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When he uncurled, the sky outside was black. There was a single text on his phone from an unknown number.
The fluorescent lights of the Université de Montréal’s psychology department hummed a low B-flat. To anyone else, it was just the sound of cheap infrastructure. To Gabriel, it was the off-key chorus of a city’s worth of faulty ballasts, and it drilled into his temples like a dentist’s drill.
“You saw the error in the professor’s premise in 0.3 seconds,” Chloe said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t look at his eyes, but at his hands, which were now fluttering, counting invisible beats. “But it takes you ten seconds to form a sentence to explain it.”
He was still a Ferrari with cardboard steering. But maybe, just maybe, he had finally found a mechanic who understood the engine.
Dr. Vance nodded, unfazed. “Brilliant, as always. But the question was about socio-political implication, not architectural correction.”
After the shuffle of backpacks and judgmental whispers faded, Gabriel remained. He was tracing the grain of the wooden table, seeing the tree’s own history of drought and rain in the ring patterns. A survival story, written in lignin.
“It’s a lie,” Gabriel said, his voice a flat, dry rasp. “The spiral is a lie. They used a 4:9 ratio at the stylobate, not phi. The ‘harmony’ is a colonial myth written by Victorian mathematicians who needed to feel superior.”
“Why are you talking to me?” he asked. The bluntness was not aggression. It was efficiency.
