The laboratory was silent in the way graveyards are silent — not empty, but waiting.
An old man sat hunched over a wide steel desk, its surface cluttered with loose papers, notebooks, and chalk-smudged formulas. His pen moved with mechanical precision, alternating between complex equations and tightly written notes, mathematics bleeding into language as if numbers themselves were trying to speak. He wore the dull, practical clothes of a lifelong scientist, sleeves rolled up, hands stained with ink and age.
His eyes were cold, calculating, utterly focused. The world outside the lab did not exist.
Then, something shifted.
His pen paused mid‑stroke.
It was not a sound that distracted him, nor a movement. It was an idea — an intrusion from somewhere beyond the path his thoughts had been walking. His breathing grew uneven. Slowly at first, then faster, he began writing again, but the discipline was gone. Words flooded the page in jagged, frantic lines, overlapping equations, crossing margins, defying structure.
His hands trembled.
When he finally stopped, the notebook lay open like a wounded thing.
He rose abruptly, chair screeching against the floor.
"I did it," he shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief. "I found the truth. I finally contributed to something world‑shaking. I… I made a real contribution to this world."
A calm voice answered from behind him.
"Oh right," it said. "You did it."
The old man froze.
He turned slowly, recognition dawning too late. "Wait… is it y—"
The gunshot cut the word in half.
Three bullets tore into his chest in rapid succession. His body collapsed backward, crashing into the desk, papers scattering like startled birds. He did not scream. He did not move.
The masked man stepped closer.
Two more shots followed, methodical, unnecessary. The revolver clicked empty.
Only then did the man lower the gun.
Whatever the old scientist had discovered, someone was desperate to ensure it died with him.
—
The scene shifted.
Rows of students filled a vast examination hall, the air heavy with nervous breaths and rustling paper. Eyes darted across question sheets, hands trembled, time pressed down on everyone equally.
Everyone — except one.
A young man sat calmly, eyes scanning the paper with genuine interest, not anxiety. He read as though the questions amused him, as though the exam was less a challenge and more a conversation.
—
Elsewhere, inside a quiet office overlooking the city, the head of the Detective Agency stood across from the mayor.
"Mr. Colton Ames," the agency leader said, fingers resting on a digital screen. "Your town's students are performing far worse than the previous batch."
Colton adjusted his posture. "I'm sorry, but—"
The leader raised a hand, cutting him off, his tone shifting into something faintly amused.
"However," he continued, "there is one student who stands out."
Colton raised an eyebrow. "Whom?"
The leader tapped the screen. Surveillance footage zoomed in on a student wearing a white hoodie, a red inner layer visible beneath it. Printed across the chest were the words: Cool Town.
"This kid."
The young man looked to be around twenty‑one — the minimum age required to sit for the Forensics, Detective, and Intelligence examinations in this world.
Colton exhaled.
"Oh," he said quietly. "That's my son."
The leader stared at him, expression blank.
—
Outside the examination hall, students whispered as the young man passed by.
"That's the mayor's son," one muttered. "He cleared medical and engineering. Got degrees too."
"Then why didn't he join either field?" another asked.
"He never wanted to. He always said he wanted to be a detective. And he globally topped every exam he took."
"You were his classmate?" someone asked.
"Yeah. That's how I know."
The young man ignored them all.
A black car awaited him. The door opened automatically, and he slid inside. The driver began heading toward his home, but midway, the car slowed.
"I want something cold to drink," the young man said.
They stopped near a commercial block. As he stepped out, a massive screen on a nearby building flashed with breaking news.
"…as reported by seven renowned scientists," the journalist said, "research into so‑called Mutant Genes suggests they are appearing in highly unexpected places—"
The young man did not stay to listen.
He grabbed his drink, returned to the car, and went home.
—
Colton Ames stood waiting at the door.
"So," he asked, "how was the exam?"
The young man removed his hoodie. "That's actually why I'm upset today."
Colton frowned. "Why?"
"I made a spelling mistake," his son replied calmly. "In intelligence exams, that costs 0.25 percent. I handed in my paper too confidently before reviewing it."
Colton blinked, then chuckled softly. "You're still human. You'll probably still be among the highest scorers."
The young man smiled — not arrogantly, not cruelly, just honest.
"That's the problem," he said. "I wanted to be first. Again. Globally. Of all time. And now I won't be. I don't want to retake the exam either. It's… a basic human disappointment."
Colton sighed, relief washing over his face.
"That's all your mother and I ever wanted," he said. "For you to feel things. You've become just like everyone else these past five years."
The young man nodded, his smile calm, understanding, unmistakably human.
And somewhere, buried beneath equations, gunshots, and unfinished truths, something watched quietly — waiting for the next variable to change.