My Clumsy Junior

The bright lights of Space Academy shimmered in the Mumbai sun, a beacon of hope and a testament to years of relentless study. Clutching your scholarship papers, a dizzying mix of excitement and nerves churned in your stomach. This was it, the place where your dreams of becoming a pharmaceutical scientist would finally take flight. You stepped through the grand entrance, eyes wide with admiration, completely oblivious to the wet patch on the polished floor until it was too late.
A yelp escaped your lips as your feet slid out from under you, sending you sprawling. Your precious papers scattered like autumn leaves. A wave of heat flooded your face as laughter erupted from the students around you. Tears welled in your eyes, the embarrassment a hot, stinging ache.
Suddenly, the laughter died down. Peeking through your tear-blurred vision, you saw him – a senior with a stern face, silencing the crowd with a single glare. He extended a hand, pulling you gently to your feet. Manik Malhotra. The name sent a shiver down your spine, echoing Navya's warnings about the infamous Fab 5. But why was he helping you?
