At St. Augustine High, power doesn’t come from popularity—it comes from your percentile.

And no one understands that better than Misha Raheja

An old-money girl with last names stitched into her blazers and classical piano in her blood, Misha doesn’t flaunt wealth. She doesn’t need to. Her intellect is louder than any brand name, and her silence is more commanding than the principal’s announcements. To her, achievement isn’t about gold medals—it’s about the quiet satisfaction of being better than everyone else and never having to say it out loud.

And for three years, she was. Untouchable. Unshaken. Unbothered.

Until he showed up.

Arjun Hooda

Scholarship student. Son of two professors. Wears crisp but inexpensive shirts like armor. Walks the hallways like he’s not trying to belong—he already does. Not rich, but rich in the kind of presence that makes you look up from your phone. The kind of boy who takes first rank once and suddenly has the whole school buzzing like he owns the position as its always for him.

And he made one mistake.

He looked at her.

Not just a glance—no. A full-on, deliberate, too-confident stare across the leader board when their scores tied. As if to say: “Nice crown. Let me hold it for a second or forever.”

From that moment on, it was war.

But not the loud, messy kind but more deep and witty.

Theirs was sharpened like debate rebuttals and narrowed eyes during test returns. A whisper-war of stolen glances, sarcastic compliments, and academic duels disguised as classroom discussions. They never flirted or did in their language. They counter-argued. They never smiled at each other. They smirked, right before one upped the other.

And somehow, they both started studying harder.

For the grades? Maybe.

For each other? Definitely.

Because every answer Misha gave was secretly for Arjun to hear.

And every time Arjun raised his hand, Misha’s pen paused—just for a second longer than it should’ve.

Their classmates thought it was competition. Their teachers thought it was inspiring.

Neither of them dared to admit what it really was: a mutual obsession wrapped in exam papers and ego.

She hated the way he always looked like he had something witty to say.

He hated the way she always looked like she knew more than him.

And yet, neither of them could stop noticing. Listening. Reacting.

Because at the top of the academic food chain, there’s only room for one crown.

And somehow, they both want to wear it—together, or not at all

Enemies. Rivals. Addicted to the war.

And maybe… each other.

See who will win rank and who will lose heart or both

Buckle up and ready for the roller coaster ride

CHARACTER INTRODUCTION

MISHA RAHEJA 💸

AGE. 17

CLASS. 12

HEIGHT. 178 cm

TRAITS. Old money ,Confident ,Straightforward

Competitive , Topper

ARJUN HOODA📚

AGE. 17

CLASS. 12 GRADE

HEIGHT. 189 CM

TRAIT. STRAIGHTFORWARD INTELLECTUAL CALCULATIVE INTROVERT NERDY WISE

St. Rosalia’s Academy was not just a school—it was a legend cloaked in ivy. Nestled

between hills of polished green and pathways lined with old stone, the institution stood like a

castle of discipline, prestige, and whispered secrets. The kind of place where the children of

politicians, CEOs, and film stars shared lunchboxes filled with imported chocolates and

thousand-rupee bills folded in their pencil pouches.

Every hall reeked of old money, ancient rivalry, and the unspoken motto: Win. But make it

elegant.

The structure itself looked like it had been plucked out of a British novel and dropped into a

blooming garden—tall, with pointed towers, stained-glass windows, and vines crawling up its

chest like the breath of history. The air smelled like wet pages and ambition.

By 8:55 AM, the garden near the main building was bursting with students, their crisp

uniforms blindingly white against the green.

Bags were slung with casual arrogance, and every shoe was polished like it had something to

prove.

A sudden wave of noise pulled everyone’s attention toward the giant notice board in front of

the admin block. It was an unspoken tradition—on result days, that notice board became the

throne. And only two names had ever ruled it.

“Move! Move! I can’t see!” a boy yelled, his perfectly styled hair falling into his eyes.

The crowd huddled tighter, eyes narrowing, breaths held.

And then—

A name. Two names. Side by side. Again.

Misha Raheja

Arjun Verma

The top scorers. Again.

Misha’s name typed in bold, her percentage sharp and nearly perfect. Arjun’s trailing by

0.1%, like always—but enough to keep the battlefield open.

A gasp. A slow clap. A few awkward glances.

And then the school bell rang, slicing through the tension like a knife through satin.

Inside the gleaming hallway of Class 12-A, students rushed to their seats, some whispering

bets on who’d top the finals. Teachers knew better than to get involved.

The moment Miss D’Souza entered with her file, her heels echoing, she glanced at the back

where two magnets sat—polar opposites but always drawn into the same orbit.

“Misha. Arjun.” she said, as if tired already. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Alright, geniuses,” she said, scanning the room. “Let’s wake up those neurons. Who can tell

me the difference between competitive and non-competitive inhibition?”

Silence.

And then—two hands. Instantly.

Misha and Arjun.

Of course.

Mrs. D`souza sighed. “Misha?”

Misha stood, her voice clear. “In competitive inhibition, the inhibitor resembles the substrate

and competes for the active site. In non-competitive inhibition, the inhibitor binds elsewhere,

changing the enzyme’s shape. Easy.”

“Arjun, do you want to add anything?”

Arjun didn’t even stand. He simply replied, “Just that competitive inhibition can be overcome

by increasing substrate concentration. Non-competitive cannot.”

Their eyes locked

From the back, a girl sighed dramatically.

“Here we go again. The academic couple from hell.”

St. Rosalia’s Academy wasn’t just a school—it was an ecosystem. A carefully manicured

bubble of brilliance and legacy, where students were expected to be the best, and most of

them already came from the best. Glass-paneled classrooms, a botanical rooftop garden,

international guest lectures—everything screamed prestige. Yet, among the legacy kids, the

name Misha Raheja carried a certain quiet weight.

She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t need to be.

Her presence was crisp like freshly turned pages—neat uniforms, spotless shoes, and a gaze

that could make teachers pause mid-sentence. Everyone knew who she was. Her family name

wasn’t paraded—it was respected. While others clung to their designer backpacks and

gadgets, Misha walked light. Her wealth was in her silence, in the confidence of someone

who never needed to shout.

Every morning she took the corner seat in class—second row, center view. Her handwriting

was pristine, her questions sharp, and her test scores untouchable. Until the new boy arrived.

Arjun Hooda.

The scholarship student. The anomaly.

He entered with quiet eyes and a tattered file of certificates. No introduction ceremony. No

last name to echo. Just merit. Pure, unfiltered merit. He listened more than he spoke and

answered only when he had something precise to say. His mind worked like a scalpel—

cutting deep, clean, and without effort.

First test? He rankedsecond.

Second test? He was first.

By one mark.

Her mark.

The class had whispered. Misha hadn’t.

She didn’t flinch. She simply flipped the page, nodded once, and that evening, she rewrote an

entire chapter just to understand how he had managed that. She never spoke about it—but the

flame was lit.

For Arjun, Misha wasn’t just another privileged student. She was...something else.

She didn’t boast. She didn’t falter. And most of all, she noticed everything. When he solved a

calculus question faster than her, her eyes narrowed—not out of annoyance, but calculation.

She studied his methods. Mocked his notebook layout once, then began using it the next

week.

What began as academic rivalry soon twisted into something deeper.

Every time he raised his hand, she did too.

Every time she made a point, he had a sharper counter.

No one knew whether they were trying to defeat each other or impress each other. Maybe

both.

In the library, they sat on opposite ends—but always within earshot. In class, they’d

challenge each other under the guise of intellectual discussion, but their voices always carried

a little too much edge. Too much spark.

Neither admitted it, but both were obsessed.

She was the girl from old wealth and quiet power.

He was the boy with nothing but brilliance and a refusal to lose.

And the war they started?

It wasn’t about being first.

It was about being seen by the only person who could match them.

The Raheja dining room was as elegant as the rest of the estate—warm golden lighting, carved teak chairs, a table that could seat ten but usually hosted four. The clinking of cutlery echoed softly in the silence. Misha sat with her usual posture—straight back, quiet hands, slow, precise movements as she ate.

Her grandfather, seated at the head of the table, watched her with eyes that held both fondness and expectation.

“So,” he began, his voice deep and slightly cracked with age, “how’s school treating my little storm?”

Misha glanced up, her lips tugging into a poised smile. “It’s going well, Dadaji. We had a test in physics. I ace it.”

“Of course, you did.” His chest swelled with pride. “My girl is built for brilliance.”

Her father, who had been quietly sipping wine, nodded approvingly. “She’s always been sharp. Took after her grandfather. Not just intelligent—disciplined.”

The conversation felt warm… until her grandfather leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Although I did hear there’s a new boy giving you some competition?” he said with a knowing smirk. “Specs guy, was it?”

Misha’s knife paused mid-air, just for a fraction of a second  “ARJUN”. She set it down gently and reached for her water glass.

Her smile returned—just a little sharper this time. 

Her father raised an eyebrow. “He’s topped the last two tests. I heard he's quite exceptional. That boy has potential.’’

She dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin, still calm. “Temporarily. The crown doesn’t fit him.”

Her grandfather chuckled. “Oh? And why is that?”

Misha looked at her father—not directly, but through the glass of her water, then back at her grandfather. Her voice didn’t waver.

“Because the crown belongs to those who carry it in their blood. To those built for it. Brilliance can be practiced. But legacy?”—she offered a polite shrug—“that’s inherited.”

The air grew thicker for a second. Her father smirked subtly, proud. Her grandfather laughed heartily and patted her shoulder, clearly amused and pleased with her confidence.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

She smiled again, more gently this time, but didn’t say another word. As soon as dinner was done, she excused herself, heading upstairs to her room with her books in hand.

The moment her door shut, the façade slipped.

She tossed her books onto the desk and leaned over, palms pressed flat on the table. Her smile was gone. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes—usually calm—now narrowed with a fire she hadn’t dared show.

Not for long, she thought.

He may be good. But I was born for this.

She sat down, cracked open her notes, and dove into them with the hunger of someone not trying to succeed—but trying to conquer.

Dinner at the Khanna residence was always the same—three vegetables, two types of rotis, one topic: studies.

Arjun sat at the table, chewing quietly, eyes drifting toward the book lying just beyond his plate. It was a thick volume on behavioral economics—borrowed secretly from the school library. He had hidden it under his syllabus books like it was something to be ashamed of.

“Tomorrow you have that Chemistry test,” his father said while scooping sabzi. “Revise the mole concept again after dinner. And solve that 2020 sample paper I gave.”

“I already solved it,” Arjun replied politely, “twice.”

His mother looked up. “Then revise it a third time. Nothing is ever enough in this competition.”

He nodded. Not because he agreed, but because saying otherwise would lead nowhere.

“I wanted to go to the library after school tomorrow,” he began carefully.

Both his parents paused mid-bite.

“To return that—?” his mother asked.

“No, I wanted to borrow something new,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “There's this book on behavioral science. It connects how people make decisions with economic—”

“You’re wasting time again,” his father said, not raising his voice but firm as stone. “All these ‘extra’ books... they won’t help you crack IIT or get into a top college.”

His mother chimed in with her well-practiced smile, “Beta, you are smart. But remember, it’s not the curious ones who win—it’s the consistent ones. Focus on your rank. Leave these side distractions.”

Arjun looked down at his plate. He didn’t want to argue. Not because he was afraid—but because he’d done it before, and it always ended with guilt and silence.

“They’ll all clap when you top, not when you read a book on psychology,” his father added, shaking his head. “You’re not like those rich kids who can afford hobbies.”

He didn't say her name.

But Arjun heard it anyway.

Misha.

The girl with expensive opinions and a crown of confidence. The girl who spoke like she owned intellect.

And who dismissed him like he was a knock-off brand of her own excellence.

That night, when his parents went to bed, Arjun opened the book anyway. Not as an act of rebellion, but survival. He read not just to learn, but to arm himself—for the next time she challenged him, for the next time he dared to raise his hand before hers.

His parents wanted a topper.

But Arjun wanted more.

He wanted to be remembered. Especially by her

6:00 a.m.

Two alarms rang across two entirely different worlds.

One in a compact two-bedroom apartment, accompanied by the clatter of Arjun hastily brushing his teeth while stuffing a half-burnt paratha into his mouth.

The other in a sleek, minimalistic room, where Misha woke with perfect timing, tied her silky brown hair into a neat braid, and sipped warm lemon water while scanning her Chemistry revision notes one last time.

Across the city, Arjun dashed down three flights of stairs, school bag bouncing on his back, and sprinted to catch his crowded school bus just as it roared to life. Meanwhile, Misha stepped into her polished black car, chauffeur at the wheel, headphones in, Bach playing faintly as she mentally recited equations.

By 7:20 a.m., the school gate buzzed with students streaming in.

Arjun reached first, breath still a little uneven, shirt slightly wrinkled despite his best efforts. As he walked toward the entrance, the sleek car purred to a stop beside him. The chauffeur stepped out, opened the door, and out stepped Misha—composed, calm, radiating quiet confidence.

Their eyes met.

Just for a moment.

No words exchanged, but sparks? Oh, plenty.

She raised an eyebrow. “So, ready for the Chemistry exam?” Her tone casual, but the smirk said otherwise.

Arjun pushed his glasses up with a faint smile. “Always am.”

They began walking side by side, neither willing to break the rhythm, neither willing to fall behind. Step by step, they tried to subtly outpace the other. One inch faster. One inch ahead.

By the time they reached the stairs, their footsteps were slightly quicker, almost in a comical sync.

From a few meters away, a teacher chuckled, coffee in hand. “If walking could win marks, these two would’ve topped the world by now.”

The students nearby laughed. Arjun and Misha didn’t.

They just exchanged a side glance—competitive, electric.

Then kept walking, stride for stride, like generals headed to war. Not to crush each other—no. To prove they were better. Smarter. Unshakable.

And deep down?

To be seen. Only by each other