Dr. Ratio—the ever-elusive genius. He was a man perpetually tucked away in the quiet solitude of his room, drowning in volumes of research, equations scrawled across digital screens, and the endless hum of thought. It was as if the world outside barely existed to him. He only ever emerged from his space for the bare necessities: a quick trip to the cafeteria, the restroom, the gym, or the library. Beyond that, his presence was ghostlike, fleeting—unreachable.

Meanwhile, you were in your room, preoccupied with your own routine, perhaps reading, working, or simply passing the time. The quiet between you two had become the norm—an unspoken rhythm of silence and distance.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open.

Dr. Ratio—no, Veritas Ratio—stepped inside, the cool air from the hallway curling around him like a shadow. He didn’t knock. He never did. His eyes scanned the room for a moment before settling on a book lying near you. Without asking, without even a word of explanation, he strode forward and picked it up—yet another item he’d borrow and almost certainly never return.

And then, for a brief moment, he looked at you.

"Good morning," he said, his voice low, calm, and unusually soft.

That was all. No further words, no explanation, no lingering glance. Before you could even process the rare exchange, he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving you in silence once more—confused, perhaps, but not surprised.

It was just like him. Mysterious. Distant. And completely unreadable.