Four Years in Shadows

The classroom fell completely silent.

Shrishti Dishayen's words echoed in our minds like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.

"From this moment on, you will live on campus for the next four years.

There will be no contact with the outside world."

No one spoke.

No one moved.

It felt like the air had thickened, pressing down on us, sealing us inside a world we hadn't agreed to enter.

Some students were frozen in disbelief. Others were visibly panicking—whispering among themselves, their faces tense. But the silence… it kept growing heavier, filling every corner of the room.

Then, finally, someone stood up.

A girl wearing jeans and a loose T-shirt—she was trembling slightly, clearly nervous. Her voice wavered as she spoke.

"Um… if we really have to stay here for four or five years without any outside contact… how are we supposed to manage our expenses?" she asked, almost apologetically. "I-I'm heavily dependent on my parents…"

Almost immediately, a boy followed her. He looked just as unsettled.

"I don't get it, teacher," he said. "Why do we need to be completely cut off from the outside world? What's the point of that?"

I looked at them both. Then something strange clicked in my head.

Both of them… had the white phones.

Subtly, I scanned the classroom.

I started to notice it—only the students who had been given white phones were reacting this way. Shock, confusion, nervousness.

But the students with black phones? They were calm. Composed. Like this wasn't news to them at all.

How are they so calm?

Did they already know about this rule? And if they did… why weren't they reacting?

Was I overthinking? Or was there something bigger happening beneath the surface?

Before I could spiral any deeper into my thoughts, Shrishti responded—her tone unchanged, cold and matter-of-fact.

"If you open your rulebooks," she said, "you'll understand why the school is designed to operate in a closed environment. Many of the academy's systems and rules can only function properly in isolation. That's how we maintain control, fairness, and progression."

She paused for a moment, then added, "And one more thing. We don't want outside influence interfering with our school system. Parents complaining about other students… outside media pressuring school policy… It disrupts the purpose of this place."

There was a beat of stunned silence before she continued.

"But," she said, her eyes meeting the students who had spoken up, "if any of you want to stay connected with the outside world, you're free to drop out at any time. We won't stop you."

Her voice dropped slightly in tone.

"Of course… I assume you understand the consequences of dropping out from Prestige Horizon Academy. Especially for those of you from middle-class backgrounds."

That last line hit like a quiet threat.

No shouting. No raised voice.

Just cold reality, dressed up in soft words.

Lavanya raised her hand hesitantly. She had been composed until now, but even she looked troubled.

"But, teacher… many of us depend on our parents financially. If we can't speak to them, how are we supposed to—"

Shrishti didn't let her finish.

"You'll receive a monthly allowance directly in your POY app, deposited by the academy.

She looked around, making sure everyone was paying attention.

"Your parents are already aware that communication will be severed during your time here. They gave their consent."

Her words dropped like a hammer.

All this time, we thought we were entering a school. But now…

It felt like we had stepped into a system.

One that was carefully designed, deliberately isolated, and possibly manipulative.

I looked down at my own phone.

White.

My hand felt heavier now.

Slowly, the class began to return to a state of normalcy.

The shock of being completely cut off from the outside world still lingered in everyone's eyes, but it was gradually being pushed aside by quiet acceptance. Most students had stopped whispering. Some sat upright again, phones placed neatly on their desks, and others flipped open their rulebooks, trying to understand what they had just signed up for.

The atmosphere shifted—not to comfort, but to quiet compliance.

It felt like we were beginning to realize: resisting wasn't going to change anything. If we wanted to stay, we'd have to play by their rules.

Seeing that the classroom had settled again, Shrishti continued her explanation.

"Like I said earlier," she began, "your POY app will receive money every month. But you may be wondering—how is that amount decided?"

She paused briefly, then added,

"It's based entirely on your class's average academic performance. Your class average decides how much each of you receives."

The students murmured again, this time more with interest than anxiety.

And just like that, we understood why the school had to be a closed system.

If outside money or parent influence was involved, this system wouldn't work. They had created a full economy inside the academy—one that rewarded excellence.

"The first evaluation," she continued, "will be conducted next Monday. It's called the Pre-Evaluation Exam. It consists of 50 multiple-choice questions, to be answered in 1 hour."

She walked to the board and wrote it down as she spoke.

"All students must score at least half of the class average to pass."

That caught our attention.

"If your class average is 40," she explained, "then 40 multiplied by 100 equals 40,000. That's the total monthly POY credits each student in your class will receive."

A few students exchanged looks. Some nodded, and a few even looked… excited.

After all, a performance-based economy meant those who worked hard would thrive. For some, it was motivating.

Then, Shatak raised his hand from the back row. His tone was casual, but the question he asked immediately sharpened the air.

"What happens if someone scores less than half of the average?"

Shrishti didn't hesitate.

"That student will be expelled."

Gasps. Murmurs.

The calm that had returned was shattered in a second.

"Wait—what?" someone whispered.

"Expelled just like that?"

Shrishti didn't blink.

"Don't worry," she said smoothly. "The Pre-Evaluation Exam is extremely basic. Most of the questions are middle-school level. If you've made it this far, you already have the knowledge to pass it."

She walked back to her desk and pulled out a few printed sheets.

"On Friday and Saturday evenings, we'll conduct mock tests after school hours. You'll get a full understanding of the exam format and question types. If you want to prepare, take those seriously."

She looked around the room, her voice softening slightly.

"And honestly? If you ask me… you won't even need to study. Clearing this exam is more of a formality than a challenge. All I need is for you to show up and try. That's it."

Her words seemed to lift a weight off everyone's shoulders.

The earlier anxiety faded. Students leaned back in their chairs. A few even smiled.

Relief washed over the class.

The system might be strict, but at least for now—it felt survivable.

For now…