Chapter 2 : The Ruthless

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.

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