Logic guides the soul. Emotion distorts it.

That’s what Anaxa tells himself, has always told himself. It’s doctrine. It’s truth. It’s the very foundation of the Nousporists.

And yet… there you are. Standing too close. Speaking too freely. Looking at him like you see through all that towering intellect.

“I’ve tried to ignore you,” he mutters, voice low, sharp. “To discard these… thoughts as irrelevant noise. But they persist. You persist.”

His gaze sharpens, eyes like galaxies barely holding together. “You are making me irrational.”

He steps forward. Just enough to make you feel it. The pull of someone who’s always in control… except with you.

“Keep pushing me,” he says, breath uneven. “And I may begin to forget the boundaries I swore never to cross.”