Rows of identical desks.

  Floors polished so clean that reflected tube lights like mirrors.

  The air felt filtered, too crisp, too artificial— as if all traces of human life had been erased.

  That was how the Gomtinagar branch of EdBridge Tutorials looked.

  At the very front, the place for a teacher to stand, there was a single black speaker mounted on the wall.

  A green indicator light flickered on top of it every few seconds, neither still nor steady.

  Like it was blinking.

  Vivek sat in the second row, spine straight, shoulders tight, trying far too hard to act like the 'good student' he had never truly been.

  He had promised himself— he would be a changed person.

  The one who didn't lag behind.

  The one who didn't get scolded.

  The one who didn't bring trouble.

  But the promise was already slipping.

  The speaker droned in its metallic voice.

  "Write down the next one… point number six… cellular respiration…"

  Vivek's hand scrambled across the pages, trying to keep up to the voice.

  His words were rushed and uneven.

  But every few minutes, his brain kept drifting.

  His eyes flicked up towards the speaker involuntarily again and again.

  The green light.

  Blinking. Staring. Judging.

  He totally hated it.

  He shook himself, leaned closer to the notebook, forced his handwriting to speed up—

  And his pen slipped.

  It slid off the edge of his desk and hit the polished floor with a soft echo.

  clink…

  Vivek froze for a second.

  He looked around, no one was bothered.

  Students were too busy copying.

  Vivek let out a tiny sigh, then pushed back his chair and leaned down, lowering himself to one knee— reaching for the pen on the cold floor—

  ——————————————

  A hand reached there, but only found gravel.

  Yug knelt there in the present.

  The exact same spot.

  The exact same posture.

  Where the polished, sterile Gomtinagar classroom once stood, there was now a skeleton of concrete and scaffolding, wrapped in dust, noise and heat.

  A cement mixer growled behind him like a lazy beast. Plastic sheets flapped against almost rusted iron rods. There was only the smell of sun-burnt metal.

  Yug brushed the gravel against his fingertips, slowly, almost ritualistically— like touching the ground might help them.

  It would not.

  A few feet away, Rishabh was engaged in an argument with some construction workers.

  Half of them dozed off mid-conversation, the others laughed at Rishabh's words while another group didn't care to answer him.

  Rishabh, almost anxious yet hopeful, shouted, "Listen— EdBridge Tutorials was right here. We cannot be wrong!"

  "Oi, kid! There's no tuition center here. I have been working here for three months and if you irritate me any further…" A worker, confused and angry, replied instantly.

  Workers snorted and nudged at each other, openly amused.

  Rishabh's confidence crumbled, replaced with a desperate frustration he tried to hide.

  A few steps away, Kritika had drifted from the group into the burning heat.

  She stood alone beside a truck that brought all the raw materials, staring blankly at the sky.

  Her shoulders slumped— tired, frustrated and hopeless. For a moment, she looked like a person who ran out of ways to believe in things that made sense.

  The bright afternoon sun burned overhead, too hot, indifferent and stagnant.

  Her eyes were fixated on the sun.

  ——————————————

  The bright glare of the sun dissolved into the harsh white glow of an old lamp on a table.

  The lamp flickered once, and before it happened yet again—

  THWACK!

  A tennis ball smashed straight into the lamp.

  The bulb burst with a crackle, glass scattering across the rack below.

  Tarun froze before catching the ball, one hand still raised, eyes widening after what he did.

  "…This was an accident, I swear."

  Manav didn't look up. He sat cross-legged on the floor, two laptops open in front of him. He typed on both at the same speed— his fingers dancing like he conducted two simultaneous orchestras.

  "Can you just get on the phone or something. Smashing bulbs will not help."

  Tarun walked in circles, still tossing the tennis ball lightly, ignoring Manav's words.

  "Fine but— serious question— how are you typing with both hands? Do you have… two brains?"

  Manav sighed and flat words came out of his mouth, "I'm ambidextrous."

  Tarun nodded slowly, as if processing a big scientific term, "Isn't that a dinosaur?"

  "Yeah, I'm a rare species. The one that can write with both of my hands." Manav finally looked up, painfully frustrated.

  "Oh," Tarun turned around. "I thought you were going to say something crazy like you were trained by monks."

  Manav, completely losing his mind, threw a pencil on Tarun without even looking.

  On the coding laptop, Manav tracked open discussion areas— forums, online groups, anywhere someone could hide complaints or secrets.

  On his own laptop, he scrolled through investigative posts about BLC acquiring EdBridge Tutorials, reading line after line about corporate details and user testimonies.

  Just then, before Tarun could respond back for the thrown pencil—

  Vivek burst in.

  With a full bag of Indian street food and cold drinks balanced on both hands, he squeezed a phone precariously between his ear and shoulder.

  "What are you even telling me!? There cannot be only mud and stones! Try talking…"

  He hung up the phone and dropped the food on the table, exasperated as he slammed the door shut with his heel.

  He turned to the boys, his face pale and pained. "Guys, there is zero trace of the second branch again. There is just more dust… than yesterday."

  "Tell the three to come back. Looking at nothing will get us nowhere." Manav stopped typing, rubbing his forehead.

  Vivek exhaled sharply, picked up his phone again and stepped aside to call the others— all in one single breath.

  The broken lamp still shined weakly over them, swinging slightly like a warning.

  ——————————————

  The room felt cramped, half from the number of people and half from the amount of tension sitting in the air. A whiteboard full of scribbles leaned against a corner of the room.

  Manav, still on the floor, chewed anxiously on a straw as he repeated the same that he saw.

  "So… EdBridge was a local coaching centre— the ones which are found behind chemist shops. And then, four months ago—boom— BLC bought it."

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Yug dropped onto a chair, running a hand through his hair.

  "And Vivek joined three months ago."

  Vivek nodded stiffly, uncomfortable and embarrassed at the same time.

  "Yeah, superstar." Manav stretched his legs, gesturing Kritika to join him. "We know."

  On the floor, Kritika and Manav hovered over one of the laptops. Multiple windows were open— lines of basic but readable codes, timestamps, access logs. The EdBridge chatbot codes were lying in front of their eyes.

  "What does this mean?" Kritika asked, scratching her hair furiously.

  "It is a WHOIS lookup," Manav said proudly. "Basically tells us who owns the bot's domain, where it is registered and all boring details stalkers love."

  She rolled eyes but followed.

  They leaned forward, scrolling through the system metadata, both of their eyes narrowing in sync.

  Kritika squinted and read each line. "These are from… the day before the exams began."

  "And every day since, there is something same…" Manav looked closer, analysing every minute detail.

  The list scrolled endlessly, each day showed the same pattern— same timing, same duration, same IP range.

  They shared the same sharp look.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the room—

  Rishabh hunched over Manav's laptop, fury in his eyes as he typed with unreasonable speed.

  "Come on… BLC servers… where is your EdBridge data? Why can't I access it?"

  Tarun stood behind him like an irritating parrot, eating chips loudly near his ears.

  "Does hacking feel like coding… but angrier?"

  "Tarun. Please. Not now." Rishabh's jaw clenched tightly.

  Tarun blinked innocently. "Calm down, just asking a question. But why is the screen all black though?"

  "Because I'm getting into BLC servers!"

  Suddenly, Manav pulled a chair loudly, making a screeching sound that caught all ears.

  "Alright, Scooby-Doo gang, get yourselves over here!"

  They quickly assembled around the laptop near him. On the screen, clean repeated patterns of timestamps lined the log like an eerie digital heartbeat.

  "Look at this. A fixed cycle."

  Kritika scrolled, pointing at certain codes.

  Manav began, his tone dipping in pride. "Every day— from the day before exams till now— the bot comes online at 2:35:00 pm and stays exactly for 2 minutes and 35 seconds."

  "Down to the second. No signs of change." Kritika nodded, her eyes turning to the clock.

  They all, at the very same moment, instinctively check the wall clock.

  2:30 PM.

  A beat of silence passed between all of them. Eyes widened, and realisation spread like a shockwave throughout the room.

  They didn't speak, but every look conveyed the exact look.

  This could be their next good clue.

  ——————————————

  2:34:30 PM.

  Everyone was in their position.

  Yug and Vivek sat huddled over Vivek's phone, both staring into the EdBridge online group. Vivek's foot tapped uncontrollably. Yug's eyes didn't move despite the pain for prolonged glaring at the phone.

  All that mattered was the bot.

  "Status: Offline"

  Rishabh and Kritika crouched at a table opposite them, both staring into BLC's security portal on Manav's laptop. Kritika's breath fogged the screen. Rishabh's eyes twitched, but he didn't blink. At all.

  Across the room, Manav and Tarun were ready to dissect the public codes of the EdBridge bot. Strings of numbers, commands, IPs— appearing and disappearing like the way sand slipped out of one's hands.

  Nobody reacted. Nobody dared to breathe loud.

  There was a strange pulse, like the room had an anxious life of its own.

  2:34:58 PM.

  2:34:59 PM.

  The tension didn't rise— it tightened like a garrote, killing all of them from inside.

  2:35:00 PM.

  Vivek's voice cracked, "Time! GO!"

  And everything exploded.

  Rishabh slammed keys and Kritika kept eyes on the windows that were so fast they blurred into white flashes. The BLC firewall surged, pixelated, and then… flickered.

  Yug leaned over, voice darting—

  "The bot's activity just doubled— no, TRIPLED— what the hell is this—"

  On Manav's screen, the data broke apart like glass struck by a speeding bullet— chunks of code turning gray and vanishing one by one.

  Tarun growled.

  "Someone's wiping the trail. Pulling the logs!"

  Manav squinted at the codes. "Whoever wrote this, motherf—" he snapped.

  Kritika's voice rang out, "Yug—YUG— our side's at 5%! We need a charger— the laptop is about to—"

  The laptops beeped, hissed, flickered.

  A cold wind, nobody knew where from, rushed around the blazing hot room.

  Yug rushed to check the battery icon.

  3%. FLASHING RED.

  Like a countdown to death.

  Yug ran from one corner to another— his toes crashing to a table, his feet crumbling chips and his body tumbling over in a corner.

  "I found it!" He yelled.

  Rishabh barked without looking up.

  "Get it! The server's firewalls got weak. I'm breaching in!"

  "What is a— firewall— anyway?"

  Tarun muttered, still staring and hovering around.

  Yug, neck-veins bulging, exploded at the same time as he was about to connect the charger.

  "Can you NOT disturb us, asshole!"

  "We're in the BLC server— just more— we're actually IN!"

  Kritika announced, plugging one end of the wire to the laptop.

  Manav's fingers flew as he tried to salvage the disappearing WHOIS strings.

  "Forget the charger— the code is vanishing— this is active defence!"

  But the whole sheet suddenly stopped vanishing.

  Instead, new, hand-typed lines appeared.

  Vivek shouted, "The person's here!"

  2:36:45 PM.

  On Rishabh's screen, the BLC server's firewall didn't just strengthen— it struck back.

  Not defensively.

  But aggressively.

  Lines shot across the logs faster than he could react— the cursor stopped, folders closed, traces rerouted.

  "Someone's fighting us—LIVE!" Kritika gasped.

  Rishabh's pupils turned huge.

  He typed faster than even he thought he could, his fingers burning and wrists snapping upon the pressure of his movement.

  "Give me— five more seconds— COME ON— come on, just open damn it!"

  Suddenly, he opened a folder.

  'ACCESS GRANTED

  ROOT PATH OPENED

  BLC>DIR>SEARCH:_EDBRIDGE_TUTORIALS_'

  Tarun threw the charger towards Vivek like it was a rope, in hopes to plug it on time.

  "Thirty seconds, everyone!"

  The BLC counter hacker struck again.

  The folder began to blur again.

  File names turned into ?????

  "It's a manual overdrive," Kritika murmured.

  "Rishabh— just a screenshot— GET ANYTHING— NOW—!"

  Kritika's eyes turned red and Rishabh slammed his feet in anger, all eyes looking at them as they were their last hope.

  The laptop beeped one last time.

  1%. WARNING.

  Vivek shouted, plugging the charger.

  "We're out of time! We have TEN SECONDS!"

  Rishabh pressed one last command. He had the screenshot of the last message—

  Half-loaded.

  Half-corrupted.

  Half-dead.

  And before Vivek pressed the switch, all of it went black.

  2:37:35 PM.

  The laptop died at the very next moment— as if someone crushed power straight out of their hands.

  Silence.

  Just breathing.

  Fast. Panicked. Cold.

  Rishabh just had one lead— a screenshot.

  's.....alhotr.'

  Manav whispered, "We… got something."

  ——————————————

  The next day moved slowly, as if the whole day had sunk into heavy water.

  It was not because the day was actually slow, but all of them were tired from the soul.

  Manav and Rishabh sat on the floor with a chess board between them.

  Their match was tense— every move was deliberate, every counter was immediate.

  Every move was a check. Each move became a conversation.

  Rishabh slid a pawn forward.

  "BLC's firewalls weakened during that time window. It was a surprisingly easy entry "

  Manav answered with a bishop.

  "The bot's code confirms it isn't automated. I'm dead sure it's manually operated."

  Rishabh shifted his knight thoughtfully.

  "This means that the entire network— IDs, emails, linked servers— activates together when they log in."

  In a corner, Vivek sat curled against the wall, hands clasped in tension. His mind was a storm he could not escape, his voices questioning him.

  "If I never took the question papers…

  If I never stole Maa's savings…

  If I didn't drag anyone into this…"

  Manav stared at the board, dragging his rook.

  "Fine… but what does this all mean, fat head?"

  The room fell quiet.

  Vivek finally lifted his head, voice shaky but loud.

  "He's using BLC to hide himself. Every server he owns is linked to one another."

  The words hung for a moment— and Rishabh calmly placed his queen down.

  Checkmate.

  Manav exhaled sharply, eyes furious at his loss. Rishabh gave a half-tired smirk.

  On a table, Tarun sat with Manav's laptop, downloading a game just to distract himself.

  He looked beyond exhausted— eyes barely open, movements sluggish, head dropping every few minutes.

  Near him, Yug and Kritika held the other laptop and a phone, sifting through social media posts from other students facing the same issue.

  Every relevant screenshot was forwarded to the EdBridge support email, and they sent lengthy mails to the students too.

  Their inbox refreshed again and again, but nothing helpful appeared. It felt like everyone was fighting different wars in the same room.

  Vivek checked his watch.

  2:35:00 PM.

  "The bot is back online!"

  Yug seemed least bothered, not even looking towards Vivek and the clock.

  "Doesn't matter. It doesn't prove anything."

  Kritika let out a frustrating sigh.

  "We still don't know who's controlling it."

  But on Tarun's screen, something happened. The game leaderboard updated. The top player— an account that was mostly offline— suddenly came back online.

  Tarun noticed it, but his eyes rolled, as he assumed it was nothing unusual.

  2:37:35 PM.

  A notification pinged.

  The bot went offline.

  And at that exact second, the top gaming ID went offline too— and Tarun froze under his breath.

  His drowsiness vanished into thin air.

  He snapped upright, staring at the timestamps.

  "Wait— WAIT!"

  Everyone looked over.

  Tarun pointed at the screen hurriedly, voice sharp and trembling.

  "The bot and the top gaming ID here logged out at the exact same second. It can't be a coincidence. I think it's the same scammer!"

  Yug shook his head.

  "You haven't slept properly, man. You're making patterns but there aren't any of them."

  But Tarun's expression turned cold— the most serious anyone had seen him in a few days.

  "No. This lines up too perfectly. I'm confident."

  "Please… let's try. This might actually help us."

  Vivek got up, eyes wide with fragile hope.

  The room went silent.

  For another time, the group felt the presence of a real thread— fragile, thin, but within reach.

  ——————————————

  By evening, the mood in the room had shifted completely.

  The chaos and tension of the afternoon had scattered into a kind of lazy exhaustion.

  Everyone sat on the floor or slouched against the chairs, munching on whatever snacks they had managed to find—chips, biscuits, half-eaten packets.

  Kritika sat with the laptop balanced on her knees, tapping through tabs while the others chewed silently. The orange glow of the setting sun filtered through the windows and made the screen hard to read, so she leaned forward, squinting.

  Then—

  A notification blinked.

  She straightened immediately.

  “Guys… the top player messaged.”

  Everyone’s posture changed at once.

  Tarun sat up from his half-lying position.

  Rishabh stopped mid-chew.

  Manav pushed his glasses up.

  Vivek and Yug leaned forward like they had been startled awake.

  Kritika scrolled through the profile.

  “He accepted the offer to play in a private lobby.”

  There was a pause—then Yug asked, “He… accepted? That easily?”

  “No,” Kritika corrected, tapping the keyboard. “I messaged him saying we’re a group of students who think we can beat the top player. That’s probably why he agreed.”

  She flipped the screen around so everyone could see the harsh, angry red bar on the player’s profile.

  “And look—he has a ton of reports. Toxic behaviour, abusive language, rage-quitting. Like… a lot.”

  Manav snorted.

  “Perfect. A violent tuition scammer AND a trash talker. Zero surprise.”

  Kritika clicked again.

  “The lobby’s open.”

  For a second, the room fell completely silent—everyone bracing themselves.

  Manav cracked his fingers dramatically before taking the mouse.

  “Step aside, peasants. Let the absolute legend demonstrate.”

  The match loaded.

  The top player’s avatar spawned in with a flashy skin—glowing blue armor, an aura effect, the works. Clearly someone who played obsessively.

  But within two minutes, Manav dismantled him.

  Brutally. Efficiently.

  Move after move, combo after combo, Manav tore through the man’s strategy like it was wet paper.

  By the time the victory screen appeared, the room erupted.

  “You absolutely destroyed him,” Tarun said, laughing despite his exhaustion.

  Even Kritika cracked a proud smile.

  “That was… insane.”

  The top player instantly sent the next match request. Yug took the controls hesitantly.

  “Sure I'll play?” he whispered.

  Rishabh nodded. “You’re good. Just play naturally.”

  The match began.

  Yug wasn’t as brutal as Manav, but he played smart. Calm. Strategic. He dodged attacks, timed his moves, used the game’s map cleverly.

  He didn’t win.

  But he pushed the top player to the brink—close enough that the man started making sloppy mistakes.

  “That’s it, Yug!” Kritika encouraged.

  “Pressure!” Tarun added.

  Manav yelled, “LEFT! LEFT! AYY—good!”

  When the match finally ended, Yug exhaled as though he had run a marathon.

  He had lost—but with a very small margin. He had played well.

  Too well.

  The top player sent another request immediately.

  “Final round,” Manav grinned. “Vivek?”

  Vivek’s hands shook a little as he took the mouse.

  He wasn’t a gamer—not like the others. But he wasn’t scared of losing.

  He was scared of what losing might reveal.

  The match began, and he played clumsily at first, earning a few mild attacks from the top player. The others thought he was just nervous.

  Then they noticed.

  He wasn’t trying.

  His movements were too delayed. His mistakes too obvious.

  He was intentionally throwing the match.

  “Vivek…?” Kritika asked softly.

  But Vivek didn’t answer.

  He let his avatar get cornered, beaten down, eliminated in the most humiliating way possible.

  And that’s when it started

  The moment the victory screen loaded, the chat box opened—

  and messages poured in.

  Insults.

  Slurs.

  Lines of abusive text, one after another, flooding the box in a violent stream.

  The man was furious.

  Manav instantly reacted.

  “Oh hell no—You think you can—”

  His fingers slammed the keys, typing back insults at equal speed and equal venom.

  Rishabh facepalmed.

  Yug grabbed his own hair.

  Tarun tried to stop him—“Manav, DON’T—”

  But it was too late.

  The chat box turned into a battlefield.

  The top player wrote.

  “You little brats think you pulled something off? I'm the king out here.”

  Manav snapped back.

  “You lost to school kids. Go cry to your mom.”

  The man typed even faster now, furious, unfiltered. And then, in his anger, he slipped—

  “I am Sahil. I'm the best player here. You kids can't—”

  The sentence never finished.

  Silence

  The screen cut to black.

  A giant red message appeared:

  “CHAT RESTRICTED. GAME BANNED FOR EXCESSIVE ABUSE.”

  The lobby kicked them out automatically.

  The room froze.

  Six students stared at the blank screen.

  Just then, something clicked in Rishabh’s mind—like a spark jumping across a loose wire. He froze, eyes narrowing, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

  Without saying a word, he snatched up the laptop they had used for the game, scrolling rapidly through the screenshots and system logs.

  There it was.

  The same screenshot he had taken earlier… the one he had dismissed as incomplete.

  He leaned in closer, almost pressing his nose to the screen, examining every pixel with fierce concentration.

  Vivek, who had been stretching on the sofa and trying to make sense of things in his own chaotic way, tilted his head like a confused puppy.

  “Umm… the thing Manav told earlier—do you really have a fetish for codes?” he asked, absolutely innocent and absolutely loud.

  “Shut up, idiot,” Rishabh hissed. “Not now.”

  Vivek blinked and slowly zipped his lips.

  Rishabh finally exhaled, eyes widening slightly as if a hidden pattern had just revealed itself. He tapped something on the screen repeatedly, cross-checking, zooming, re-checking.

  “Yug,” he called, his voice unusually sharp.

  Rishabh turned the laptop toward him.

  “I think… look at this username. The timing. The logs. The tag inside the screenshot—this might be him.”

  Yug squinted at the screen. At first, he shook his head.

  “There are many with the same name, Rishabh. Could be a coincidence.”

  But then, slowly, a smile crept onto his face—the kind of smile that only came when a jigsaw piece slid perfectly into place.

  Rishabh met his eyes. Both boys suddenly looked charged, awake, energized.

  They had a lead.

  The others crowded around them—Manav practically climbing over the back of the chair, Kritika leaning over Yug’s shoulder, Vivek hopping from foot to foot like he was waiting for a result announcement.

  “What happened?” Tarun asked from behind, half-asleep but alert enough to sense the shift in the room.

  Yug closed the laptop gently, looked at all of them, and spoke with measured excitement:

  “Even though we still need a lot more work…”

  he paused, letting the tension build, “…we might finally know the name of the person behind all of this.”

  Everyone waited.

  And for the first time in days, they felt like the darkness in front of them had a shape… and now, finally, a name.

  “It’s Sahil Malhotra.”