Chapter 5 : No ordinary day

As soon as the performance ended, a shrill, piercing sound cut through the cheers. The fire alarm blared, its frantic wail sending students into a panicked frenzy. Shouts and hurried footsteps echoed as confusion spread like wildfire.

Amidst the chaos, unseen by the panicked students, The Ruthless slipped silently into the shadows behind the stage.

Malang's eyes widened as the chaos unfolded around him. A single word escaped his lips, almost involuntarily, "DHAMAKA." The moment he had been dreading—or perhaps anticipating—had come.

Amidst the panic, a loud and commanding voice emerged from the crowd. "Everyone! Head to the campus ground! Quickly!" The unknown voice seemed to hold a strange authority, and before Vishal sir or the other trainers could intervene, the students blindly followed the instructions. In minutes, the auditorium emptied as the crowd surged toward the open space outside.

Amid the commotion, unseen hands moved with practiced precision, locking the auditorium doors behind the last of the students, and trapping Vishal sir and the other trainers and faculty members inside. Confusion and anger filled their faces as they realized what had happened, but their shouts were muffled by the thick wooden doors and the growing distance.

Out on the campus ground, the students gathered, their murmurs of confusion growing louder as they looked around. Their eyes widened in disbelief at the sight before them. The entire ground was plastered with posters and banners demanding the banishment of welfare students, their messages bold and unapologetic:

“No Place for Freeloaders,”

“Keep MAD Elite,” and

“Charity Doesn’t Belong Here.”

Bewilderment spread like wildfire as the crowd tried to make sense of what was happening. Fear and unease rippled through them, their faces reflecting a shared dread. The air seemed tense, each moment dragging painfully as they waited for something to happen.

And then, amidst the chaos, The Ruthless appeared.

They walked in as if the entire spectacle was orchestrated for them. At the center of the group was Rihaana, perched regally on Neil’s broad shoulders, her posture exuding authority. Her expression was one of smug satisfaction, her piercing gaze sweeping over the crowd like a queen surveying her subjects. Ishaan stood at her side, holding one of her hands to steady her as Neil carried her forward. Figo and Sam flanked them, their confident strides matching the air of dominance surrounding the group.

They were a sight to behold—striking, untouchable, and exuding power. To some, they were an inspiration; to others, they were a nightmare. But in that moment, they were a spectacle, a vision meant to be worshipped or feared.

The students whispered among themselves, their voices hushed but filled with apprehension:

"Is this their doing?"

"Look at them… they’re enjoying this!"

"Rihanna… she looks like she planned all of this."

"Neil… he’s so calm. Too calm."

"What do they want from us?"

"This is bad. Really bad."

The murmurs swirled, blending with the tension in the air as The Ruthless made their slow, deliberate entry. Their confident smiles seemed to mock the chaos they had left in their wake.

The campus ground had turned into their stage, and every eye was on them, waiting to see what would happen next.

The Ruthless stepped forward, Rihanna's piercing gaze silencing the murmurs among the students.

"Well" Rihanna began, her voice cutting through the silence like a knief. "I know. You were expecting a typical orientation. But today, it's going to be different. Admission to the MAD is easy, but staying here? That's the real challenge. If you think you’ve made it, think again, not until we approve."

A voice whispered in Malang’s ear, "That's Rihanna." Malang turned, curiosity piqued, but the voice continued, "Rihanna Oberoi. She’s the main character in our world. Midlevel in hip-hop, professional in ballet. She leads the crew and chooses the name 'Ruthless' for a reason. It's the reflection of her no-nonsense attitude. Just like the name, she’s very ruthless."

Malang, still unsure, asked, "If you’re done, then please introduce yourself." The guy smiled and extended his hand. "Oh, Amit. Amit Patel. Mainstream freestyle. Final year." Malang shook his hand, his smile warm. "Malang. Beginner’s level. Mainstream hip-hop."

As they exchanged names, their conversation was interrupted by the soft thud of Rihanna being gently lowered to the ground. Before they could speak, Ishaan jumped into the center with swag and took over the room. Malang and Amit watched as Ishaan effortlessly commanded the space.

"Oh, that’s Ishaan Mehrotra," Amit said, still watching him. "The boss of the university. He’s an inspiration to all of us. His mainstream is hip-hop, just like you."

"So there will be orientation, but with a twist," Ishaan announced.

Malang's thoughts were racing—what exactly was this twist going to entail? Suddenly, his attention was drawn to Neil, who stood on the side, his posture relaxed but exuding power. Now intrigued, Malang couldn’t help but ask, "Then what about him?" pointing towards Neil.

Amit’s eyes widened in disbelief, and his voice dropped. He gasped, almost as if the mere mention of Neil's name was a taboo.

“O bhai sab, whatever you do, steer clear of him. He’s the one who holds all the power in the crew. Neil Oberoi.”

Malang’s brows furrowed at the mention of the name, a flicker of familiarity crossing his face. “Is he…” Malang began, but Amit cut him off, his tone sharp and certain.

“Yes, exactly what you’re thinking. He’s Rihaana’s brother, that should tell you everything you need to know about him. His moves, his words—everything about him is sharp, precise, and faster than you can catch. Even the wind feels insecure around him. He’s the heartthrob of the crew—half of them secretly, or not so secretly, are crushing on him. But don’t let that fool you.”

Amit’s voice lowered further, his words laced with caution. “Neil’s not just smooth—he’s calculating. A master of diplomacy and manipulation. Trusting him is the quickest way to regret. My advice? Stay away.”

Just then, Neil spoke up, his voice calm but intense. "It’s time to see who truly deserves the university. You’ll have to earn your own spot with your talent and skill."

Malang’s chest tightened as Amit’s words echoed in his mind, and suddenly, his curiosity about Neil turned into something else—fear.

"Come on. Listen up. Welfare program on my right. Rest, left," Ishaan announced.

The crowd froze, unsure of what to do. Confusion rippled through the students as panicked glances darted from one person to the next. Fear was evident in their eyes, but no one dared to move.

Neil, observing the hesitation, roared, "What? DO IT. MOVE." The sheer force of his voice shattered the stillness, jolting the students into motion. Figo and Sam stepped forward, helping to swiftly separate the welfare students from the rest.

Malang, along with Amit, progressed to the other side and became disconnected from the welfare kids.

Once the order was restored, Neil strode to the center, his presence as commanding as his voice. "Alright, so here’s the deal— welfare students will take the center one by one. Show us what you’ve got. The skillful will stay. The rest? Time to pack up and go away."

As Neil scanned the crowd, his piercing gaze landed on Malang. For a split second, their gazes met, and Malang froze in fear. Neil’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something—before he looked away, addressing the crowd once more.

Suddenly, music blared from the speakers. Without missing a beat, the Ruthless crew sprang into action, seamlessly picking up the beat. Their movements were a spectacle—sharp, precise, and impossibly synchronized. The tempo rose, and they followed effortlessly, their performance flawless and mesmerizing. The crowd watched in awestruck silence, captivated by the performance. No one dared to speak, clap, or even breathe too loudly, afraid to break the moment with even a whisper.

Then, without warning, Rihanna strode into the crowd. She grabbed a nearby student by the arm and pulled her into the center. The girl stumbled forward, wide-eyed, unsure, and terrified, but Rihanna’s unspoken demand was clear: perform.

The crowd quickly understood the challenge—they weren’t just here to watch. They had to match the Ruthless’s energy, skill, and enthusiasm if they wanted to stay.

The girl hesitated but began to move, trying to keep up with the Ruthless crew’s sharp choreography. Her steps faltered, and her rhythm broke. Within seconds, she crumbled to the ground, overwhelmed and defeated.

Sam stepped forward, pulling her to her feet without a word. She turned her around, and sprayed a large red cross on her back—a mark of rejection, failure, of being unworthy. The sight of it sent a wave of dread through the crowd.

One by one, they tried to rise to the challenge, only to fall short. Each failure was met with the same fate—a red cross on their backs, symbolizing their inability to meet the crew’s expectations. The red marks multiplied, staining the hopeful atmosphere with rejection, and painting a stark picture of just how high the stakes were. The message was clear: only the best would survive in this world.

Click. Click. Click. Amidst the chaos, an unnoticed hand darted up from the crowd, snapping photos swiftly before disappearing into the throng. Fingers typed something quickly on the phone, and with a quick motion, the device was shoved back into a pocket and continued to stay low, avoiding attention, skillfully hiding behind others to dodge being called to perform.

The music suddenly stopped. The crowd froze, and Neil stepped forward, his movements intimidating. He stopped in front of a girl, staring straight into her eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her look away, her discomfort plain for everyone to see.

"Su," Amit whispered to Malang, leaning close. "Sulekha."

"And now," Neil announced, his voice dripping with mockery, "let’s give a round of applause to the most untalented. Two-time failure. The record holder of falling on stage—Sulekha Mitra."

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the center. Sulekha’s face turned pale as the crowd shifted their attention to her.

The music began again, and she stepped into the rhythm, trying her best to compose herself. Malang watched as she moved, her determination flickering like a candle in the wind. But Neil wasn’t done.

"Come on, Sulekha. Show us why you’re unforgettable!" His voice cut through the music like a whip, laced with humiliation.

The taunts and scattered laughter from the crowd began to weigh on her. Her movements faltered, the humiliation too much to bear. Then, as if on cue, she stumbled and fell to the ground.

The laughter grew louder, cruel and merciless. Tears welled in Sulekha’s eyes, spilling over as the reality of her failure hit her.

Neil stepped forward, towering over her as she tried to stand. He grabbed a can of spray paint, marked a large red cross on her back, and shoved her aside without a word.

The tension in the air was palpable as Sulekha walked away, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

Malang clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to speak up, to shout back at them, but his throat felt like it was closing up. He lowered his gaze, hoping to avoid their attention.

His father’s words echoed in his mind: “A boy who won’t stand up for himself becomes a man who can’t stand up to anything.” A pang of guilt hit him. Maybe Baba was right.

In the meantime, a new girl stepped into the center. She was unlike the others—her presence radiated confidence and determination. Her movements were sharp, her stance steady, and her gaze unwavering. The moment she took her position, she began to dance with ferocity, mirroring Ruthless’s moves.

Even Rihanna stopped mid-step, staring at the girl in disbelief. Murmurs spread through the crowd. For the first time, they felt hope—someone might actually challenge the Ruthless crew. Someone might prove that even welfare students deserve a chance.

“Stop!” Rihanna roared. The music cut abruptly, and all eyes turned to her.

“Name,” she demanded.

“Kiran,” the girl replied, her voice steady and confident.

“K-K-K-Kiran,” Figo mocked, making the tired old joke as he chuckled. But no one joined him this time.

“Solo. Show us what you’ve got,” Rihanna commanded.

As the music resumed, Kiran strode confidently to the center. Her movements were swift and bold—she stretched, dipped, and spun with precision, her hair whipping through the air like a fierce declaration. She was undeniably good.

But Rihanna wasn’t impressed. “Stop!” she snapped again.

The music halted once more. “Show us something real, dude. Or is this your TokTik dance reel? Take your bar moves somewhere else,” Rihanna sneered, her words laced with disdain.

Kiran hesitated, her confidence flickering. She tried to push herself further, spinning out of her comfort zone, but the move went wrong. She stumbled and fell hard onto the ground.

Neil stepped forward, crouching down in front of her. He didn’t offer his hand to help her up. Instead, he looked her in the eye, his voice cold and cutting. “This is exactly what we mean. Coming here without talent? Not happening.”

Before anyone could say another word, a voice boomed from the distance. “STOP THIS NONSENSE RIGHT NOW!”

Heads turned to see Vishal Sir, striding across the campus grounds, his face stern and resolute. Behind him, other trainers followed, their expressions unreadable.

Rihanna marched forward, her eyes locked on Vishal Sir. "Stop? We will, sir. But first, take a good look at the talent of your selected welfare program dancers."

"Watch them and tell us—how are we supposed to train these have-nots for the competition?" Neil persisted.

Vishal Sir surveyed the students' faces. Their expressions were full of tension, and the pressure was evident in the air.

"Training them is not your job, Neil," Vishal Sir responded, his tone firm. "This university has its own trainers and instructors for that."

"Sorry, sir," Rihanna retorted, his voice tinged with frustration. "But inter-collegiate dance competitions are held at the national level, and because these losers are forced to be in our team, we lose every single time. Two years in a row, sir. Because of their low skill level, we, the Ruthless, have been branded as losers."

Ishaan’s voice cut through the tension, her words biting. "Even after knowing this, sir, yet again, this year, most admissions have come through the welfare program. It’s not fair, sir."

Neil stepped forward, his voice carrying an edge of frustration. "What does MAD think about this?"

He turned to address the crowd, his eyes scanning their faces for approval. "Do these guys deserve to be part of us?"

"NO!" The crowd shouted in unison, their voices filled with defiance.

"Do we deserve to lose again?" Neil’s voice boomed, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

"NO!" The crowd responded, their energy rising, clearly fired up by the question.

"Welfare," Neil said, the word dripping with disdain. "End it."

The crowd roared back, the word echoing like a chant. "End it! End it!"

Wee-oww. Wee-oww. Wee-oww

Cutting through the tension, a distant police siren wailed in the background. The shrill sound sliced through the heated moment, interrupting the charged atmosphere.

The voices fell silent for a heartbeat, everyone turning their attention toward the sound.

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