The classroom was filled with the quiet rustle of paper and the faint scratching of pens. Sunlight slipped through the tall windows and stretched across the desks in pale, careful lines, catching on metal chair legs and the edges of open notebooks. Dust floated in the light, slow and weightless, visible only if someone bothered to look closely.
Luna noticed it.
She sat near the back, exactly where she felt most comfortable. Not hidden—just slightly out of focus. From there, she could see everyone without being seen too much herself.
Her posture was straight, almost formal. Her notebook lay open in front of her, perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk. Her handwriting was careful, controlled, almost architectural—each number clean, each symbol deliberate. She did not rush. She did not scribble. She constructed her answers.
Luna did not speak unless she had something precise to say. Words, to her, were tools. Tools had to be used correctly.
At the front of the room sat Abas.
Abas never seemed out of place. He leaned back in his chair as if the classroom belonged to him. One arm often rested casually over the backrest, his fingers tapping lightly against the metal as he listened. When teachers asked questions, he responded without hesitation. He did not need time to gather courage. His voice carried easily across the room—clear, confident, steady.
And he smiled.
Not a mocking smile. Not arrogant. Just certain. A small curve of his lips that suggested the world made sense to him.
Luna disliked that smile.
That morning, the mathematics teacher wrote a difficult equation across the board. The chalk moved quickly, leaving behind a long chain of numbers and variables that stretched from one side to the other.
"Take a few minutes," she said, brushing chalk dust from her hands. "Then we'll discuss the solution."
Silence settled across the room.
The ticking clock on the wall suddenly sounded louder.
Luna lowered her gaze to her notebook. Her eyes traced the equation once, then again. Her fingers tightened slightly around her pen before she began to write.
Rearrange. Simplify. Substitute.
Her breathing slowed into a steady rhythm. The rest of the room blurred into background noise. She calculated carefully, double-checking each step before moving forward. Her brows drew together slightly in concentration, but her hand remained steady.
At the front, Abas leaned forward now. His earlier relaxed posture shifted into focus. He scanned the board quickly, then looked down at his paper. His pen moved faster than Luna's—short, confident strokes. After less than a minute, he paused, tapping the end of his pen against his notebook twice as if confirming his conclusion.
Before the teacher even called for answers, Abas lifted his hand.
It rose smoothly, without hesitation.
"Yes, Abas?"
He stood halfway from his seat, one hand resting lightly on his desk for balance. "If we factor the expression first," he began, gesturing subtly toward the board, "the answer becomes twelve."
There was no uncertainty in his voice.
The teacher nodded immediately. "Correct. Very well done."
A few students glanced at him with quiet admiration.
Luna's pen stopped moving.
The sound of it scratching against paper disappeared mid-line.
Twelve.
