The marker still lay on the floor where it had fallen, untouched. Ishan Malik inhaled sharply through his nose,a habit he’d picked up in Oxford, a way to steady himself before speaking. But the words that came out weren’t the measured, precise ones he’d rehearsed for years. "Aalam," he said, and her name felt strange in his mouth, weighted, like he’d bitten into something unexpectedly sweet. "This class has rules." His voice was too quiet. The students in the back row leaned forward, straining to hear.
Aalam Zainab didn’t blink. She tilted her head, the braid slipping over one shoulder, and smiled,not the polite, perfunctory smile of a student caught misbehaving, but something brighter, more dangerous. "Which one did I break?" she asked, and the question wasn’t a challenge. It was an invitation.
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