The Wolf in the Lecture Hall
The car slid to a stop with a whisper of tires against cobblestone, the kind of silence that expensive engineering bought—no jolt, no complaint, just the smooth cessation of motion. Rithvik Aayurvas sat for three seconds longer than necessary, watching the gates of Kingston Elite College through tinted glass, memorizing the shape of them before he ever touched the ground.
Wrought iron, gold-leafed crest, a motto in Latin he'd never bothered to translate because he already understood its meaning without the words: *power dresses itself in tradition*. He'd seen the same principle at work in his father's study, in the church his grandmother insisted on attending, in the marble halls of every institution his family had ever bent to their will. Kingston Elite was no different. It only pretended otherwise, with its ivy and its endowments and its earnest little plaques honoring dead benefactors.
The driver opened his door. Rithvik stepped out into September light that felt too bright, too clean, as if the sun itself hadn't yet been informed of what he was.
Two men flanked him instantly—Suresh on his left, broad as a door frame, and Vikram on his right, quieter, more dangerous for it.…
