Nepal Police School – Grade 10, Classroom B

Lunch bell: 12:45 PM

The bell rang, and chaos immediately followed. Students exploded from their seats like bullets from a chamber. Some ran toward the cafeteria. Others clumped together near windows, discussing the latest school gossip or their crushes from the senior batch.

Seyon Ilkar did none of that.

Sitting by the open window on the farthest corner of the classroom, he remained still. His desk was scratched and uneven—his personal territory in a world that ignored him.

He was used to silence.

In fact, he preferred it.

> “Why is it so easy to disappear in a crowd?”

“Why does the world treat quiet like a disease?”

“Maybe I’m not lonely. Maybe I’m just... alive in a dead place.”

Seyon’s hand moved smoothly across the page. He wasn’t writing notes or doing homework. His notebook was different—rough, overused, and filled with his own private world.

He titled the page:

The Plastic Generation

His pen danced:

> “They wear smiles like makeup.

Their words smell like perfume.

Their friendships are made of plastic—

And I’m the only real thing in this room.”

Seyon didn’t write for approval.

He wrote to survive.

The students of Nepal Police School didn’t know who he really was. To them, he was just the strange kid who never ate lunch and always sat alone. But online, he had another name—Midnight_Morrow, a mysterious and poetic writer whose words broke hearts and trended across anonymous forums.

Thousands read him.

None of them knew he was just a sixteen-year-old boy from a dorm room in Dharan.

---

Seyon left his desk for a moment—to wash his face, maybe reset his thoughts.

When he returned...

The page was gone.

He froze.

His desk was empty.

His heart began to race.

---

✦ 5th Period: English Literature

Their teacher, Sir Kleran Bhash, marched in with his usual sharp footsteps. He wasn’t holding any books.

Just one folded piece of paper.

The moment Seyon saw it, his stomach dropped.

“Class,” Sir Kleran began. “This was found in your classroom. Let’s hear what kind of... creativity is being shared here.”

And he read aloud:

> “They wear smiles like makeup.

Their words smell like perfume.

Their friendships are made of plastic—

And I’m the only real thing in this room.”

The classroom fell into a stunned silence.

Then the whispering began.

“…That’s deep.”

“…Weird.”

“…Who even wrote that?”

One student smirked and shouted, “Sir! Ilkar did. He’s always writing freaky stuff!”

All eyes turned to Seyon.

It was the first time most of them had ever looked directly at him.

Sir Kleran frowned. “Ilkar. Is this your writing?”

Seyon nodded once.

No shame. Just quiet acceptance.

The teacher walked slowly to his desk.

“You think you’re above your classmates? Above this school?” His voice was sharp. “This is not literature. This is dangerous self-pity. Come to the staff room after class.”

He left the paper on the teacher’s table.

The class laughed.

Someone whispered, “Psycho.”

Seyon stared at the blackboard.

> “So this is what it feels like to be noticed.”

> “Not as a friend. Not as a person.”

“Just as a problem.”

---

That night, back in his dorm bed, Seyon logged in to his anonymous writing account.

He typed:

> Entry 109 – Midnight_Morrow

“They took my voice and turned it into a warning.

They said my words were too much.

But maybe too much is exactly what the world needs.”

Within two hours, 873 people had read it.

127 had commented.

One wrote: “You’re the reason I still wake up.”

But in school…

...Seyon was still just a name on a roll call.

---

To be continued...

> "I wish the day ended before it even began."

That was Seyon’s first thought when his eyes blinked open, the grey morning light slanting through the old blinds of his room in the boys’ dormitory. The smell of damp walls and the distant echoes of cadets jogging filled the air.

His phone buzzed — not the notification he usually hoped for.

[Auntie Alhera]

“Seyon, one of my cousins is visiting your city today. He’ll stop by your house in the evening. Don’t forget to offer tea. Be polite.”

> "Ah, another stranger I’ve never met, coming into a home that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore."

He didn't reply. Just stared at the cracked ceiling, letting the silence consume him for a few seconds longer before getting ready.

---

The path to Nepal Police School was a mix of gravel and red mud from last night’s rain. He adjusted his collar, trying not to look like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

As he neared the school gate, voices broke through the usual quiet.

“Hey, where you going in such a rush, sweetheart?”

“You dropped your dignity! Come back and pick it up!”

A girl in school uniform — unfamiliar — was surrounded by three senior boys in tracksuits. Their laugh was thick with mockery. She looked terrified.

Seyon didn’t even think.

> "This isn't about being a hero. It's about not being able to stay quiet anymore."

He stepped in, grabbed one guy by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.

The boy lunged — but Seyon’s movements were fast. Almost... unnaturally fast.

One punch.

Two elbows.

The third guy hesitated. Seyon stared at him. The air froze. He backed off.

Seyon didn't feel the pain in his knuckles. Not yet. The girl ran away, and he stood there — heart racing — as the school bell rang in the distance.

> "Both my mother and father had fire in their blood. My fists just carry their memories."

---

He arrived late. Shoes muddy. Shirt wrinkled. And right into the arms of Instructor Tashir, who was known for his military-level discipline.

“You think this school is a joke, Mr. Reyeon?”

He didn’t reply.

Ten rounds of the field under the sun. That was his punishment. But more than the heat, it was the stares that burned. Students whispering. Teachers shaking heads.

> "No one cared why I was late. Just that I was."

---

Evening.

He sat at the back of the dormitory hall, trying to scribble a few words in his worn-out notebook. His mind was tired, but his soul still wrote — that part of him never stopped.

Then he heard shouting.

“Hey! Ghost boy!”

“Writing curses in your books again?”

A group of boys approached — classmates who never saw him as one of their own. Pherin, the loudest among them, snatched his bag.

Inside was his manuscript — one he’d been writing for months.

“Let’s see what dark stuff you wrote this time.”

Before Seyon could stop him, Pherin laughed — then struck a match.

A spark.

A page caught fire.

He froze. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

> “That’s my story…”

The flames spread fast. His bag melted slightly. Ink turned to ash.

“Oops,” said Pherin mockingly.

Seyon stood silently. Not fighting. Not speaking. Not even blinking.

But deep inside, something cracked.

---

That night, while the others slept soundly, Seyon sat outside under the stars, fingers still stained with ash and bruises. His phone buzzed again.

A new comment on his latest online post — the one he wrote the night before.

@UnnamedSoul:

"This... this saved me. Please don’t stop writing."

He smiled faintly.

> "The world may burn my pages, but someone out there still reads my soul."

---

End of Chapter 2

Ding dong… Ding dong…

The morning bell echoed across the empty courtyard of Seyon home.

Still rubbing his eyes, hair messy like a storm had passed through it, he shuffled toward the door. His phone buzzed.

> Sanima: “Hey, one of our relatives is coming to your house today. Be polite. It’s urgent.”

He blinked once. Then again.

His heart dropped a little.

“Why now?” he muttered.

He opened the door. A man in a formal coat stood with a gentle smile. Beside him—

—a girl.

Her eyes sparkled in soft caramel brown. Short straight hair framed her curious expression as she peeked behind the man.

She was… cute. Too cute to belong in his monochrome world.

“I’m your aunt’s brother-in-law. I’ll be staying here for a while. This here is my niece, Senra.”

Seyon heart screamed silently.

> Why… why would she send someone here? She knows… she knows I hate being around people. Especially strangers… Especially girls like her…

But all he said was:

“…Okay.”

The sky was grey. No sun. No smile.

He stepped into the school gate like a shadow. Today wasn’t just a regular school day.

Today, he had a plan.

And it started now.

> People only understand when they’re forced to confront their own reflection. You can scream all you want about justice or peace—but humans only listen when pain becomes their language.

> Psychology isn’t just a science. It’s survival. If you walk like prey, you’ll be treated like prey. But if you become the predator, even the worst beast in the jungle will hesitate.

He walked down the road, mask covering half his face.

Waiting.

Then he saw the first one—Bibhan, the one who mocked him for years.

He was alone, earbuds in, dancing slightly as he walked.

Seyon stepped out of the shadows.

One punch.

No warning.

Bibhan’s nose bled instantly.

“You forgot to greet me, Bibhan,” Seyon said quietly. “Let’s call this a reminder.”

Before the crowd gathered, he disappeared into an alley.

Next target: Dornil.

He found him near the overbridge.

This time, Seyon approached from the front. Dornil recognized him and instantly tried to flee.

Seyon ran.

Fast.

The chase lasted blocks. Dornil stumbled over a fruit crate and ran straight into a narrow forest trail.

Suddenly—

Vrrrooommm—

Motorbike lights blinked in the shade. A gang of boys in black jackets surrounded the area.

Gangsters.

They were friends of Dornil. Or worse, hired.

Seyon stopped, breathing heavily. Mask still on.

The biggest of them stepped forward. A scar ran across his eyebrow.

"You messed with the wrong people, kid," he growled.

Seyon didn’t flinch.

He removed the mask slowly.

> Society punishes the quiet. It praises the loud. But it fears the unpredictable. I’ll give them something to fear.

That evening at school…

Seyon came back covered in bruises. Uniform dirty. Late again.

His teacher didn’t ask much. Just ordered him to stand outside.

And after school…

Three classmates circled him in the field. They had seen what happened in the alley and thought he was weak now.

"Want to act cool, huh? Let’s see how cool you are now!"

One pushed him. Another grabbed his bag and threw it.

Fwssshh—

The lighter Seyon used to keep warm inside his bag lit up. Flames caught a paper.

His entire bag caught fire. His books. His journal. His world.

He watched it burn.

But he didn’t scream. He didn’t hit. He didn’t even blink.

He simply smiled—

like the calm before a storm.

> Let them destroy what I carry. They can’t destroy what I’ve become.