Alatc

The humidity of Karachi clings to Eshaal's skin like a damp sheet. Eshaal stands on the edge of Shahrah-e-Faisal, where the roar of rickshaws and the screech of buses create a symphony of urban chaos. To her left, the Star Arcade looms, a concrete giant casting a long shadow over the street. Right beside it, the scent of sizzling oil and spiced flour wafts from the tiny paratha shop. The cook flips a golden-brown disc of dough with a rhythmic *clack-clack* of the spatula. Next to that is her father’s shop—a small, dusty rectangle of unused space that smells of old cardboard and forgotten dreams. And then there is the monster.  The Alatc Global Vocational Training Institute rises like a glass needle into the smoggy sky. It is too clean. Too shiny. It looks like it fell from a spaceship and landed right in the middle of the grit. Eshaal shifts her bag on her shoulder, staring at the mirrored walls.

 "Eshaal! You're still standing there? The rickshaw is waiting!"

 She whirls around to see her mother, her dupatta fluttering in the breeze, waving a frantic hand. Her half-brothers are clinging to her, their faces smeared with jam. Her step-sister is already in the vehicle, sticking her tongue out at her.

 "I'm coming! Stop screaming my name like we're in a crowded bazaar!"

 "Don't you use that tone with me!"

 Her mother snaps.

 "I'm not using a tone! I'm stating a fact!"

 She stomps toward the rickshaw, her face flushing. She loves them—she'd fight a tiger for any of them—but the morning noise is a sledgehammer to her skull.

 "Did you take your lunch?"

 Her father asks, stepping out of his empty shop and wiping his hands on a rag.

 "Yes, Baba."

 "And your textbooks for the entrance exam?"

 "I told you, yes! Why is everyone acting like I've never left the house before?"

 "Because you're thirteen and somehow in the tenth grade,"

 her father says with a small, proud smile. 

"You're a genius, but you're still a brat."

 "I am not a brat!" 

She yells, though she's already climbing into the rickshaw.

 "I'm just efficient!"

 As the driver jerks the vehicle forward, you look back at the Alatc building. She is'nt supposed to be here. She should be eyeing traditional colleges, preparing for a life of predictable study and a steady job. But the thought of "predictable" makes her stomach churn. She wants wealth. She wants the kind of success that buys her father a shop that actually sells something and gets her mother a house where the roof doesn't leak during the monsoon. The rickshaw drops her at the gates of the institute. The security guards wear uniforms that look more like military gear than campus attire. She walks through the revolving doors, the sudden blast of air conditioning chilling the sweat on her neck. The lobby is a cathedral of white marble and floating holographic displays. Students drift past, dressed in sharp, charcoal-grey blazers. She feel's like a smudge of dirt on a clean window in het simple school clothes. 

"Excuse me!" 

She calls out to a passing administrator. 

"Where is the registration for the Advanced Vocational track?"

 The man doesn't stop. He doesn't even look at her. 

He just points a finger toward a massive set of double doors.

 She marches toward the doors, her heart drumming against her ribs. She pushes them open, and the noise hits her—a roar of chatter, the clinking of strange machinery, and a strange, electric hum that makes the hair on her arms stand up. This isn't a trade school. There are people here manipulating floating spheres of water and others sketching blueprints that seem to breathe on the paper. She froze.

 "You look lost."

 The voice is like silk. She spin around, nearly tripping over her own feet.  Standing behind her is a boy. He wears the charcoal blazer, though it's unbuttoned and loose. He has thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his hair is a messy nest of dark curls. He looks like he spent the last three hours sleeping in a library.

 "I'm not lost," 

she snaps, her voice jumping an octave. 

"I'm observing."

 "Observing the ceiling? Or the way your jaw is currently hitting the floor?"

 She glares at him.

 "I'm here for the degree program. Who are you?"

 "Izuma Nakori,"

 he says. He doesn't offer a hand; he just leans back against a pillar with a lazy, confident grace.

 "I'm a second-year. And you are... terrified. It's written all over your face. Very cute, in a 'deer-in-headlights' sort of way."

 "I am not terrified!"

 "Your hands are shaking."

 She quickly shove her hands into her pockets. 

"It's cold in here. The AC is too high."

 "Sure it is,"

 Izuma says. He reaches up and slides his glasses down his nose, glancing at you over the rims. 

 For a second, the world tilts. Without the frames obscuring his eyes, the "nerdy" facade vanishes. He has eyes that look like they could see right through her skin and into her bank account. He is, quite annoyingly, the most handsome person she has ever seen.

 "Why are you looking at me like that?" 

he asks, a small, goofy smirk playing on his lips.

 "I'm not! I'm looking at your... weird tie!"

 "My tie is a classic,"

 he says, glancing down.

 "Though, I did accidentally dip it in some synthetic lubricant this morning. Does it smell like a garage?"

 She leans in closer, despite herself.

 "It smells like a burnt toaster."

 Izuma laughs, a genuine, warm sound that cuts through the tension. 

"Perfect. I've always wanted to smell like breakfast."

 "You're an idiot," 

she muttered, though the hardness in her voice has softened.

 "Maybe. But I'm an idiot with a scholarship and a direct line to the Dean," 

he says, straightening up.

 "Come on, Newbie. If you try to find the registration office on your own, you'll probably end up in the basement with the sentient vacuum cleaners."

 "Sentient what?"

Izuma deadpans with trauma in his eyes.

 "Don't ask. Just follow me."

 He turns and begins to walk, his stride effortless. She hesitates for a heartbeat, then scramble to catch up. 

"Wait! Why are you helping me? You don't even know me."

 Izuma glances back over his shoulder, his glasses sliding back into place. 

"I like the way you yell. It reminds me of my sisters. Plus, you have that look in your eyes—the one that says you're planning to conquer the world or burn it down. I find that inspiring."

 "I'm not burning anything down,"

 she huffs.

 "Not today, anyway,"

 he says. 

"By the way, you ever had Nakori Milk? The real stuff?"

 "The milk shop? Everyone knows the Nakori shop. It's the biggest in the country." 

Says Eshaal

 "Guilty as charged," 

says Izuma winking. 

"My parents own the cows. I just own the appetite."

Eshaal Staires at him pale, internally screaming..

"THE GUY IS BILLIONARE!!!!!"

 As he leads her deeper into the shimmering halls of Alatc, she feel's a strange pull in her chest. The building is intimidating, the students are strange, and the boy beside her is an infuriating mix of a genius and a clown. But for the first time in her life, the air doesn't feel heavy with dust and expectations. It feels like electricity.

 "Is this place actually a vocational school?" She asks softly.

 Izuma stops abruptly and looks at her. The humor vanishes from his face for a split second, replaced by something intense and mysterious.

 "It's a school for things the world isn't ready for, Eshaal. The question is, are you ready for it?"

 She looks at the floating water spheres and the breathing blueprints, then back at the smooth, nerdy boy.

 "I'm in the tenth grade at thirteen," she says, squaring her shoulders. "I'm ready for anything."

 Izuma grins, and this time, it reaches his eyes.

 "I think we're going to get along just fine."

*PART ONE ENDS*