“You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  The voice rang out like a sp.

  The hallway froze.

  Everyone turned.

  Even Jorge, three floors up, swore he heard the sound of verbal violence brewing and stuck his head out over the mezzanine railing.

  Ayesha stormed forward, her notebooks forgotten, her cheeks bzing red - not from embarrassment, but rage. Not rational. Not thought through. Just fire.

  She jabbed a finger toward Bharath. “What the hell was that, huh? What are you trying to prove with that whole… whole pornographic circus?”

  Bharath blinked, stunned. “What-”

  “You think this is cute?” she spat. “Walking around like some campus Casanova with your lips on one girl and your hands on another like it’s normal? What’s next? Public threesomes in the courtyard?”

  Several students choked on nothing. One girl gasped, “Oh my god,” and immediately fumbled for her bag as if leaving might make the moment less nuclear.

  “You think you're hot stuff now, huh?” Ayesha continued, voice rising. “You stupid, arrogant FOB! You think these girls really care about you? They’re using you! You're too dumb to see it! You should go back to India before you embarrass yourself more than this!”

  Gasps rippled like thundercps.

  Bharath flinched - but Marisol did not.

  She stepped forward slowly, like a predator deciding just how to end the conversation. Her smile evaporated.

  “Say that again,” she said, her voice a low, even knife.

  Ayesha hesitated. “I-”

  “No, say it again puta. You called him a FOB, right? Fresh Off the Boat?” Marisol took a step forward. “You just insulted the smartest, kindest, most disciplined guy on this campus? For what? What did he do to you?”

  Ayesha looked around, realizing too te that everyone was watching now. Even Professor Carmichael had peeked his balding head out of the lecture hall door like a meerkat spotting lions.

  Marisol’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to say his name. You don’t get to touch his story. You had your chance. You rode in a cab with him, remember? When he was alone and new and didn’t know anybody? And you were nice to him - until it wasn’t cool to be.”

  Ayesha looked like she'd been spped.

  “And now that he’s happy - now that he’s got people who love him and ugh with him and lick and suck the soul out of him every morning-” Marisol paused as a stunned gasp echoed from someone by the vending machines. “Now you’ve got a problem?”

  “Hey, chill,” Ayesha said weakly, lifting both hands. “Let’s just-”

  “No.” Marisol cut her off. Her voice was cold steel now. “You don’t get to talk down to him because he didn’t bow to your popurity game. You think he’s too stupid to see people using him? Girl, he has us. We don't need to py games. We chose each other.”

  A moment of silence. Someone whistled loudly.

  Then Marisol dropped the final blow, soft but devastating:

  “You’re not mad because he’s kissing someone. You’re mad because it isn’t you.”

  Ayesha’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened, then closed. No words came.

  A few feet away, a guy actually muttered, “Fatality.” Another whispered, “We have to say ‘Finish Her’ first.” Somewhere, someone dropped their folder and didn’t bother picking it up.

  Ayesha looked down.

  Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  Marisol shrugged. “I don’t need to. I just need you to keep his name out of your mouth. If you had something real to say, you should’ve said it back in August.”

  Ayesha looked like she might cry.

  But she turned and walked away - stiff-backed, humiliated, furious, broken.

  The echo of Ayesha’s heels faded down the hallway like the dying notes of a tragedy that ended before it even began.

  Everyone remained frozen.

  Still staring.

  Still processing.

  It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, followed by an impromptu victory parade that no one knew how to join.

  Marisol turned, exhaled slowly, and looked up at Bharath.

  He hadn't moved.

  His shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight, his face flushed in a dozen shades of confusion. His eyes darted from the retreating figure of Ayesha to the crowd, to Marisol, to nowhere in particur. A war of emotions crossed his features - anger, shame, disbelief… and a deep, raw ache that hadn’t caught up to him yet.

  “Amor,” Marisol said, voice low now. “You alright?”

  Bharath’s lips parted. “I... didn’t do anything.”

  “No, baby,” she said, stepping closer. “You did everything right.”

  She cupped his cheek gently.

  “You didn’t change. That’s why you’re loved.”

  He blinked, like she’d reminded him how to breathe.

  And then, slowly, he nodded.

  That was all Marisol needed.

  She turned back to the crowd, her eyes scanning dozens of stunned students, open-mouthed faculty, and a few who were still too shocked to blink.

  And then she raised her voice.

  “Listen up!”

  Every head turned.

  Jorge, now sitting on the stairs with a bag of M&Ms, straightened. “Que carajo! She’s going full Latina lioness again.”

  Marisol stood tall, voice crisp, loud, and clear.

  “Let me make something very clear. If anyone here has a problem with Bharath, you can bring it to me.”

  A ripple.

  She held her ground.

  “And if I’m not around?” she added, eyes bzing. “Then go to Sarah. We’ll take turns. Just like we did on him this morning and st night.”

  Laughter broke out in spurts - startled, delighted, unhinged. A girl near the window let out an actual whoop. A guy spped his friend’s shoulder and said, “Bro, they do it twice a day each together!”

  Marisol stepped back to Bharath, looped her arms around his neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

  Not a short one.

  Not just a decration.

  But a consecration.

  The hallway exploded.

  Appuse. Whistles. Cheering.

  A guy threw his folder in the air like he’d just witnessed a spiritual awakening.

  A girl actually fanned herself with a copy of Calculus: Early Transcendentals.

  Professor Carmichael dropped his coffee. “What in God’s name is happening today?”

  Another professor leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, muttering, “I was valedictorian, you know. Never got anything close to this. I’m going to reassess my life with my psychologist now.”

  One of the campus tour guides, passing with a group of confused parents and high school juniors, blinked at the scene and whispered to herself, “I’m going to have to change the route.”

  The energy didn’t fade.

  Students didn’t walk away. They lingered - even the ones te to css. A few turned to the nearest person and asked, “Did you get all of that? Did someone record it?” One guy tried to scribble what he remembered into a composition notebook like a field reporter at Normandy.

  Two business majors debated whether this was viral marketing for a new student club.

  The girls were giddy. The guys were fbbergasted.

  But the overwhelming consensus?

  Something massive had just happened.

  “I thought this was an engineering school,” one sophomore muttered. “When did it become a soap opera?”

  “It’s not a soap opera,” someone corrected. “It’s mythology. We’re living in a legend.”

  Three different students already started referring to the second-floor hallway outside Room 213 as The Temple.

  By lunch, someone had chalked on the sidewalk:

  HERE STOOD BHARATH, BELOVED BY TWO 10s

  People didn’t need video. They had witnesses - dozens of them. Like oral historians. “I saw her sp down the FOB line with her whole chest, bro,” one guy told his study group in the library. “And then the other girl came in with a swoop kiss. It was like watching Xena: Warrior Princess - but with physics homework.”

  A girl at the Student Center whispered, “There were three 10s in that scene. Three. Do you know how rare that is? We’re lucky to even have three 10s on this campus total!”

  Another group in the quad debated whether Bharath had magical powers.

  One guy swore he saw his eyes glow.

  “I think he’s been studying the Kama Sutra since birth.”

  “Maybe he’s actually a prince.”

  “Maybe he’s got a 200 IQ and a 12-pack.”

  “Yes… that’s it. Like Professor X before he got paralyzed,” someone said reverently.

  Everyone nodded.

  It was the only logical expnation.

  They stepped away from the crowd at st.

  -

  Around the corner of the building, behind a row of vending machines and abandoned flyers, Bharath leaned against the wall and exhaled.

  His heart was still racing. His hands were still shaking.

  But his eyes?

  They were focused on Marisol.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he said softly. “The shouting. The scene. The kiss.”

  Marisol shrugged. “You think I regret it?”

  He gave her a small smile. “You went nuclear.”

  “I went honest,” she said, stepping close again. “I don’t care what they think. I care that you know - nobody gets to make you feel small. Not Ayesha. Not Zara. Not any of these clowns whispering and pointing.”

  He studied her face - fierce, beautiful, raw.

  And then he touched her cheek gently.

  “I’m still trying to believe this is real.”

  “It’s real, baby,” she said. “You’re real. And if that girl or anyone else tries to make you doubt that again…” She leaned in close, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “They’ll get round two.”

  He chuckled.

  Then, quietly: “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For being my voice when I couldn’t find mine.”

  Marisol kissed him softly this time - not for the crowd, not for the legend.

  Just for him.

  “Always.”

  By the next day, the Campus Visitor Office updated their tour guides' scripts.

  "And to your left is the Mathematics building, built in 1964, where Georgia Tech experienced its most dramatic romantic confrontation since the great tie-dye scandal of ’72."

  "This hallway," one guide added with theatrical fir, “is where three 10s and one freshman changed the power bance of the Institute. Legends say if you walk it at the right time, you can still feel the heat.”

  “We have three 10s in GT? At the same time?”

  “You can’t argue with history my friend.”

  And in the dorms, Ravi tacked a homemade sign above a couch in the common room of Smith:

  “You don’t get to touch his story.” – Marisol, Patron Saint of the ones who want to get their enemies Bitch Spped