Chapter 1: Room 101
The wheels of Zyan’s heavy suitcase let out a loud, agonizing squeak against the tiled floor of the medical school hostel. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his heart hammering with a mix of pure, electric excitement and sheer exhaustion. He had finally made it. The son of a local car mechanic, who grew up with grease on his fingers and a dream in his chest, was officially standing in the halls of the top government medical college.
"Right here, Room 101," the warden said, his keys jingling loudly as they stopped outside a heavy wooden door at the very end of the corridor. "He’s a senior. A quiet one. Top of his class, so don’t go making too much noise and disturbing him."
"Oh, don't worry, Sir! I'm very adaptable," Zyan said, offering a bright, blinding smile that showed off his dimples. He shifted the heavy strap of his worn-out backpack, trying to look as neat as possible.
The warden didn't look convinced. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the door.
Before Zyan could even ask what the senior's name was, the lock clicked. The door swung inward, and the chaotic, humid noise of the hallway instantly vanished, replaced by a sudden rush of cool air-conditioned wind.
Zyan blinked, and for a second, his breath caught in his throat.
Standing in the doorway was a guy who looked less like a stressed medical student and more like a model who had somehow lost his way to a runway. He was tall—easily a few inches taller than Zyan—with broad, sharp shoulders that filled out a crisp, perfectly fitted black t-shirt. His jawline looked like it had been sculpted from marble, and a few strands of neat, dark hair fell perfectly across his forehead. But it was his eyes that made Zyan freeze. They were a deep, piercing dark color, and right now, they were locking onto Zyan’s messy hair, rumpled shirt, and oversized bags with an unmistakable look of cold disapproval.
The room behind him was spotless. It smelled faintly of expensive mint and bitter black coffee. On one side, books were stacked symmetrically on a pristine desk, and the bedsheets were pulled so taut there wasn't a single wrinkle. The other side of the room—Zyan's side—was completely bare.
"Kabir, son," the warden spoke up, completely oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature. "Remember I called you this morning? The hostel is completely packed this semester. This is Zyan, a first-year. Just accommodate him here until the new wing's rooms are functional next semester, okay?"
Kabir didn’t say a word. He didn't yell, and he didn't argue. He simply lowered his piercing gaze from the warden to Zyan. His eyes tracked the grease stain on Zyan's sneakers, then moved up to his face.
A tiny, controlled breath of irritation escaped Kabir's lips. He stepped aside just an inch, his voice smooth but freezing cold. "Just don't touch my desk."
Instead of being intimidated, Zyan felt a sudden, chaotic surge of energy. Wow, he’s incredibly handsome, but why is he so icy?
Determined to break the ice and bring some warmth into Room 101, Zyan flashed his biggest, most enthusiastic, sunshine smile. "Hi, Kabir-Gege! I'm Zyan! Let's get along well!"
Kabir slowly lifted a single eyebrow in pure, unbothered disapproval.
