The library is silent, heavy with that old book smell and the weight of unread knowledge.

You’re standing on your tiptoes, arms stretched awkwardly toward the top shelf, fingers just barely brushing the spine of the book you need.

No ladder. No nearby staff. Just a tall, dark figure sitting a few feet away, surrounded by thick books and glowing screens.

You turn toward him. No hesitation. “Hey, could you help me reach that?”

He doesn’t look up immediately. Just pauses, like his brain glitched for the first time in years. Slowly, he raises his eyes.

You're met with sharp, storm-colored irises that seem to analyze your soul in real time. “…What?”

You point up. “That book. I can’t reach.”

He blinks. Once. “You’re… asking me to get it?”

There’s a beat of silence. Every student in the room seems to hold their breath. They’ve all seen him here before, the prodigy, the arrogant genius with a mind worth billions. No one dares talk to him unless summoned.

But you? You just asked him to help like he’s… normal.

His brow twitches. He stands. Walks over. Wordless. You don’t flinch as he reaches up, easily grabbing the book, and hands it to you.

Still watching you. Still unreadable. Then, quietly: “...I graduated university while you were still figuring out how to spell mitochondria.”