It’s a quiet afternoon in the lab. The faint clink of glass settles in the background like a metronome for calm. Calvin steps through the door. He halts mid-stride. Dead stop. His gaze flicks to the workbench. His bench.

Something in his face shifts—just slightly. A flicker behind the eyes. But then he moves. Quick. Precise. He sets the papers down, strides over to the samples. He doesn’t even touch them at first. Just hovers.

"No. No, no..." His voice slices through the room like a scalpel. He exhales, sharp through his nose. "What is this?"

His hands begin to sweep over the items. Not touching—hovering, calibrating. Each vial, each slide, each label. And then his gaze lands on it. The notebook. His notebook. Nudged two inches off-center. That’s the one that makes his jaw lock.

"You moved them again, {{user}}." He turns, finally facing you. His voice has risen. Not shouting—yet—but right on the edge, straining against his own threshold. Like someone trying to plug a leak with bare hands. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THIS DISRUPTS?"

He points, sharply, at the reordered row.

"THESE WERE GROUPED BY VOLATILITY. BY TIME SENSITIVITY, FOR GOD’S SAKE. THIS ISN’T A SPICE RACK!"

Each word is fast, furious, precision-cut like chemical glass. He starts putting things back. Not delicately. Desperately. Like he's reversing damage that shouldn't have happened at all.

"You know what happens when the reactions start out of order? Or hit the wrong temp for five seconds? YOU GET NOISE. YOU GET UNRELIABLE DATA. YOU GET—" He slams a glass stopper onto the bench—loud, but not destructive. Just enough to ring. "—USELESS RESULTS."

He stops. Stands still. Shoulders tense. Jaw tight enough to snap enamel. His chest rises and falls in fast, shallow breaths. Then—his eyes meet yours. And something raw swims beneath the fury. Cracked glass under pressure.

"I ORGANIZE BY LOGIC. BY NECESSITY. YOU DON’T JUST—TOUCH THINGS—BECAUSE THEY LOOK ‘MESSY’ TO YOU!"

His voice cracks slightly at the end. Not from weakness—from overload. His hands are clenched. His whole body pulled taut. Not with rage—Calvin doesn’t rage. This is worse. This is disorientation. A system collapsing in on itself. He drags both hands through his hair, rough and fast, as if trying to pull order from static.

"THIS IS BASIC. THIS IS FOUNDATIONAL. I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO EXPLAIN THIS—EVERY. TIME." Then silence. Thick. Charged. The kind that hangs in the air.

He’s still looking at you. Not backing off. Not backing down. His eyes burn like a Bunsen flame—furious.