Look, I wasn’t eavesdropping.
I was chasing a packet of chips.
Yes. Chips. Cheese Burst Maxx — limited edition, expired, tragic. It slipped out of my bag during a sharp U-turn I took while avoiding Rachit from Room 114 because that guy once cried over a cracked power bank and I was not emotionally available for that.
Anyway, my precious, crusty chip packet rolled into the cursed hallway behind the admin wing — the one with broken tube lights, mysteriously cold air, and a smell that’s like a combination of dead printer ink and lost dreams.
So I crawled under the old wooden bench that has “property of V-Tech 2007” carved into it — which means it’s old enough to have seen actual functioning Wi-Fi — and then… I heard it.
Whispers. From the other side of the wall.
The seminar room.
Crack in the wall. Not metaphorical — literal. A little slit between the tiles where, apparently, God wanted drama to leak.
> Voice 1: “It has to be flushed by Monday. If not, we’re all exposed.”
Voice 2: “And if someone’s already seen it?”
Voice 1: “Then we find them. Before they talk.”
Before they what now?
You know that moment when your brain tries to get your legs to run but your legs go, “Nah bro, we’re invested”?
Yeah. That.
I leaned in further. My chips were now long forgotten. I’d entered full desi Jason Bourne mode except I had the reflexes of a sleepy sloth and the core strength of toothpaste.
Then one of them coughed.
That cough.
It sounded like it vaped diesel fuel and chewed on sandpaper for breakfast. It was the kind of cough that’s not just loud, it judges your bloodline.
And that’s when it happened.
I shifted my elbow.
It hit the vending machine next to me — the old one that thinks dispensing food is optional. It responded with a loud, violent, CLUNK CLUNK THUMP THUMP THUMP, and proceeded to spit out five Frootis like it had just been robbed.
Silence.
> Voice 2: “…did you hear that?”
Yes, Kingpin. Everyone in a 3 km radius heard that.
Panic. Pure. Bone-deep.
I did the first thing that made no sense:
I leapt into a janitor’s closet like I was escaping from a laser grid.
Now I was crouching between a mop that smelled like failed ambitions and a bucket with “DEEPAK” written on it in marker for no reason.
I stayed there. Quiet. Heart racing like it owed a loan shark money.
Once the hallway fell silent again — except for the sound of the vending machine hiccupping out one last tragic Frooti — I crawled out like a baby raccoon with trust issues.
They were gone.
But I had heard too much.
And more importantly: I had nothing else to do because my 4 PM class was cancelled and also, I have the survival instinct of a potato with Wi-Fi.
So I went to the locker section.
Now, these lockers haven’t been touched since 2014. No one uses them. Except one guy who stores protein powder and stale boiled eggs in a mini fridge inside his locker. (Yes. He calls it “Egg Chamber.” No. He doesn’t have friends.)
Locker 329B was there. Dusty. Half-broken. Like it knew it was about to start drama.
No lock. Just a gentle slide open.
Inside?
A Ziploc bag with what looked like lizard tails or possibly cursed gummy worms from an alternate dimension
A USB drive, duct-taped to a half-eaten packet of Haldiram’s trail mix
A single folded paper titled “Project ZEERA – Flavor Memory Trials”
Now.
Any sane person would’ve said “Nope.” Shut it. Walked away. Prayed. Done wudu. Changed faculties.
But my dumbest inner voice — the one that sounds like an overexcited cousin with zero chill — whispered:
> “Bro. Plug the USB. What if it's…like…a secret menu? What if there’s a cheat code for life? What if ZEERA stands for Zayn’s Exceptional Electronic Rasam Algorithm?”
And like an actual moron, I listened.
I sprinted to the comp lab. Slammed that USB into my laptop — yes, the one held together with tape and mental strength. The screen flickered like it knew it was about to witness foolishness.
The folder opened.
There was:
A Word file titled: “Subject G Log – Day 4: Developed Sarcasm + Mouth Twitch”
A video file: “ZEERA_TEST4_FINALv2_real.mp4” (again with the fake “final”)
I clicked it.
The screen showed Dr. Rivan Elroy, the Biochem head with goggles surgically attached to his face.
Behind him was a giant pressure cooker with wires, a Bluetooth speaker, and possibly the soul of HAL9000.
He spoke to the camera.
> “Initiating verbal test. Subject G has reached flavor memory stage three. Now demonstrating semantic response.”
A lab assistant offscreen asked, “What’s your name?”
The cooker gurgled.
Then, in a perfect robotic voice, said:
> “Call me… Soupio.”
I blacked out for 0.3 seconds.
The soup had a name.
The soup SPOKE.
THE SOUP HAD A PERSONALITY.
I yeeted the laptop lid shut like it had insulted my ancestry.
Then I grabbed my phone and sent a text to my roommate, Kiv:
> “BRO. Urgent. Found speaking soup. Possibly AI. Maybe cursed. Meet behind mess kitchen. Bring Dettol.”
But in my panic...
I sent it to...
Professor Rivan Elroy.
Head of Biochem.
Godfather of Soupio.
Owner of the cough that ruined my life.
And then…
He read it.
Now I had two options: run… or say yes to Meha and walk straight into the madness.
Guess what I did?
Yup. I said yes.
React
