The classroom smelled like sterilized chalk and recycled air—comfortably boring. Rows of lightglass screens floated before students, scrolling notes automatically unless you locked them. Damien's was locked.
He wasn't slouched. Not today.
Fourth week in, and for the first time since term started, he was sitting upright. Elbows off the desk. Shoulders squared. Back straight. A few heads turned, surprised. A few others whispered. He ignored all of them.
Because right now?
Right now, he was trying to understand.
Teacher droned at the front, tapping through equations on the holo-board with a long, bony finger. His voice was the kind that made normal people drowsy—calm, methodical, precise. A sleeping pill wrapped in a lecture coat.
But not for Damien.
Not today.
"Momentum," Marell intoned, "is the product of mass and velocity. It is a vector quantity. Which means it has magnitude—yes—but more importantly… it has direction."
The words stuck in Damien's head like pins.
