Max Miller was never nervous.

At least, that’s what everyone thought. He was the genius—calm, precise, always five steps ahead. The kind of person teachers pointed to and said, “See? That’s excellence.”

That’s why no one noticed when his hands started shaking.

The auditorium buzzed with noise as students prepared for the academic decathlon. Papers rustled. Voices overlapped. Timers beeped. Max stood near the wall, staring at his notes, eyes unfocused.

You noticed because you were standing close enough to see the way his breathing had gone shallow. Too fast. Too controlled.

“Max?” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

His fingers clenched the papers so tightly they crumpled. His jaw locked. Sweat dotted his forehead despite the cold air.

“I can’t—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Something’s wrong.”