The gates of K.S. Academy of Art and Drama creaked open, revealing a world that promised everything.
Tall glass buildings shimmered beneath the noon sun, proud and untouchable. Sculpted gardens framed modern structures, and the courtyard buzzed with life—students with cameras slung over their shoulders, scripts tucked under their arms, and headphones blaring dreams of stardom. To the outsider, this was paradise. A haven for creators. A top-tier institution where the best minds in theatre, film, and fashion were molded into legends.
But paradise was only a mask.
Beneath the surface, the academy was a battlefield. And some of its deadliest wounds didn't bleed.
Scandals. Ragging. Harassment. Abuse of power.
The kind of things that should make headlines—silenced. Erased like chalk on a blackboard.
Because the ones causing the damage weren't just unruly students. They were sons and daughters of ministers, CEOs, bureaucrats. Students with last names heavy enough to bend rules, buy silence, and erase consequences.
And the victims?
They were the ones who had fought tooth and nail to get here. On scholarships, after years of hard work, with no one to protect them. They arrived wide-eyed, only to find themselves caged in fear.
The authorities pretended not to see.
After all, how could a principal challenge a minister's son? Or a faculty member question someone whose father funded the college auditorium?
Here, the powerful played god. And the rest learned quickly—obey, stay invisible, or get destroyed.
---
It was just another day.
The halls echoed with laughter, sneakers squeaking on polished floors, and the sharp chatter of drama students quoting Shakespeare one minute and gossiping the next.
But today, the air was different.
The laughter was louder, meaner. The eyes of first-years darted around nervously. Whispers passed like smoke, and no one wanted to get too close to the center of it all.
In the middle of the courtyard, a first-year boy knelt on the hard ground, stripped down to his underwear, tears streaking his face. His hair was disheveled, his hands trembling, trying to cover what little dignity he had left.
Laughter rang around him, sharp and merciless. Phones were out, recording, snapping pictures, spreading the humiliation across the campus in seconds.
Towering over him was Akshay Thakur, his grip tight in the boy's hair as he yanked his head back.
"So, you thought you could refuse Veer Rana, huh?" he sneered. His voice was laced with cruel amusement. "You freshers think you have choices here? News flash—you don't."
Behind Akshay, seated lazily on an expensive matte-black bike, was Veer Rana himself.
Dressed in a leather jacket and designer sunglasses, he didn't even glance at the boy. His eyes were elsewhere—bored, distracted, arrogant. But the small smirk playing on his lips said enough. This was his circus, and the boy was just another act.
Ananya Malhotra stood close to him, her arm draped around his shoulder as if claiming him. Her smile was wicked, eyes lit with malice as she stepped closer to the boy.
"You're a fool to reject Veer's first condition," she said, her voice syrupy-sweet with venom. "If you'd just said yes, you wouldn't be crawling now."
The boy sobbed harder. He didn't say anything—he couldn't. His voice had given up, crushed by shame.
Across the scene, leaning against a bike, was Avinash Singh.
He watched it all with arms crossed, face impassive. Unlike the others, he wasn't laughing. He wasn't filming. For a second—just a flicker. He looked away, exhaled sharply, and then stepped forward.
He picked the boy's mud-streaked clothes from the ground and tossed them carelessly in his direction.
"Just do what they tell you, man," he muttered. His voice wasn't mocking. It was tired. "You'll save yourself a lot of trouble."
---
The crowd parted as Veer finally stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. He walked toward the boy with the slow confidence of someone who had never been denied anything.
He crouched, just close enough for the boy to feel his presence without looking him in the eyes.
"This is mercy," Veer said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Next time, I won't be in a good mood. Understand?"
The boy nodded quickly, trembling.
"Good," Veer stood tall again. "Now crawl back to wherever the hell you came from. You're done wasting my time."
Veer turned and walked away, Ananya clinging to his arm, Akshay laughing as he followed, and Avinash trailing behind, silent.
The crowd dispersed just as fast as it had gathered. No one wanted to be the last one staring.
The boy remained on the ground for a moment longer. His chest shook with every sob, but no one came to help. No one spoke to him.
He pulled on his clothes slowly, like every movement hurt more than the last. His fingers fumbled at the buttons. His eyes were swollen and red. Then, without a word, he stood and walked away—his head down, shoulders caved inward, spirit crumpled.
---
To outsiders, K.S. Academy was a temple of dreams.
But for the ones who knew better, it was a prison with velvet walls.
And in the last two years, under Veer Rana's silent reign, that velvet had turned red.