They began to change.
No announcements were made. No oaths spoken. But after that corridor encounter with Professor Iyer, something settled among the three — like grit in the eye that wouldn't blink away. Agniveesh, Aadesh, and Veer stopped coasting. The mess hall saw less of them. The library saw too much. They weren't cramming; they were tearing their syllabi apart, reverse-engineering every concept like it was a locked machine.
The sun rose and set behind the old sandstone buildings of PINE as the trio worked like insurgents against their own mediocrity. Agniveesh devoured physics problems until light became language. Veer isolated himself with case studies, intelligence reports, declassified documents no one had time to read. Aadesh, for the first time in his life, started to fall in love with policy — not as bureaucracy, but as design. The future had to be designed, didn't it?
By the time compartment exams arrived, their bodies were worn, their sleep erratic, their notebooks ruined by graphite storms. Still, when they walked into the examination hall, they wore the calm of men who had met the worst in themselves — and refused to shake its hand.
Two weeks later, the results were declared.
There was silence first. Followed by whispers. Then audible disbelief.
100/100.
In physics.In law.In strategic administration.
All three of them. On the same day. In compartment exams designed to grind egos, not reward them. It had never happened before in the history of PINE. Even the best scorers often left those exams limping with 61s or 72s. But this?
This was heresy.
They were summoned to the Dean's office.
Again.
Dean Avinash Keshari was not a man easily amused. But when the three walked into his office, he was smiling — not the tight bureaucratic smile, but something more playful, edged with disbelief and awe.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, files open before him.
"So," he said, squinting. "I assume you hacked the national grading server, kidnapped the invigilators, or simply bribed the universe?"
Agniveesh raised an eyebrow. "Not guilty, sir."
"Not yet, at least," Aadesh added, deadpan.
Veer just offered a half-smile, the corner of his mouth twitching.
The Dean chuckled, something rare and unrecorded in PINE's atmosphere.
"You boys didn't just pass. You detonated. 100 marks in three of the hardest compartments ever drafted. I set up the review myself. Had three separate panels check the papers. No errors, no irregularities. Just... precision." He paused, looking at them with narrowed eyes, as if seeing something deeper. "You're going to scare some people, you know that?"
The silence stretched.
He tapped his pen once. "Alright. Now that I've congratulated you, I'll ask the real question."
They stiffened a little.
"Any of you found girlfriends yet?"
A moment of stunned pause. Then Agniveesh laughed. Aadesh shook his head.
"Sir, with our sleep cycles, even a plant would file a harassment complaint," Aadesh replied.
The Dean burst out laughing.
"Well," he said, rising, "maybe I was wrong. Maybe shame does birth excellence after all. But remember, boys— brilliance is easier to explain than timing. And timing like yours... makes people watch."
He waved them off like a fond coach, still muttering, "Three perfect scores in one compartment exam..."
They stepped out into the open hallway.
Outside, the monsoon had passed, but the earth was still damp and fragrant with rebirth. Students passed by — some nodding in respect, some whispering — and the trio, still slightly dazed, walked silently until they reached the old Arka Research Wing.
And there it was.
Room A-013.
No nameplate. No fanfare. Just a frosted glass door slightly ajar. Inside, the interior was less a classroom and more a live-wire science lab — a tangle of wires, hybrid machines, glowing displays, and deep humming machines that most undergraduates couldn't even name.
And in the center of it all — like a monk inside a reactor — sat Professor Rudranath Iyer.
He wasn't writing this time.
He was just staring at something on a screen, eyes flicking back and forth. He didn't look up. He didn't have to.
But just as they walked past, Agniveesh turned — and for the briefest second, Professor Iyer's eyes met his. No words. No smile. Just a glimmer of awareness, as if the professor already knew the grades, already understood the weight of what had shifted.
Then the glance passed.
But it would stay with them — like the first note of a symphony that had not yet begun.