“DANCE.

LIVE DANCE. CELEBRATE DANCE. And VICTORY DANCE.

That has been the motto of MAD- the University of Movement and Dance since it opened its doors in 1980.

It’s a place famed worldwide for crafting legends and making history.”

Cultural head Mr.Vishal Motwani paused briefly to adjust his microphone, then resumed with the same enthusiasm with which he delivered the same speech for the last 17 years.

“HIGHER. HIGHER. AND HIGHER.

That is where MAD will take you.

The halls of MAD resonate with rhythmic beats and a kaleidoscope of personalities.

Here, the only thing we truly value is TALENT.”

Amidst the ongoing orientation session for newcomers, chaos was brewing within the enigmatic world of MAD.

At the back of the orientation hall, seated slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, sits a guy who, despite his low-key presence, seems to draw a certain quiet attention. 

He’s dressed in a loose, oversized hoodie, the fabric slightly faded. He paired it with baggy blue jeans that bunch around his ankles and white sneakers. His backpack is casually slung over one shoulder. 

He looks cute, his features soft and approachable yet undeniably handsome with a hint of maturity that’s emerging.  His long hair is a messy tousle of dark brown curls, the kind that seems like it could never be tamed but suits him perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, framed by thick lashes, a warm shade of brown that seems to change with the light. Above his right eyebrow, there’s a small, faded scar—a reminder of childhood mischief, an accident from years ago that left its mark. 

MAD ID card bearing the name Malang Dingwani is dangling around his neck.

“At MAD, we believe Dance is not only for the elite to enjoy but also the right of everyone to experience and celebrate.

That is what we strive to make possible here. 

Every year students are admitted through the welfare quota at MAD.- a university without discrimination, a university where —”

Before Mr.Motwani finishes his statement, Malang’s phone starts buzzing, drawing curious looks from those around him. His eyes flick nervously to the phone screen. Baba flashes in bold letters. He tucks the phone into his pocket. The next call comes in almost immediately. Bzzz, bzzz.

This time he doesn’t need to look at the screen to know who’s calling.

His father’s voice echoes in his mind. He can still hear the threats from last night, the harsh words, the ultimatum. 

"Dance isn’t for boys. It's not a real career. It’s some… some show-off nonsense. Come home, Malang when you still have time. You’ll fail. You’ll come crawling back. You don’t belong there, don’t you forget that.”

By this point, Mr. Motwani had settled into the front row alongside the other professors and trainers. Meanwhile, Miss Piyali, the student counselor, was on stage discussing campus resources—health services, tutoring, student life—but Malang couldn’t focus.

Malang knew what he had to do. He stood up, silently excusing himself from the row of students. He stepped outside the building into the quiet, stillness of the campus. His phone buzzed again, and he took the call.

“Baba,” Malang says, his voice flat, trying to mask the crack of anxiety behind his words.

“Malang,” his father’s voice cuts through immediately, sharp and frustrated. “What’s going on? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day. Are you still there? You’re really going through with this?”

“Yeah, I’m here, baba. I’m at orientation. I told you this was happening.”

“Orientation, huh?” His father laughs bitterly. “Don’t make me laugh. Do you think that’s going to lead to anything? I know what you’re doing. Do you think you’re some big dancer now? This is just a phase, Malang—a phase you need to grow out of. Do you think you’ll get anywhere with that? You’re wasting your time. I want you to come home. NOW.”

“I’m not coming home, baba,” Malang finally managed, his voice trembling despite his effort to sound confident.

“Baba, it’s what I love. This is my dream. And I’m not giving it up.”

“You’ll regret this, Malang. You’ll see. I won’t support you if you keep this up. You’re making a mistake.”

“ I’m not asking for your approval,” Malang’s grip tightens on the phone, “I’m staying here. I’m not giving up on my dream,”

With that, he ends the call before his father can say anything more.

No matter what his father said, he wouldn’t let go of the one thing that made him feel whole.

Malang adjusted his bag as he headed back toward the auditorium, his mind lingering on his tense conversation with his father. As he was about to head inside when faint voices caught his attention from behind the building.

Curiosity got the better of him. Peeking around the corner, he slipped behind a hurdle of bricks piled aside. He saw a group of five students huddled in a loose circle under the shadow of the building.

Malang paused as he recognized the unmistakable faces in the group gathered behind the building. A flashback hit him, one he struggled to shake off: the energy in the air during the introduction of the prestigious university’s professional dancer crew—THE RUTHLESS—characters that embodied the very essence of MAD. He remembered their charisma, their confident presence, and the way they effortlessly commanded attention. Now, seeing them huddled together, their hushed tones and furtive glances gave him an unsettling feeling. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t meant for others to hear. This was trouble, he could sense it.

At the center stood a stunning girl with striking, commanding features. Her perfectly styled hair and piercing eyes demanded attention as she addressed the group.

“We need to take a stand,” she declared, her voice dripping with disdain. “This is our space, our reputation at stake. Letting in welfare students cheapens everything we’ve worked for. Beggars don’t belong here.”

Her words struck like a slap.

“Rhea, I’m telling you, this is a mistake,” a tall, good-looking boy interjected, his voice calm but urgent and his eyes filled with a quiet determination. His broad shoulders and easy confidence made him stand out, but his pleas were falling on deaf ears. “You’re pushing this too far. This is supposed to be about art, not division.”

But the group dismissed him with smirks and eye rolls.

“We’re supposed to be dancers, creators, not gatekeepers. Excluding people—especially like this—goes against everything this place should stand for.”

The Rihaana scoffed, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. “Art has standards, Ishaan. If they can’t meet them, they don’t belong here.”

Figo interpolated" Ishaan you are the fiercest dancer in our group. Besides dance shows this aggression otherwise too."

"Bro, that's the difference between you and me" Ishaan snapped

"My aggression with silence. Yours is senseless violence"

"I still think we should talk with the authority, with Vishal sir, and try to convince him"

"No point" Rihanna bemoaned"I am sure all our welfare program applications must be in their delete or spam folder. It's a complete waste of time."

"And energy" Sam chipped in.

“Those charity cases will know,” Figo said. “that it's us who give actual permission for admission”

“Exactly,” Sam added.

“No more charity cases, no more beggars. We’ve worked too hard to let them ruin what’s ours.” Rihanna continued.

“Ishaan,” Rihanna sneered, crossing her arms, “you’re always trying to play the hero. But this isn’t your fight. Stay out of it.”

Before Ishaan could respond, another figure stepped forward from the group's shadows. He was taller than the rest, Neil, they called him. His presence instantly commanded the circle’s attention. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed, with a sharp jawline and a cold intensity in his dark eyes. His neatly styled hair gleamed under the dim light, and a faint smirk played on his lips—equal parts charm and menace.

Neil wasn’t just a senior; he was the senior. Known for his prodigious talent on stage and his ruthless demeanor off it, he was a force no one dared to cross.

He strode to the group's center, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade.

“We’re not just talking, Ishaan,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous. “This needs action. We’ll ensure they’re gone by the time the next semester starts.”

This wasn't just a group of students venting frustration; it was a calculated move to exclude those who didn't share their ideals.

"Screw rules. Screw managements. And screw those welfare kids."

the group erupted in a synchronized cheer, their voices echoing as they threw their hands skyward, scattering like a flock of startled birds, their palms reaching upward as if carrying the spirit of their protest. Leaving a cold shiver running down Malang's spine.

This was a battle for the soul of the academy, and people like Neil wouldn’t stop until they’d torn down everything it stood for.

"Let's go"

As the group began to disperse, their laughter fading into the alleyway, Malang shifted slightly, trying to steady his breathing. However, in his nervousness, his foot accidentally nudged a loose stone, causing it to tumble down the pile of bricks with a soft clatter.

Neil's sharp ears caught the sound instantly. He paused mid-step, his body tense. Slowly, he turned, his dark eyes narrowing as he scanned the area.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

The group paid little attention, withering away with murmurs of amusement. But Neil wasn’t about to let it slide.

He approached the corner, his footsteps deliberate, his gaze locked on the pile of bricks. His instincts told him someone was there—watching, hiding. Who the hell is snooping around? His jaw clenched, a flicker of irritation flashing through his chest. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, muscles coiled, ready for confrontation. He wasn’t the kind to tolerate sneaky behavior, and if this person had overheard anything they shouldn’t have, they’d regret it.

Malang cowered behind the stack, his breath hitched as he pressed himself harder against the cold bricks, his heart pounding so violently it felt like it might give him away. His fingers clutched at the rough edges of the wall, his knuckles turning white. His whole body tensed as if willing himself to disappear into the shadows.

His mind screamed at him to move, to run, but his legs were frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.

He noticed me… Oh God, he noticed me.

When Neil turned the corner, their eyes met, and time seemed to freeze for a moment.

Huddled against the bricks, trembling like a deer caught in headlights, was a boy.

Neil’s hand shot forward, poised to strike, his face a mask of cold fury.

But as he looked into Malang’s wide, tear-brimmed eyes, something unexpected happened. The rage drained from Neil’s features, replaced by an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Then-his hand stopped mid-air, trembling slightly before he lowered it.

For the first time in years, Neil felt vulnerable. It wasn’t pity, nor was it anger—it was something deeper, something unfamiliar. His heart thudded against his ribcage as he stared into the boy’s face, every detail of it etched into his mind. The fear, the innocence, the quiet defiance behind the tears stirred something within him, something he didn’t recognize but couldn’t ignore.

Malang, trembling, pressed himself back against the bricks, too scared to move. He had no idea what had just passed through Neil’s mind, only that the blow he had expected never came.

Neil straightened, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to regain his composure. Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t something he could afford to show. Not here, not now.

“Listen carefully,” Neil said, his voice low and biting, though there was a strange softness beneath it.

“Stay out of things that don’t concern you. If I catch you snooping around again, you won’t get off so easily.”

His words were harsh, but they lacked the venom he usually wielded. Without another glance, Neil turned on his heel and walked away, his heart pounding in his chest for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Malang remained frozen, his body shaking as Neil disappeared into the shadows. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but something about the way Neil hesitated—about the look in his eyes—lingered in his mind, leaving him both confused and unsettled.

Neil, on the other hand, kept walking, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but one thought stood out above the rest: What the hell just happened to me?