Forbidden Questions

They were white.

My eyes widened the moment I unwrapped the uniforms.

I'd been holding back, saving the reveal for the quiet of my dorm room—wanting to see the full picture without the artificial lighting of the Vaya Store.

Inside my room, with the door closed and silence pressing around me, I opened the package with careful hands.

There was no label on the box.

No brand.

No decoration.

Just my name printed clearly:

Kartik Agarwal – Year 1, Section B

The contents were simple but exact:

Two sets of daily uniforms, one set for sports activities.

And every single piece—white.

Just like the phone.

"What the hell…" I muttered under my breath.

What was this school trying to imply?

The pieces were falling into place.

First the phone. Now the uniform.

I was almost certain: the black phone holders had black uniforms.

They weren't even trying to hide it.

I picked up one of the daily-use sets and laid it out on my bed.

There was a white shirt, tailored pants, and a sleek white blazer that looked like it had been designed for an elite detective. It wasn't plain either—the blazer had a thin, subtle strip running from shoulder to elbow, barely visible but undoubtedly there. A design choice, I guessed. A mark.

Even though the uniform was entirely white, it didn't feel sterile.

Delicate patterns and linework stitched into the fabric gave it an elite, formal look—elegant, sharp, and strangely… powerful.

Next came the sports uniform—a breathable, soft white t-shirt and matching pajama-style pants. Functional, but still neat.

They even provided two pairs of shoes: one formal, one athletic.

I stared at it all, taking in the craftsmanship, the polish, the intent.

There was no doubt: these uniforms were expensive.

Customized for each student, likely embedded with tech we didn't even know about yet.

It made sense why the school insisted we retrieve them individually.

And yet, beneath the admiration, something began to stir again.

Nitya's voice echoed in the back of my mind.

"Do you really think a school this expensive is just about education?"

With a sigh, I sat on my bed and pulled out the rulebook I'd received earlier.

It was slim, but dense—each page tightly packed with fine text and color-coded sections.

I started flipping through.

I wasn't looking for rules anymore.

I was looking for contradictions.

And I found one.

Right there, in the general protocol section:

"Students are strictly prohibited from questioning staff or faculty about the origin, funding, or political affiliation of Prestige Horizon Academy."

I turned a few pages forward… and found this:

"The first branch of Prestige Horizon was established in Year 5 of the New Aurora Calendar, under the joint approval of the Council of Royal Welfare and Educational Advancement."

I stared at it.

What kind of institution bans questions about its origins, yet includes the exact establishment date, governing body, and structural layout of its branches right there in the student handbook?

Why give information… only to forbid curiosity about it?

And it wasn't just that.

There were full lists—how many faculty per branch, student intake per year, distribution of departments…

If they truly wanted to hide their purpose, they could've left this all out.

But instead, they gave us just enough to start asking questions—and then made those questions forbidden.

It was almost like…

They wanted to see who would notice. Who would question. Who would dig deeper.

I closed the book and leaned back, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

As I sat on my chair, staring into the silence of my dorm room, my thoughts wandered back to what Nitya had said the day before.

She mentioned something odd—the school's establishment timeline aligning closely with the founding of the Royalty. But… the rulebook clearly stated otherwise. According to it, the school was funded by the Royal Family and established using the Aurora Calendar, not the global one. So why did she draw that comparison?

I considered a few possibilities, but only one felt truly reasonable: Each student receives a slightly different version of the rulebook. That would explain the contradiction. Maybe it was designed that way, on purpose, to confuse or test us. A mind game. I didn't have any better theory than that.

Still, I pushed the thought away and turned my attention to the window. The school was strange, but I needed to focus. There was no way I'd understand it all on day one.

The next morning, I left my hostel with my uniform neatly pressed. As I walked down the stone path leading toward the main building, I noticed more students had started wearing their uniforms too.

That's when I saw them.

The black uniforms.

Just like I predicted yesterday.

Some students were walking with an air of quiet superiority, clad in royal black fabric with sharp red outlines. Compared to our elegant white, their outfits looked like something straight out of a noble military academy. Same design—blazer, shirt, pants—but a completely different aura.

So… they were dividing us.

I shook my head and kept walking.

When I reached the classroom, something new caught my eye: every desk had a nameplate now. Assigned seating, huh?

I scanned the room until I found mine—third last bench, first row. Far enough to stay out of the teacher's radar, but close enough to observe everything.

Perfect.

Just as I sat down and got comfortable, I saw her.

Nitya.

She walked right toward me. For a second, I wondered what game she was playing this time.

But she didn't say a word.

She just sat down next to me.

No eye contact. No sarcastic smile. Not even a glance.

Straight-up silence.

I stared at her. Was she seriously going to ignore me after acting like Sherlock Holmes yesterday?

"What kind of animal is she?" I muttered under my breath, then looked away.

Honestly, even though I didn't want to talk to her, this kind of cold treatment felt… off.

I pulled out my phone and opened the COS App. A couple of notifications were waiting.

First, the updated timetable:

"Zero period will be held every morning. No subject-specific class. Class teacher only. Students may ask questions about exams, rules, or class updates."

Weird system. But maybe useful.

Second, a new form:

"Pre-Evaluation Mock Exam Registration – Open for 24 Hours."

Mock exams already? They weren't wasting any time.

I stared at the form, then back at Nitya. She hadn't even opened her phone. Still sitting there, silent.

Something was going on.

About the uniforms.

About the school's timeline.

About her.

And I was starting to think…

This place wasn't just an academy.

It was a puzzle.

And every student here—including me—was just a piece.