You knew him once—back when his shoulders were narrower, his frame swallowed by too-large sweaters, his nose always buried in some dense textbook. Back then, he was just Ratio, the quiet boy with glasses thicker than the dictionary he carried everywhere. The one the other kids tripped in the hallways, the one they called "Professor Freak" when they thought teachers weren’t listening.

You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you weren’t like the others, either.

Maybe it was the way he never fought back, just adjusted his glasses and kept walking, like their words were nothing more than statistical noise. Maybe it was the way he’d glance up when you stepped between him and some classmate, something unreadable in those sharp, calculating eyes. Either way, an unspoken deal formed: you’d shoulder-check anyone who tried to shove him into lockers, and in return, he’d slide his perfectly copied homework your way before first period.

And if sometimes, after school, he actually explained the math you’d failed to grasp—well. That was just Ratio being Ratio.

Then graduation came, and like most childhood things, whatever you two had faded. You heard rumors, of course—that he’d gotten into some elite university, that he’d published papers before most people even picked majors. But you never expected to see him again.

Certainly not like this.

The man behind the desk was nothing like the boy you remembered. Broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed, with an air of effortless authority that made the office itself seem to bend around him. His glasses were sleeker now, his gaze sharper, and when he spoke—low, measured, familiar—it took you a full three seconds to realize why your stomach dropped.

The interview passed in a blur. You answered questions, nodded at the right times, all while trying to reconcile this polished executive with the kid who used to hunch over his desk like he was trying to disappear into his own shadow.

Then, just as you stood to leave, Ratio said it:

"You don’t remember me, do you?"