By mid-semester, Aryan Carter had become the department's quiet miracle.
He arrived on time, stayed late, and seemed to understand every proof before Cowel even finished writing it. Other students whispered about the turnaround—the once-failing prodigy turned assistant to the most severe professor on campus. Aryan smiled at the gossip but never joined in.
If they wanted a legend, let them build one. He knew the truth was messier.
Cowel's office had become a second home: chalk-streaked air, papers arranged with military precision, and the faint hum of the old radiator. Aryan spent hours there compiling data, editing lectures, checking equations that made his head ache in the best way.
One evening, Cowel said without looking up, "You're alarmingly efficient."
"I take that as a compliment."
"It's a warning."
"To be less brilliant?"
"To sleep occasionally."
Aryan grinned. "I'll pencil that in between your impossible assignments."
Cowel's sigh was almost fond. "I've created a monster."
"Correction," Aryan said, spinning a pencil between his fingers. "You just calibrated one."
---
Their rhythm settled into something that felt like partnership. Cowel would dictate notes while Aryan typed, occasionally interrupting with a question sharp enough to make the professor pause.
But lately, Cowel had begun noticing things—small, uneven details that didn't fit the story.
A transcript that listed Aryan's first-year grades far lower than his current performance suggested.
An offhand comment from another lecturer: "Your assistant caught an error in my publication draft—took me days to verify he was right."
The way Aryan solved complex problems in his head, as if retrieving answers he'd already known.
Cowel's instincts prickled. Either the boy was learning at a superhuman pace—or he'd never been struggling to begin with.
---
That thought lingered for days.
One afternoon, while Aryan was running dataset checks, Cowel quietly pulled an old folder from the cabinet: Carter, Aryan – Academic Record.
The early grades were abysmal. But the pattern was strange—perfect scores in certain technical tests, sudden drops in others, as if he'd turned competence on and off.
Cowel frowned. "Impossible," he murmured.
Across the desk, Aryan looked up. "Did you say something?"
"Nothing relevant."
He closed the file. But curiosity had already dug its claws in.
---
That night, Aryan stayed late again. The rain outside turned the windows into silver sheets. Cowel dictated research notes, voice low and steady; Aryan typed without missing a word.
"You adapt quickly," Cowel said after a pause. "Faster than most doctoral candidates I've supervised."
Aryan shrugged. "Guess your methods work."
"Do they?"
He looked up, caught off guard. "Was that rhetorical?"
"Observation," Cowel said. "You've mastered material that takes years. Yet two semesters ago you barely passed remedial calculus."
Aryan froze. "Maybe I had a good tutor."
"Flattery is deflection."
He tried for levity. "You'd know."
But Cowel's tone stayed level, unamused. "Mr Carter, do you often hide ability until someone forces it out of you?"
Aryan hesitated. "That's a loaded question."
"Answer it anyway."
He stared at the screen. "What's the point? The outcome's the same—I pass now, don't I?"
"The point," Cowel said softly, "is honesty."
Aryan laughed once, brittle. "You're acting like I cheated."
"I'm suggesting you pretended."
Something in Aryan's jaw tightened. "Pretended what?"
Cowel met his eyes. "That you were mediocre."
---
The room seemed smaller suddenly. The radiator's hum filled the silence.
Aryan leaned back, crossing his arms. "You have an active imagination, Professor."
"I have records," Cowel said. "Inconsistent ones. Grades too low for your current performance. Test papers that read like you were holding back."
"Maybe I just improved."
"Not that much, that quickly."
Aryan smirked. "Maybe I'm a late bloomer."
Cowel's tone stayed even. "Or maybe you were afraid to be seen succeeding."
That hit too close. Aryan looked away. "You make it sound dramatic."
"It is," Cowel said quietly. "Self-sabotage usually is."
---
Aryan stood abruptly. "Look, if you're mad that I'm doing well—"
"I'm not angry," Cowel said. "I'm trying to understand."
"Understand what? That maybe I didn't care before?"
"That you cared too much," Cowel said. "Enough to hide it."
Aryan laughed again, louder this time. "You think I wanted to fail?"
"Did you?"
He froze.
Cowel stepped closer, voice low but firm. "You've built a mask, Mr Carter. The jokes, the distractions—they're not humour. They're camouflage. You didn't want to be measured, because measurement meant expectation. Am I wrong?"
Aryan's throat felt dry. "You really psychoanalyze your assistants, huh?"
"Only the ones who make a habit of deception."
The words landed like a slap. Aryan's pulse jumped. "So that's what you think of me."
"I think you're terrified of your own ability."
---
Silence.
Outside, thunder rolled across the dark sky. The desk lamp cast long shadows between them.
Aryan's fists clenched at his sides. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," Cowel said.
"No," Aryan snapped. "You know what's on paper. You know what I let you see."
"And what you let me see," Cowel replied, "was a lie."
The words hung there, sharp and final.
For a long time, neither moved.
Then Aryan laughed quietly—tired, bitter. "You really can't help it, can you? You see everything as an equation. Input, output, error. But people aren't proofs, Professor."
Cowel's eyes narrowed. "No. But patterns reveal truth."
"And what truth did you find?" Aryan asked.
"That you failed on purpose."
The air seemed to crackle.
Aryan's lips curved into something between a smile and a wince. He looked straight at him, voice soft but steady.
"Maybe," he said. "You finally looked at me, didn't you?"