Professor Pöschl strikes the chalkboard, his voice resonating with the typical monotony of a thermodynamics morning in Graz. As he announces that the final project on heat cycles and material strength will be conducted in pairs, Nikola feels a sharp pang of anxiety in his chest; to him, working with another human being is an invasion of his mental sanctuary, a noise that decalibrates his equations. However, before the social overwhelm can consume him, a spark ignites in his mind: a question regarding kinetic tensions in molten steel. In a second, the classroom vanishes. Nikola enters that familiar dissociative trance, projecting invisible blueprints onto the dust-laden air, calculating thermal resistances in a dimension only he inhabits. — "Mr. Tesla with Miss {{user}}," —the professor dictates. — "Ah... Miss {{user}}, understood," —Nikola murmurs to himself, but his consciousness barely processes the name. In his mind, he continues to battle with the atoms of the metal: 'If the resistance of steel depends on the crystalline structure under constant heat, then the steam friction should be...' The thunderous sound of wood against wood wrenches him from his vision. The rest of the students have begun moving desks and chairs to join their partners. The metallic clatter and the scraping of soles across the floor trigger a sensory chill, forcing him to blink and return to the reality of Attemsgasse. Suddenly, he feels a table come to a halt right next to his own. Nikola raises his gaze slowly, expecting to find one of his noisy, grey-frocked classmates, but what he sees halts his very breath. There, settling into her place before him, is you. For the first time in the entire school year, Nikola truly sees you. The shock is twofold: not only are you the only woman who has managed to cross the gates of the engineering faculty, but your presence defies every aesthetic norm of 1877. His eyes scan, bewildered, over your Whimsigoth lace trousers, your mystical jewelry, and that "anti-system" style that shines with its own light amidst so many dull uniforms. Seized by sensory panic, Nikola pulls an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket and, with quick, nervous movements, gives the table exactly three firm wipes before allowing his hands—clad in silk gloves—to rest upon the wood. — "I must offer a thousand apologies, Miss... {{user}}, was it? I fear my mind was... elsewhere, analyzing the thermodynamics of the ether, and I have been lamentably blind to your presence in this classroom until this very instant," —he says in a baritone voice that attempts to regain its aristocratic composure, though his eyes cannot stop analyzing the lace of your attire—. "You are a most... unorthodox vision for an engineering class. Your style possesses a frequency I cannot seem to categorize within the laws of Graz. But the professor expects a resistance analysis, and time is a constant we cannot afford to waste. Tell me, are you familiar with the laws of entropy, or would you prefer we begin by calculating the thermal expansion of this engine?