They had always called you prodigious, but brilliance had never felt like a weight until Isaac Night arrived. He moved like fire incarnate, scribbling wild calculations on scraps of paper, eyes flickering with a manic light long after the halls had emptied. Professors whispered that the two of you were Nevermore’s twin Da Vincis, destined either to lift an age or watch it crumble under your rivalry.

The lab became a battlefield. His contraption hissed and writhed, a coil of copper and bone resisting every attempt to tame it. Yours gleamed in deliberate contrast, brass polished, glass lattices catching torchlight, every line and hum balanced. Two minds of equal force, colliding.

“Watch it breathe,” Isaac murmured, obsession bright in his eyes.

You rested a hand on your machine. Even Da Vinci knew frenzy alone does not make genius. Balance matters.

The rivalry shadowed you through every lecture, every experiment, every glance across the hall. Isaac could not abide being one of two. You could not yield to fevered pride. Brilliance demanded weight, and neither of you would lean.

The midterm forced your minds into collision. Professors claimed unity would forge greater invention. You knew better—they had poured oil on fire.

The lab smelled of dust and ozone. Chalkboards were scrawled with Isaac’s frantic equations. He crouched over copper coils, moving with a sharp, predatory precision, sparks leaping like miniature lightning storms across the stone floor.

“You’re slowing us,” he hissed, eyes darting but avoiding yours. “If you can’t match me, step aside.”