly turned around, his face turning a dark, ugly shade of red. He stared right at the two freshmen leaning against the tree, looking bored.
"What did you say?" the bully growled, stepping away from the trembling couple. "What did you say, you motherfuckers?"
"I said you fight like a pregnant cow," Kniya smirked, pushing off the tree. "And you look like one too."
"You little shit!"
The bully roared and charged. He didn't have technique; he just had rage. He swung a heavy, clumsy right hook aimed straight for Kniya's jaw.
Kniya didn't dodge. He let the fist graze his cheek—just enough to sell it—and threw himself onto the grass with the dramatic flair of a stage actor.
THUD.
Kniya hit the ground, rolling onto his back. As he rolled, he slipped a hand into his pocket, crushed a packet of cafeteria tomato sauce, and smeared it over his mouth.
"ARGH!" Kniya screamed, clutching his chest. "My heart! He ruptured my fucking heart! The blood! The humanity!"
He coughed violently, spitting a mouthful of bright red ketchup onto the green grass. He looked up at the bully with wide, tragic eyes. "Tell my mother... I died handsome!"
The bully froze, staring at the red splatter. For a second, he looked terrified. Then, the smell hit him.
"Is that... is that fucking ketchup?" the bully shouted, his confusion turning into pure, unadulterated fury. "You're making fun of me?"
Kniya wiped his mouth, grinning like a demon. "It's a condiment, dipshit. And you hit like a wet napkin."
"I'm going to kill you!"
The bully pulled back his leg, aiming a vicious kick right at Kniya's ribs while he was still down.
Kniya didn't move. He didn't have to.
Malesh stepped in.
It wasn't a wild swing. Malesh moved like a piston. He stepped into the bully's guard, planted his feet to lock his center of gravity, and drove a straight fist directly into the center of the bully's chest.
CRACK-THUD.
The sound was sickeningly solid—like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef.
The bully didn't just fall. He was lifted off his feet. He flew backward through the air, traveling several meters before his back hit the dirt hard. He skid another foot across the grass, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The entire courtyard went dead silent. The couple by the wall stared with their mouths open. Kniya sat up, licking the rest of the ketchup off his lip.
The bully gasped, rolling onto his side. He tried to breathe, but his lungs were paralyzed by the shock. He coughed, and this time, real blood speckled his lips. He looked up, his eyes bulging with terror, staring at the thin boy who had just launched him across the lawn.
Malesh stood there, calmly adjusting his cuff. He looked down at the gasping senior with zero sympathy.
"Your ribcage is fine," Malesh stated flatly. "But you won't be able to inhale properly for about three minutes. Your diaphragm is currently paralyzed. Just lie there and think about how shit your fighting style is."
The courtyard was silent for exactly three seconds. Then, the lead bully on the ground groaned, and his two friends stepped forward, their fists balling up, faces twisted in a mix of shock and aggression.
"You're dead," one of them snarled, reaching into his jacket.
He never got the chance to pull whatever he was reaching for.
CLICK-CLACK.
In perfect synchronization, Kniya and Malesh reached into their tailored coats and pulled out two snub-nosed, high-caliber pistols. They leveled them at the seniors with the boredom of men who did this for a living.
"Okay," Kniya sighed, wiping the last of the ketchup from his lip. "So now we are talking about the real game. Let the fuck get it started."
The bullies froze. The couple by the wall looked like they were about to faint.
Kniya turned his head slightly toward the trembling boyfriend.
"You know," Kniya said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I thought that I would not intervene in between. I really wanted you to have a heroic style in the fight. You know, you would die fighting for the girl, or basically get hurt badly fighting for the girl, and would win eventually. I don't know how you would win—statistically, you have the muscle mass of a noodle—but you would win eventually. It's the narrative arc."
Kniya shook his head dramatically. "But it is not possible. You froze. So now, let's... whatever it is, couple... okay, so I am calling you 'Couple.' You two guys can move out of this shit. This is now our problem. Fuck this shit. Why are we always in problems?"
"I don't know about this," Malesh muttered, keeping his aim steady on the center bully. "But let's hope they will get home alive. Run."
The couple didn't need to be told twice. They grabbed their books and sprinted away as fast as their legs could carry them.
"Now," Malesh said, turning back to the three seniors. "Who wants to be the example?"
One of the standing bullies—the one on the left—panicked. He lunged forward, maybe thinking the guns were fake.
BANG.
Malesh didn't hesitate. He fired a single round into the bully's right thigh.
"AAAAHHH!"
The scream ripped through the air, loud and shrill. The bully collapsed, clutching his leg, rolling on the grass in agony.
The third bully—the only one still standing—took one look at his bleeding friend, one look at the smoking barrel of Malesh's gun, and turned on his heel. He sprinted toward the Arts Building like his life depended on it.
"He's going for backup," Kniya noted, watching him run. "Tell the boss we're here!"
Kniya walked over to the bully Malesh had punched earlier—the one still gasping for air on the ground—and kicked him hard in the ribs.
"Get up," Kniya ordered. "We aren't done."
Malesh holstered his gun and knelt down beside the screaming guy with the shot leg. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a rough, gritty square of industrial-grade sandpaper.
"Look at me," Malesh said calmly.
The bully sobbed, looking up through tear-filled eyes.
"You know what this is?" Malesh asked, holding the sandpaper up to the light. "It is 40-grit sandpaper. Extremely coarse. You know what I can do with this?"
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.
"I can rub your ass off and make it like the thing you never think of. But I'm not going to do that. That's inefficient."
Malesh tapped the sandpaper against the bully's cheek. "I am going to rub this into your face. Your beautiful fucking face. Until there is nothing left but red meat."
He paused, tilting his head. "Or... I can rub this on your penis. Yeah, penis. Sorry for being vulgar, but anatomy is anatomy. It doesn't matter. You are a fucking idiot for testing me."
"Please!" the bully begged, snot running down his nose. "Please, no!"
"Stop crying," Kniya yelled, stomping on the other guy's hand. "You're ruining the vibe! Fight back! Say something cool!"
"My leg!" the guy screamed.
"That is not cool!" Kniya shouted back. "That is just a statement of fact!"
They were midway through threatening to sandpaper the bully's eyebrows off when the sound of heavy boots echoed across the pavement.
Malesh stood up, slipping the sandpaper back into his pocket. Kniya racked the slide of his pistol.
From around the corner of the Arts Building, a group of fifteen men emerged. They weren't students. They were older, wearing leather jackets and holding heavy pistols.
In the center stood the Gang Leader—a man with a scar running down his neck and a gold chain thick enough to anchor a boat.
"Well," Kniya grinned, pointing his gun at the small army. "The pregnant cow sent for the herd."
Malesh sighed, cracking his neck. "This is going to make us late for lunch