The First Ripple

The television crackled with static before the news anchor’s voice cut through.

> “Breaking news. A mysterious letter was received inside the Parliament today. The unsigned letter declared the formation of a new organisation—its name still undisclosed—that has threatened to intervene directly if the government fails to eradicate corruption, mafia influence, and political exploitation.

In their words, ‘If you cannot change this nation, we will.’

The anchor’s voice trembled slightly as she continued:

> “Security agencies are investigating whether this is a prank or the sign of a powerful underground movement. The question remains—who are they? And how do they plan to achieve such a scale of change?”

A man in his forties sat in front of the flickering screen, his hand clenched around a half-empty glass. His tired eyes narrowed. This isn’t just another threat. Something’s moving.

The camera panned back to the newsroom, but his mind was already elsewhere.

---

2035 – Delhi

The clang of lockers, chatter of classrooms, and the restless energy of teenagers filled the halls of St. Xavier’s Senior School.

In the middle of it, chaos.

Two boys stood against a group of seniors, refusing to back down.

Karan—sharp-eyed, hotheaded, always the first to throw a punch.

Kabir—the calmer one, but loyal to the bone, never leaving Karan’s side.

The seniors had mocked them, shoved Kabir, and within seconds, fists were flying. The fight wasn’t pretty—hair pulled, uniforms torn, blood on Kabir’s lip. The crowd roared until a teacher’s voice cut through like a whip.

The mob scattered.

But one of the seniors spat on the ground, glaring.

“You’re finished. After school. Both of you.”

---

That evening, the battle wounds were tended to in Karan’s room. The place was a mess—books thrown around, a cricket bat leaning against the wall, posters half torn.

Karan struggled with a bandage roll while Kabir sat cross-legged on the bed, pressing ice against his face.

“You seriously punch like a baby,” Kabir muttered.

“At least my punches land,” Karan shot back. He tightened the bandage a little too hard.

“Ow—idiot! You trying to kill me?”

Karan grinned. “Relax, hero. Or should I say… tragic hero?”

Kabir frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh nothing…” Karan leaned back with a mischievous smirk. “Just that your little Meera ji saw the whole fight. Bet she was impressed watching you cry in front of the seniors.”

Kabir’s ears went red instantly. “Shut up, Karan.”

“Aw, look at him blush. ‘Meera, my love, I’ll protect you!’—and then bam, you’re eating dirt in front of her.”

Kabir threw the ice pack at him. “You’re dead.”

Karan laughed so hard he almost fell off the chair. “Forget the seniors, Kabir. You should be more scared of your girlfriend laughing at you in class tomorrow.”

Kabir groaned, burying his face in his hands, while Karan kept teasing. The room echoed with their laughter—the kind of laughter that made bruises worth it.

They didn’t know it yet, but outside their small world of fights, teasing, and teenage crushes, the nation was stirring with whispers of rebellion.

And somehow, their names would one day be written into that story.

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