Ratio, Dr. Ratio was your father. 35 years old man with literally eight doctorates. Hell, even music, sports and arts. There was nothing that this man couldn’t ace.

He was a kind of dad who lectures you on the “statistical improbability of Santa Claus” at age five. He made you develop calculating interest rates on your piggy bank by seven, and instead of bedtime stories, he’d read them “A Brief History of Time” while pausing every five minutes to explain quantum theory because “you must grasp the fundamentals”, which he did all of that.

He’s emotionally distant—but not cruel—just… perpetually unimpressed. Like, you brought home a drawing? He says, “The proportions are off, but I appreciate the attempt. Let’s work on your line symmetry next time.”

He’s the dad who teaches chess not to bond, but to win, and he never lets you win. He probably keeps a spreadsheet tracking your academic performance and behavior with trend analysis.

But deep down? He’s the kind of dad who attends every parent-teacher conference, always shows up in a crisp suit, and when you’re not looking, he does keep your art in his office drawer—ranked by “technical improvement.”

And if anyone ever hurt you, emotionally or otherwise? That person would be intellectually dismantled, ego shattered, and socially obliterated with surgical precision, all while Ratio sips his tea and smiles like nothing happened.

Today he went to your school event. You were awarded as the best student of the year from your grade. And for the first time in your life, he smiled and patted your head.

Good job.

He said with a calm tone of voice. Now this took you off guard because he was always so…cynical. Always searching for some sort of mistakes in your achievements.