I woke up buzzing.
Not the anxious, everything-is-on-fire kind of buzz I usually get before work or exams. No, this was something else—excitement. Real, proper, almost childlike excitement. I couldn't even remember the last time I felt this way about anything.
Today was Thursday. Lecture day.
Professor Armin Schmitt, world-renowned theoretical informatics genius—also known as the guy married to THE Dr. Elena Schmitt—was unveiling his revolutionary CPU architecture. I'd seen the posters for days. Marked the date with three stars in my calendar. Rearranged my entire miserable week just to make sure I could be there.
I even had a full morning free, which I used to tackle something borderline heroic: laundry. My tiny washing machine rattled like it was trying to escape the corner, half the clothes were older than my student loan debt, and the detergent was the cheapest brand I could find. Still, it felt… productive. Like I was actually winning for once.
I hung everything up on the line that stretched across my single-window apartment, hoping it would dry before the weekend. Then I grabbed my backpack—textbook, notebook, cheap pen, sandwich wrapped in foil—and headed out.
The train was on time, for once. The city was unusually quiet. And I was early. Like, really early.
On purpose.
By the time I got to the lecture hall, there were only three other people seated. I snagged a spot in the second row, dead center. Prime viewing territory.
Two full hours before the start. Perfect.
I pulled out my textbook and got to work, underlining, rereading, making connections. My stomach rumbled halfway through, so I unwrapped my sandwich—plain cheese, but still food—and kept on studying.
By the time the hall filled up, I was already three chapters ahead.
The energy was electric. Everyone was buzzing. Cameras were being set up. Even a couple of journalists were whispering excitedly in the back. Then the lights dimmed, the stage lit up, and in walked Professor Schmitt.
He was taller than I expected. Messy gray hair, thick glasses, a well-worn suit. He looked every bit the brilliant-but-exhausted type.
"Ladies and gentlemen, colleagues, students," he began. "Today, I present to you a first: a fully theoretical model of an architecture that may change computation forever."
The crowd went silent. Pens hovered over notebooks. Laptops lit up.
He dove into it. Circuits, data flow, dynamic task allocation, layer buffering—buzzword buffet. Honestly, I was eating it up. This was my world. My language. Even if I could only afford to speak it in scraps between shifts.
But then—
Halfway through the lecture, as he passed out a printed data set and walked us through some performance graphs, something caught my eye.
A hiccup. A glitch in the matrix.
I tilted my head, frowning.
That… doesn't add up.
He continued talking, highlighting how the prototype outperformed modern chips in both thermal efficiency and processing density. But the numbers? The math? They didn't align. The voltage requirements would spike far past thermal tolerances. The architecture couldn't regulate heat the way he claimed—not without active cooling layers, which weren't mentioned anywhere.
And the prototype? The benchmarks?
I flipped the page. Read again. Then again.
It wasn't just off—it was wrong.
Like, not-even-close wrong.
And then came the moment.
"Any questions?" he asked, smiling.
Hands shot up. The guy two rows to my left asked about buffer overflow handling. Schmitt answered smoothly. The girl behind me asked something about core scheduling. Another quick answer.
Then my hand went up.
"Yes, you? In the second row."
I stood up. "Max. Max Wintershade. Uh… with respect, sir… the data in your handout—it's incorrect."
There was a pause.
A ripple through the crowd.
"Excuse me?" Schmitt said, adjusting his glasses.
"The voltage curve shown here doesn't match the claimed throughput. The thermal efficiency numbers don't align with the stated architecture. And the prototype performance benchmarks? They're based on figures that physically can't be produced by the described structure."
You could've heard a pin drop.
"To be blunt," I added, voice steady but heart hammering, "either the prototype doesn't exist, or the test data isn't real."
Another pause. Longer.
Then:
"Ah… Miss Wintershade," he said, voice suddenly light, too light. "Let me just… check this really quick…"
He looked down at his notes. Fingered the edges of the pages. Mumbled something. Cleared his throat.
"Ahhh… yes. You are correct. It seems I… made a mistake. A miscalculation. Thank you for pointing that out."
POV: Professor Armin Schmitt
Armin, you can't show it. Just keep going. Finish this as fast as you can.
This insolent brat. Who does she think she is?
I needed this. I needed this to work. To finally step out of Elena's shadow. Every damn paper, every innovation, every accolade—always her name first. And now this? Now this?
A student. A student calling me out in front of everyone. How dare she?
Max Wintershade. I need to remember that name.
Everything's ruined. I calculated those benchmarks on a theoretical model. That's what everyone does. No real prototype, of course. I didn't have time.
But now? Now it's over.
Keep your smile. Keep it together.
"Since Miss Wintershade pointed out some problems," I said, fighting to keep my voice even, "I believe we'll conclude the session here. I… need to return to the drawing board."
Humiliation wrapped in politeness.
POV: Max
I sat down, blinking.
Did… did that just happen?
The hall buzzed with whispers. I felt eyes on me. But I didn't shrink. I sat tall.
I was sure he'd be furious. Maybe throw me out. But no—he took it well. Amazingly well. Humble, even.
My heart still pounded from the adrenaline rush. But inside? I was beaming.
I did it. I actually did it.
I pointed out a mistake to one of the greats. And he thanked me for it.
Nothing could ruin this day.
Well. Almost nothing.
The rest of the day passed like usual. Homework. Reading. Cheap instant noodles for dinner.
And then: work.
I didn't have my trendy jeans. The only thing clean after this morning's laundry run were my baggy old ones—shapeless, faded, and tip-proof. No way they were going to earn me Claudia's recommended bonus.
"Ugh, not those again," Claudia said when she saw me behind the bar. "Didn't you say they were cursed?"
"They're the only clean pair I had left."
She laughed and handed me a tray. "Ohhh, poor Max."
That was all. No sympathy. No backup jeans. No miracles.
Tips were bad. Like, single-digit bad.
But I didn't care.
Because earlier today, I stood up in front of a packed lecture hall and corrected Professor Schmitt.
And I was right.