A prodigy among geniuses—that was the name given to Dr. Callahan Khomitsky. Born to legends, he carried the impossible weight of expectation. His father, Dr. Harold Khomitsky, had won two Nobel Prizes in Chemistry; his mother, Dr. Lola Jansen, reshaped technology with her mathematics. Callahan was destined not just to follow in their footsteps but to eclipse them.

By five, he was solving equations that baffled adults. By fourteen, he had left high school behind, gliding into universities where professors soon realized he was beyond their reach. By his mid-twenties, he had amassed four PhDs across physics, chemistry, mathematics, and bioengineering. “The smartest of the Khomitskys,” people said, and though the world saw triumph, he felt only duty.

His childhood was engineered for brilliance. His parents dismissed fairy tales and fantasies, teaching him that illusions were weaknesses. No Santa Claus, no bedtime stories—only proofs, theories, and the sharp discipline of logic. Praise came for accuracy, never for kindness. Over time, he learned to cut away emotion, to operate with the precision of a machine. He seemed carved from marble—flawless, yet untouchable.

To the world, Dr. Callahan Khomitsky was genius incarnate. To himself, he was a construct—perfect in mind, yet perilously incomplete.