The night crept in, wrapping Nitish's dingy apartment in shadows. He lay sprawled on the sofa, still wearing the day's bruises like war paint, his mind replaying the events with the monotonous hum of the city in the background. He had just begun to drift into the kind of uneasy sleep that only came with exhaustion when muffled cries and the unmistakable sounds of violence seeped through the thin walls. Nitish's eyes snapped open, his senses sharpening to the sounds of struggle—someone was getting beaten up in the adjacent room.
Amanda lived there. A mid-tier beauty with a lot of makeup and an abundance of bravado, she was a hooker who made it her mission to flirt with Nitish every chance she got. Her bleached blonde hair, overdrawn lips, and the clatter of her stilettos as she pranced around were as much a part of the neighborhood's soundtrack as the distant sirens and occasional gunshots. She showed off just enough to make her presence known, her laughter a melody of false cheer in the grim corridors. Nitish had learned early on to ignore her advances; getting involved meant getting noticed, and Nitish had no desire for either.
He pressed a pillow over his head, willing the noise away. He wasn't a hero, not even close. Heroes got involved. Heroes stood up. Nitish simply wanted to be invisible, to fade into the background without consequence. So, he let Amanda's screams merge with the noise of the city, willing himself to forget, to be numb. But then the noises stopped. A cold silence seeped through the walls, more unsettling than the cries had been. He hesitated, staring at the cracked ceiling, before curiosity and a sense of dread pulled him to the door. He stepped out into the hallway, his heart pounding in rhythm with the distant beat of a bass-heavy song leaking from someone's radio.
As he approached Amanda's door, it swung open, and out stepped Jason. The smug look on Jason's face twisted into a smirk as he spotted Nitish. "Well, well, look who's slumming it up in a dump like this," Jason sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. Nitish stood frozen, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Jason, the school's golden boy, had been caught in a place like this, with someone like Amanda. And as if fate hadn't cursed Nitish enough for the day, there was Kelly, Jason's prized crush, her face twisted in panic.
Nitish tried to turn away, to shrink into the shadows, but Jason's hand shot out, slamming him against the wall. "You saw nothing," Jason spat, his grip tightening. Kelly's eyes darted between them, pleading, not for Nitish's safety, but for her own reputation. "Please, Nitish, don't say anything. He's underage… I could get in real trouble." Her voice wavered, desperation clear. Nitish glanced at her, half-beaten and pinned, realizing with cold clarity that neither of them cared about his well-being. They were terrified of scandal, of losing face, of anything that might tarnish their spotless images.
Nitish's lip curled into a smirk, a hollow, bitter expression that barely masked the sting of betrayal. "Humans," he muttered, his voice low and mocking. Jason's fist connected with Nitish's stomach, a punishing blow that doubled him over. Kelly watched, biting her lip, doing nothing to intervene. Nitish's vision blurred, pain spiking through his body as Jason shoved Amanda aside, snapping a photo of her crumpled next to Nitish. Jason's taunts filled the hall, his voice an echo of threats and curses, punctuated by the bright flash of the phone camera.
Once Jason left, dragging Kelly in his wake, Nitish slumped to the ground, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He picked himself up slowly, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through his bruised ribs. The hallway was empty now, except for Amanda, who had already begun to nurse her own wounds, ignoring Nitish entirely. He dragged himself back to his apartment, collapsing onto the sofa. It was all part of the act, the perfect portrayal of a background character who couldn't catch a break. He should have been proud—his performance was flawless. But as he lay there, staring at the familiar stains on the ceiling, Nitish couldn't shake the feeling that his plan to be average was slipping through his fingers like sand.
The next day, Nitish walked into school to a chorus of whispers and snickers. There, plastered on the walls and scattered across the grounds, were posters of him and Amanda, captured in Jason's cruel photograph. The image had been manipulated, twisted into a grotesque caricature that suggested something far more scandalous. Nitish's stomach churned as he pushed past the throngs of gawking students, their eyes full of judgment and derision. He expected it—knew Jason would pull something like this. But seeing it, feeling the weight of their stares, was another matter entirely.
Amanda had been arrested, hauled away for reasons Nitish couldn't bring himself to dwell on. Nitish had said nothing, maintaining the silent role of the scapegoat as rumors and lies piled on top of each other. In the principal's office, the scowl on the old man's face said it all. "Two weeks detention," the principal declared, barely meeting Nitish's eyes as if looking at him might somehow taint his own sense of righteousness. Nitish nodded, his mind elsewhere, tracing the line between expectation and reality. He had wanted to be nobody, but now he was a spectacle, his name on everyone's lips, the center of attention in the worst way possible. It was almost laughable how badly his plan had gone awry.
The days in detention passed in a blur of isolation and simmering anger. Nitish bought four punching bags, setting them up in the small confines of his apartment. Day after day, he pounded into them, his fists flying faster and harder with each passing hour. His knuckles split and bled, his hands becoming raw and blistered, but he didn't stop. When he finally did, all four bags hung in tatters, spilling sand and fabric like the innards of a slain beast. Nitish wrapped his fists in bandages, the pain a reminder of his own power, a power he refused to unleash on his tormentors. It was too easy, too simple to break them like he had the bags. He wanted to be average, didn't he? A nobody, a background character. And yet, with every beat of his pulse, every strike of his fists, the lie he told himself frayed at the edges.
Two weeks later, Nitish boarded the school bus, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The other students stared, their gazes filled with cheap disdain, as if they were somehow better, somehow purer. Nitish kept his head down, his body thrumming with restrained energy. He could feel the weight of their judgment, their silent accusations, and he let it wash over him, numbing his senses to the sharp sting of reality.
The bus rumbled along the winding road, the dull chatter of students a low hum in the background. Nitish leaned against the window, staring at the passing landscape, his mind elsewhere, anywhere but here. Then, without warning, the bus jerked violently, an explosion ripping through the air. The force threw Nitish against the seat in front of him, pain lancing through his already battered body. The bus careened off the road, plummeting down a steep cliffside. Screams filled the air, mingling with the screech of metal against rock, and then, everything went black.
When Nitish awoke, the air was cool, the scent of something unfamiliar filling his lungs. He pushed himself upright, his head spinning, and blinked at the sight before him. They were no longer on the bus. Instead, they stood in a grand hall, its walls lined with intricate tapestries and lit by flickering torches that cast long shadows across the stone floor. Guards, dressed in armor that gleamed under the torchlight, flanked the room, their expressions unreadable. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat a man who could only be described as a king, his regal presence commanding the space around him. Beside him stood a woman, her bearing proud and haughty, and a girl with eyes that glinted with curiosity and mischief.
Confusion rippled through the students, their whispers mingling with gasps and cries of fear. Some were excited, others terrified, and all were bewildered. Nitish scanned the room, piecing together the fragments of what had happened, his mind working at a furious pace. This wasn't an accident, wasn't random chance. They had been brought here, summoned for a purpose.
Before he could puzzle it out, a voice cut through the noise, rich and resonant, carrying a weight that silenced the room. A woman stepped forward, her robes flowing around her like liquid silver, her presence commanding immediate attention. Her eyes, sharp and ancient, swept over the gathered students with something akin to satisfaction.
"Welcome, heroes," she announced, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "Welcome to Alexandria."
Nitish's breath hitched, a chill racing down his spine. Heroes? The word hung heavy in the air, dripping with expectations and implications he wasn't ready to confront. He had wanted to be average, a nobody lost in the sea of faces. But here, in this new and strange realm, he was anything but. He glanced at the others, their expressions ranging from awe to terror, and felt the familiar pull of something bigger than himself—a pull he had tried so hard to resist.
As the woman's gaze landed on him, Nitish steeled himself, his mind already turning, already planning. Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that the world rarely cared for your plans. And in this place, this Alexandria, he was certain that whatever came next would shatter the remnants of his carefully crafted disguise.