On paper, it was a peaceful life.
No whispers. No shadows. Just deadlines, lectures, and lukewarm coffee.
Nivrit Vashirayan was a grad student—Computer Science and Mathematics. Smart. Quiet. Approachable. The kind of calm people appreciated in passing, then forgot about the moment he left the room.
Professors liked him. Classmates forgot him.
And that was exactly how he liked it.
7:43 AM.
The café smelled like burnt beans and half-finished theses. Niv stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. Not unnoticed—just hard to place.
Lean frame, rolled sleeves, messy black hair that looked deliberate. Crocs. A man balanced somewhere between genius and indifference.
He collected his coffee with a nod and sank into a corner booth by the window.
His phone buzzed.
Incoming video call: Mom.
He picked it up without hesitation.
"Hey, Mom."
Selene Vashirayan appeared onscreen—hair pinned, crisp shirt, diplomatic blur behind her. She was somewhere between Tokyo and Geneva, probably. Niv hadn't asked.
"Finally," she said, smiling. "I was starting to think your textbooks kidnapped you."
"Buried. Not kidnapped," he replied, sipping. "Difference."
"You look tired. Are you eating?"
"I always say yes."
"And you always mean no."
She sighed, half exasperated, half fond. "Call your brother. He says you're ghosting him."
"Will do."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The screen went dark. He drained his cup and left.
10:06 AM. Lecture Hall 206.
Three whiteboards. One exhausted professor. Equations like battlefield scars.
Niv sat near the back. Laptop open. Head down. Notes fast.
Sharp. Focused. Silent.
He was the kind of student who never interrupted, never raised his hand—but somehow still got top marks. The kind of presence you don't notice until it's gone.
6:41 PM.
Door shut. Shoes off. Couch.
Niv collapsed backward, arms out, eyes on the ceiling.
No movement. Just breath. Just stillness.
7:52 PM.
Lo-fi beats looped through sleepy chords. A rubber ball arced lazily from palm to ceiling.
Catch. Toss. Catch.
Half-eaten sandwich. Crumpled wrapper. Silence.
Then: Incoming call: Ethan.
"Yo," Niv said.
Ethan appeared, all grin and chaos. "You're horizontal. Again."
"Three days inside. I'm still functional."
"Debatable."
"Midterms. Assignments. Life."
"Excuses," Ethan said. "You're coming out tonight. No arguments."
"Where?"
"Rooftop party. Astra."
Niv blinked. "Hell."
"Fancy hell. With champagne. And a violinist remixing Kendrick. It'll be hilarious."
"Two drinks. Max."
"That's the spirit."
8:41 PM.
The street outside was quiet, except for the soft growl of a machine made to turn heads.
A Lamborghini Revuelto. Matte midnight blue. Parked like a threat beside a cracked sidewalk.
The gullwing door lifted.
"Get in, nerd."
Niv zipped up his hoodie and slid into the passenger seat.
"Subtle," he said.
Ethan grinned, dressed like old money with nothing to prove.
"I was going to bring the Rolls," he said. "But I didn't want to be obnoxious."
"You look like generational wealth and espresso."
"You look like you escaped a library fire. Now shut up and vibe."
The car pulled into the city.
They became friends after one of the most chaotic Overwatch matches in history.
Ethan played like a demon. Niv played like a surgeon. They turned a guaranteed loss into a win that made the enemy team rage-quit and uninstall.
Ten minutes later, Ethan DM'd him: "Okay, who the hell are you and why do you play like a hitman with a PhD?"
They'd been inseparable since.
Ethan was fireworks and luxury. Niv was black coffee and quiet ruin.
Balance. Sort of.