Echo in the Halls

Cambridge welcomed us back with its signature blend of grey skies and whispered nostalgia. The scent of rain-drenched cobblestones hung thick in the air, mingling with the mustiness of old books and the faint smoke of chimney fires — a perfume only this city could wear. The streets were wet, glistening like ink spilled across parchment. It felt less like a return and more like stepping back into a dream that had been waiting for me to wake up.

Krithi and I resumed our lives like gears slotting back into a well-worn machine. Lecture halls buzzed with unresolved debates. The libraries breathed with a quiet, watchful intensity. And outside, the rain kept time, tapping out rhythms against age-old windows like it, too, had a syllabus to follow.

But things weren't the same.

This time, I stood taller.

This time, I wasn't just the University Topper.

I was President of the Student Council.

Unanimously elected. Not just respected—feared, followed, watched. I felt the shift in energy every time I entered a room. Eyes tracked me not with idle curiosity but with expectation. Pressure, yes—but also power. A strange kind of voltage that hummed in my bones.

And I decided to use it.

On my first day in office, I walked up to the podium, faced the entire university, and gave them no smiles, no hollow promises.

Just this:

"To the ones poisoning these halls—listen closely.The silence you've hidden behind? I'm tearing it down.The filth you spread through corners and cracked doors? I will drag it into the light.You have seven days. Seven.After that, if you're still in my university—I will make sure you're not in any."

Gasps. Whispers. Shuffling feet.

I didn't flinch.

That was the warning.A message carved in stone.No grey areas. No loopholes. No escape routes.

Then came the instruction.We rolled out the policy:

Mandatory health screenings.

Surprise dorm inspections.

Anonymous confessional sessions with counselors.

Strike teams made of students, professors, and law enforcement liaisons.

And then came the action.

Krithi printed the first wave of campaign posters.Red and black. Thick brushstrokes like war paint. One word across every board, every gate, every wall:

"ENOUGH."

She taped the last one outside the chemistry lab, her fingers trembling from cold and adrenaline. Her eyes burned like fire through mist.

We started kicking in the doors no one dared touch. Held secret night sessions with victims. Caught suppliers red-handed. Cleaned bathrooms of syringes. We took down two off-campus dens—quietly, ruthlessly.

There were threats.Anonymous notes. A shattered office window.My name scratched into a bathroom mirror.Didn't matter.

We didn't back down.

A declaration of war.

The drug culture that had silently woven itself into the university's underbelly? I was going to rip it out, root and stem. I called emergency council meetings, mobilized volunteers, reached out to professionals. We weren't going to wait for bureaucracy to catch up—we were going to outpace it.

Krithi was there every step of the way. Her fingers stained with ink, she designed the posters—bold typography that didn't beg for attention, it demanded it. "ENOUGH." The word screamed from every hallway, from every bulletin board and bathroom door. We marched into darkness with lanterns lit, holding conversations in the corners of libraries and behind locked doors. Whispers turned into confessions. Needles dropped. Threats came too.

They shattered a window in my office.

We replaced it with steel bars and louder voices.

And slowly, like a forest regrowing after fire, the university began to breathe again.

To celebrate, I threw open the doors of the Berlin mansion—the lonely relic I had inherited too young and filled too rarely. That night, it pulsed with life. Old friends spilled across velvet lounges. Warm jazz blended into careless remixes courtesy of Ross, who played DJ with more enthusiasm than taste.

Krithi floated through the rooms, a glass of wine in one hand and a dangerous spark in her eyes. The candlelight caught the copper in her hair, and her laughter—unrestrained, full-throated—threaded itself through the music, anchoring me like it always did.

But then—

a sound that didn't belong.

The doorbell.

One sharp chime. Then another.

Insistent. Jarring.

Like a blade dragging across silk.

A hush fell over the room, like the house had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. I glanced at Krithi. She frowned. Everyone we invited was already inside.

I set down my drink. The glass clicked softly on the table. Every step I took echoed, suddenly too loud in the silence. The grand hallway stretched ahead, glowing under the chandelier. The air felt colder here. More aware.

I reached the door and gripped the handle.

The moment it swung open, rain misted the threshold. Cold. Silver. Unforgiving.

And then I saw him.

A man. No umbrella. No bag.

Just a soaked coat clinging to his frame like it was stitched to his skin.

He stood still.

Too still.

His face was cast in shadow beneath the porch light, but his eyes—those I could see.

Hollow.

Not blank. Not tired. Emptied. Like something had reached in and scooped the soul out, leaving only an echo.

"Can I help you?" I asked. My voice didn't tremble. But my gut twisted.

He didn't reply.

Instead, his hand moved—fast.

A blur of silver. A flash. A hiss.

And then—pain.

Searing. Blinding. A line of fire ripped across my forearm. Blood sprang forth in crimson rivulets, warm and furious. I staggered back. Instinct took over. I swung. My elbow connected with his jaw—crack—his head snapped to the side, but he didn't go down.

Then he turned and ran.

"HEY!" Ross shouted behind me and tore past, his footsteps pounding into the rain. A blur of others followed—shouts, curses, wet footsteps disappearing into the storm.

Krithi was with me before I could speak. Her hands pressed a napkin—thick, white, quickly turning red—against my arm.

"Deep breaths—just breathe, I've got you—" she whispered, her voice cracking.

But I wasn't listening to her.

My eyes were locked on the doorframe.

Something flapped there. A small rectangle of paper, pinned by the wind.

I reached for it. My fingers left smudges of blood across the ink.

Seven words. Scrawled in handwriting I hadn't seen in years but could never forget.

"You should have burned the journal."

I stared at it, the letters pulsing like a heartbeat.

My own pulse slowed. Froze. Shattered.

Behind me, the party stuttered to life again—voices calling for bandages, someone dialing for help. But I couldn't move. Krithi saw piece of paper

"What is it?" she whispered.

I didn't answer.

Because I knew who was it