Chapter 8 : The Cost of Waking the Storm

As Malang opened the door, the tension in the air hit him like a wall. Students were rushing past him down the staircase—some barefoot, some clutching phones, all with the same pale, frightened expressions. It felt less like panic and more like a silent stampede as if terror itself was chasing them.

He reached out and stopped a boy with trembling hands.

“Hey! What’s happening? Where’s everyone going? Who screamed just now?”

His voice was sharp, urgent.

The boy's eyes darted towards the lounge below, his chest heaving. He looked like he was about to cry.

“They… they took them,” the boy said breathlessly, eyes wide.

Malang’s breath caught. No. He didn’t need to ask who. He already knew. He just didn’t want to say it out loud. Because if he did, it would become real.

“Who took them? And why?” he asked anyway, even though his legs already started moving.

“Amit and Sulekha,” the boy muttered. “I don’t know more. Just… come downstairs.”

He tore away from Malang’s grip and vanished down the steps.

Malang followed, heart, thudding wildly in his chest. It’s started, he thought. The storm has entered the dormitory.

As Malang reached the foot of the stairs, his breath hitched—and then it stopped altogether.

The common lounge, usually noisy with late-night banter or the hum of music, was now dead silent except for the sound of harsh breathing, sharp footsteps, and the occasional groan of pain.

Amit and Sulekha were bound back-to-back to two metal chairs, arms pinned to their sides with coarse ropes that dug into their skin. Their faces were bloodied, and swollen in places. Amit’s left eye was half-shut, already bruising, while Sulekha’s lip had a cut that was trickling crimson down her chin.

Amit was shaking—either from pain or rage, Malang couldn’t tell. His t-shirt was torn near the collar, and one of his shoes was missing. Sulekha had her head lowered, hair falling like a curtain around her face. But even from across the room, Malang could see her shoulders quivering, her breaths sharp and uneven.

And circling them like vultures were Neil, Figo, and Sam, gripping hockey sticks with casual cruelty.

A few feet away, students had gathered along the walls like silent statues. No one spoke. No one dared move. You could feel the tension like electricity in the air—paralyzing and suffocating. Some students had tears in their eyes, others had their hands clamped over their mouths. Malang took his place among them, heart slamming against his ribs like a warning bell.

Then Neil stepped forward.

He leaned in close to Amit’s face and, with a sudden roar, slammed his hockey stick onto the floor. The loud crack echoed like a gunshot. Several students flinched. Sulekha let out a small whimper.

Neil growled, “How did you even think of locking horns with the Ruthless?”

He spoke the name like it meant royalty, like it was carved into the stone walls of the university.

Sam didn’t wait. She turned to Sulekha and swung her stick—not to hit her directly, but to bash the leg of the chair. The impact jolted Sulekha forward. Her head snapped up, and her eyes—glasslike with fear—met Malang’s for a fraction of a second.

“You really thought we wouldn’t know?” Sam sneered. “You thought you’d hide behind posters and puppy eyes?”

Sulekha said nothing. She couldn’t. Her mouth was trembling too much.

Neil’s voice shot through the room again. He stormed toward Sulekha and shouted in her face, “Shut up! I saw you two grinning outside Vishal Sir’s office. Do you think I don’t know what that means? So don’t try to feed me that innocent act!”

Then, without warning, Figo shoved his hockey stick under Amit’s chin, tilting his head up.

“Hey, Amit. Big hero, huh? Mr. Anti-ragging.”

He pushed the stick roughly against his jaw. “You thought you were going to save these little charity cases? You thought you’d win?” He grinned. “Crusader of the poor. That was cute.”

He suddenly twisted the chair Amit was tied to, spinning it roughly. Amit groaned as the ropes dug deeper into his skin. Neil joined him—grabbing the backrest and spinning the chair even harder until Amit toppled over with a sickening crash.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. No one moved.

Figo marched over, yanked Amit up by the collar, and shoved him back into position. His breathing was erratic now—loud, almost primal.

Sulekha finally broke. She sobbed loudly, her cries jagged and hoarse.

Neil turned on her again. “Freaks!” he barked. “You called the cops on us? Us? And you thought you could do this and get away with it!”

Sam bent down, grabbed a fistful of Sulekha’s hair, and yanked her head back.

“You wanted the cops, right?” she hissed. “What were you thinking? That the cops would rescue you?”

She jabbed a finger into Sulekha’s chest with every word. “That you’d finally be spared the shame?”

Her voice turned venomous. “And you teamed up with him?”

She slapped Sulekha’s cheek—not hard, but humiliating. A show of power.

Neil circled behind them, his stick dragging along the floor with a menacing screech.

“Let’s stop pretending,” he said. “Open your damn mouths and confess. Who called the cops?”

His voice lowered to a sinister whisper.

“Was it you?” He pointed at Sulekha.

“Or you?” Now at Amit.

“Speak up!.”

Nobody did.

That silence—dense and full of dread—stretched for too long.

Malang felt something twist inside him. A sick mix of fear and helplessness. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood—tiny crescents of resistance.

Neil chuckled, lips curling into something cold.

“Sacrifice,” he said. “How noble. I love it.”

Then he swung.

The hockey stick landed across Amit’s legs with a bone-rattling thud.

Amit let out a howl of pure agony.

“I SWEAR ON MY MOM—I DIDN’T CALL THEM!” Sulekha shrieked, her voice raw with desperation.

But they didn’t stop.

Figo raised his stick again.

“Liar!"

Neil turned to the crowd, voice booming.

“You know, we were fighting the system! It wasn’t ragging—it was a protest! IT WAS PROFESSIONAL. And these clowns made it personal!”

Figo added, “Calling the police was a bad, bad idea.”

Sam yanked Sulekha’s hair and growled, “So speak up. Or it’s only going to get worse.”

“I don’t know anything!” Sulekha screamed, barely able to breathe.

Neil pressed his hockey stick to Amit’s throat. “When did you call them, huh?”

He tightened the grip.

Malang looked on, frozen in place. Every muscle in his body screamed to do something—to move, to shout, to protect. But fear held him like a chain.

Until a voice broke through the chaos.

“I did.”

It wasn’t loud. But it cut.

All heads turned.

From the back of the crowd, a girl stepped forward.

Malang’s breath caught. It was her.

The quiet girl in the traditional kurti. The one who’d smiled at him just hours ago. The one who’d fumbled into him like any other nervous fresher.

Netra.

She walked slowly through the silence, her bindi catching the light. Her chin lifted just slightly. Her shoulders were stiff but unbowed. There was fear in her step—but not regret.

“I called them,” she said again. “And I’d do it again.”

Time seemed to pause.

She wasn’t hiding behind the crowd during orientation as she said. She was watching. Planning. Choosing her moment. Sending those photos. Doing the one thing Malang had been too afraid to do.

This girl stood up when everyone else stayed silent.

She chose to stand.

She chose to speak.

And Malang? For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was standing alone.

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