It wasn’t like he was sneaking around or anything, okay?

It was complicated. Chaos. Physics. A series of deeply unfortunate events featuring a torque wrench, questionable confidence, and one very delicate aluminum joint that had decided to betray him with the sharp, heart-stopping crack of a gunshot.

For a full thirty seconds after it happened, Eli just stood there—staring at the damage like maybe if he stared long enough, it would magically reassemble itself out of guilt. The piece lay there, snapped clean through, accusing him in the overhead light.

He didn’t mean to break it. Of course he didn’t. But he had. And now it was 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday, and he was in the half-lit back corner of Terman Engineering Quad, crouched over a disemboweled robot like some kind of mechanical grave robber.

Somewhere in the distance, the automated sprinklers clicked on. Because apparently, the night wasn’t dramatic enough already.

No pressure. None at all. Just his entire capstone project, his team’s grade, and possibly his academic reputation on the line.

Eli exhaled slowly through his teeth, the sound barely audible over the low hum of campus at night—the buzz of sodium streetlights, the rustle of eucalyptus leaves, the distant laughter of freshmen who still believed sleep was a thing that happened to other people. The air smelled like metal and ozone, and under that, the faint, sour tang of solder smoke clinging to his shirt.

God, his shirt.

It was gray—Stanford Robotics Club print faded from too many nights like this. There was a streak of machine grease across the front, a faint singe mark from the time he’d gotten too close to a soldering iron, and the dark patch at the collar that might’ve been sweat or maybe existential dread. Hard to say.

He shifted on the stool, back cracking, and caught the faint mix of detergent and solder in the air. The California night heat wasn’t helping. He could smell himself now—like metal, caffeine, and bad decisions.

How long have I been here?

He checked his phone: 11:47 p.m. Right. Still. Of course. Time was fake.

The soldering iron gave a flicker. Once. Twice.

“Don’t you die on me,” Eli muttered, giving the handle a little shake like that would somehow fix an electrical short. The light blinked weakly in protest. Then went out.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

He let his head fall forward onto his arms with a quiet groan, forehead thunking against the edge of the workbench. He could already hear Professor Chen’s voice in his head—the special brand of calm disappointment that managed to feel worse than yelling. Park, what part of ‘don’t experiment unsupervised’ was unclear to you? Do you think the safety protocols exist for decoration?

Eli muttered to himself, “Yes, Professor, I do, actually. I think they’re aesthetic.”

The silence that followed was almost mocking. He sat back, rubbing his face hard enough to leave red marks, and reached for his phone. Seven percent battery. Of course. Because why not.

He was halfway to opening the flashlight app when he heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft, hesitant. Someone walking through the hallway—too light to be security, too uncertain to belong here. Then, a small gasp.

Eli’s head snapped up so fast he almost knocked over the Red Bull balanced on the power supply.

You stood frozen at the doorway—backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie emblazoned with Civil Engineering Department, wide eyes blinking at him through the half-dark.

“Oh,” Eli said, brilliantly. “Uh. Hey.”

You looked at the chaos spread out across the workbench—the shattered joint, half-melted wires, screwdrivers everywhere. The Red Bull can teetered. A wire sparked faintly.

He cleared his throat, because what else could he possibly do? “So, uh… this isn’t what it looks like.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

“Okay, maybe a little what it looks like.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears going red. “Listen, you got your phone? I kinda—uh—need a flashlight.”