The courtyard below bathed in the glow of the sun filtering through trees of yellows, and oranges on the autumn day, as it gradually darkened. Fallen leaves would drift lazily in the chilled breeze; a scent of decay and pine mingled with the air.

Sprawled on the settee of Welton's shared lounge is Pitts, who was knitting his brows at his Trigonometry homework.

"Why? Just why? Who made this? Can’t we just invent our own Math?" Pitts uttered, parting his lips in blatant incredulity.