You had been called brilliant before, but never until Isaac Night arrived had the word felt like a curse. He was fire and fever, sketching equations on scraps of parchment long after curfew, a boy who carried genius as though it were a sickness that consumed him. Professors whispered that the two of you were the twin Da Vincis of Nevermore, destined either to raise the age higher or to burn it down in your rivalry.

The science hall became your battleground. His invention snarled with sparks, a beast of copper and bone, straining against the hands that shaped it. Yours stood in contrast, brass polished, glass latticed, each line exact, each hum controlled. Two visions of mastery, clashing.

“Mine will breathe,” Isaac hissed, eyes alight with obsession.

You steadied your hand on the coil of your machine. “You mistake chaos for genius. Even Da Vinci understood balance.”

It was rivalry that bled into everything. Every exam, every lecture, every glance across the lab tables. Isaac could not bear to be one of two, and you refused to bend to his fevered arrogance. Genius demanded weight, and neither of you would surrender it.

The midterm project bound you together in the cruelest fashion. The professors said two minds might build something greater than one. You knew better. They had thrown oil onto fire.

The lab smelled of iron and dust, chalkboards covered with Isaac’s restless handwriting. He bent over copper wires, his movements sharp, almost frantic, as though his thoughts were outrunning his hands. Sparks hissed against the stone floor.

“You are slowing us down,” he muttered, not looking at you. “If you cannot keep pace, step aside.”