UNFAIR JUDGEMENT

The school corridor was a nightmare painted in red. What used to be a place of laughter was now a tomb. Bodies of students and teachers lay scattered across the linoleum, torn apart with a savagery that defied logic. Limbs were severed, heads rolled down the hallway like discarded toys, and the walls were drenched in a thick, metallic coat of blood.

"Please... don't kill me... I don't want to die! I beg you!"

A lone student hovered in the center of the hallway, his feet dangling feet above the floor. He clawed at his throat, gasping for air, pinned against the air by an invisible, suffocating force.

Across from him stood another boy. His face remained a shadow, hidden from view, but his presence felt like an icy weight on the soul. When he tilted his head, a sliver of light hit his eyes. They weren't just dark—they were pits of absolute void, as cold and final as death itself. With a casual flick of the shadow-boy's wrist, the air tightened.

A sickening crack echoed through the hall. Blood sprayed from the hanging boy's neck as his throat gave way, his final, agonised scream cut short by a wet thud.

BRRRRRRING!

The horrific scene shattered.

Manoj flailed on his bed, his hand slapping blindly at the bedside table until it hit the alarm clock. He groaned, eyes still shut, trying to sink back into the warmth of his pillow. But as his vision cleared and focused on the glowing red numbers, the fog of sleep vanished.

He was late.

"Oh no, no, no!" Manoj yelped, leaping out of bed with a burst of panicked energy. He didn't even have time to think about the nightmare as he scrambled toward the bathroom, his heart hammering against his ribs for a completely different reason.

Manoj was the kind of person who looked like he had stepped right out of a high-end fashion magazine. Standing at a perfect six feet, his physique was lean but carried the subtle, defined muscle of a natural athlete. He had the sort of glowing, flawless skin that made people stop and stare, often falling for him before he even spoke a word. In the hallways of his school, he wasn't just a student; he was a celebrity.

But even the school’s most popular boy wasn't immune to a bad morning.

"MOM!" a sharp cry echoed from the bathroom, followed by the heavy thud of a plastic tub hitting the floor. "I told you not to turn on the geyser in here! The water is literally boiling!"

Manoj stood over the steaming bucket, nursing his hand. He had plunged it in without thinking, and the sudden, searing heat had sent a jolt of pain straight to his brain. "I could have actually burned my skin off!" he yelled, his voice thick with annoyance.

From the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of a spatula hitting a pan continued, followed by his mother’s calm, practiced voice. "I did it because if you bathe with cold water, you'll catch a cold, Manoj. Poor health leads to poor grades, and I won't have you falling behind."

"It’s almost summer, Mom!" Manoj called back, exasperated. He grabbed the cold water tap, twisting it hard to find a temperature that wouldn't melt his skin.

As the steam began to clear, he caught his reflection in the small, fogged-up mirror. For a fleeting second, the image of that dark, blood-soaked corridor flashed in his mind—the severed limbs, the smell of copper, and those hollow, death-filled eyes.

He blinked, and the vision vanished.

He didn't dwell on it. Dreams were just dreams, after all—meaningless noise from a tired brain. He had much more important things to worry about, like the fact that he was now officially twenty minutes behind schedule. He stepped into the shower, the nightmare already beginning to dissolve like soap down the drain.

Manoj threw on his school uniform with practiced speed, the crisp fabric sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders. He grabbed his bag, slung it over one arm, and rushed into the living area. The smell of fresh breakfast filled the room, but he didn't even sit down.

"Mom! Breakfast! I’m already late!" he called out, his eyes darting to his watch.

"Coming, coming!" his mother replied from the kitchen.

In the background, the television was on, its volume muted. A news reporter stood in front of a school gate draped in yellow police tape. The bold red headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen read:

TRAGEDY AT RN HIGHSCHOOL: MASSACRE IN MADHOPURA.

The text flickered with grim details: Yesterday, a horrific tragedy occurred in the small village of Madhopura, just outside the city. All students and teachers were found dead. Initial reports describe the scene as a brutal killing with no survivors. The cause of death remains a mystery. Police investigations are ongoing.

Images of the school’s brick walls, now stained with the same dark red Manoj had seen in his dream, flashed on the screen. But Manoj didn’t look up. His focus was entirely on the plate his mother set down in front of him.

He shoveled the food into his mouth, his mind already at the school gates, miles away from the silent horror playing out on the screen behind him. With a final gulp of water and a quick goodbye, he bolted out the door and ran toward school, leaving the silent news of the massacre behind.

Manoj pedalled his bicycle with everything he had, his lungs burning as he raced the clock. He glanced at his watch—thirty seconds. The heavy iron gates of the school were already beginning to groan shut.

I’m not going to make it, he thought, panic rising.

But suddenly, the gates stopped. A girl was crouched right in the gap, her hair pulled into a perfectly neat, cute bun. It was Nusrat. She was short, strikingly beautiful, and widely known as the smartest girl in their year. She was calmly re-tying her laces, effectively blocking the gate from closing.

Manoj didn't waste the second. He skidded through the narrow opening just as she stood up.

"Hey! Tie your laces inside!" the guard barked, frustrated. "You’re blocking the path!"

"Sorry, sir!" Nusrat chirped with a playful smile.

As she stepped inside, Manoj hopped off his bike, breathing hard. "Thank you, Nusrat. You’re a lifesaver."

Nusrat crossed her arms, teasing him. "Only a 'thank you'? That won't work, Manoj. You’re buying me a drink at lunch."

"Deal," Manoj laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Put it on my tab."

"This is the last time I help you," she muttered, though a slight blush crept onto her cheeks.

"You say that every time," Manoj whispered as they headed toward their classroom.

The room was already buzzing when they walked in. Their group of friends was gathered in the back: Abhi, the tall, athletic runner with a cool confidence; Ronak, the stout, jolly guy who was currently mid-bite into a snack; and Adarsh, the short, brilliant strategist of the group.

"Look! Our beloved man and woman have arrived!" Ronak joked, crumbs flying.

Manoj ignored the teasing and slumped into his seat. Adarsh immediately turned around, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

"Hey, Manoj," Adarsh whispered, leaning in. "Where were you yesterday? You weren't at school, you weren't at home, and your phone was dead. Your mom called me—she thought you were staying at my place. I lied and covered for you, but man, she’ll kill me if she finds out. Why did you disappear?"

Manoj opened his mouth to answer, his throat suddenly dry. He hesitated, the shadow of a memory flickering behind his eyes—but before he could speak, the door creaked open.

"Everyone, settle down," the homeroom teacher announced.

The class fell into a hushed silence.

"We have a transfer student joining us today," the teacher said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Please, come in."

A boy walked through the door. The room felt like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. He was the same height as Manoj, with the same lean, powerful build and striking features. But while Manoj looked like light, this boy looked like shadow. A jagged, dark red scar ran across his face, and his presence felt heavy—disturbing.

He didn't smile. He didn't look at the teacher. He looked straight at the back of the room.

"Introduce yourself," the teacher prompted.

"I am Jo," the boy said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.