The morning of the exam felt unnaturally still.
Even the air in Aryan Carter's dorm room seemed to have weight. Papers were scattered across the desk like casualties from a war—half-solved problems, coffee rings, and notes filled with Cowel's precise corrections.
He sat there, pencil balanced between his fingers, staring at the same formula for ten minutes without seeing it. His reflection in the window looked oddly composed, even though his stomach disagreed.
"You've got this," he muttered to himself. "You've trained under the dragon himself. This is just… friendly fire."
The clock read 8:32. The exam started at nine.
He exhaled, grabbed his bag, and left before he could change his mind.
The corridors of the math department buzzed like a hive. Dozens of students shuffled with notebooks and water bottles, whispering last-minute formulas like prayers.
Mina spotted him near the doorway. "Hey, math prodigy," she said. "Ready to destroy this thing?"
"Define ready," Aryan said.
"As in, haven't slept, but fueled by anxiety and caffeine?"
"Then yes. I'm transcending humanity."
She laughed. "You'll be fine."
Jules jogged up behind them, waving a calculator. "I had a nightmare that Cowel was the one grading my paper."
"Bold of you to assume it's a nightmare," Aryan said. "Some of us call that destiny."
Mina nudged him. "You're actually calm. That's terrifying."
"Fake it till you pass it," he said, but his smile faltered as he glanced into the hall.
At the front of the room, arranging papers with clinical precision, stood Professor Cowel.
Aryan's chest tightened. Of course he'd be invigilating. The man probably didn't trust anyone else to alphabetize the misery correctly.
Cowel looked up briefly as students entered. His eyes brushed over Aryan—impersonal, unreadable—but the smallest flicker of recognition passed between them before he turned back to the desk.
Aryan swallowed. "Well," he murmured, "no pressure."
When the papers were handed out, the room fell into silence so heavy it almost hummed.
Aryan turned the first page.
His heart dropped.
The questions were brutal—multi-step proofs, nested limits, and a final problem that looked like it had crawled out of a research journal.
He smirked weakly. "Classic Cowel," he whispered under his breath.
Someone coughed behind him. Time began.
The first few problems went smoothly. Aryan's pencil moved in quiet rhythm, numbers aligning like gears. His handwriting had improved—still messy, but purposeful.
Halfway through, he reached the monster at the end: Problem 8.
It sprawled across half the page, filled with impossible substitutions and contradictory hints. Around him, students sighed or whispered curses.
Aryan stared at it for a long moment. Then something clicked.
He saw the pattern—not in the steps, but in the shape of the equation itself. Like music. Like poetry. The same rhythm Cowel had spoken of.
He began writing.
One line. Then another.
No second-guessing this time, no fear.
Cowel's voice echoed in his head: Clean lines. Clean thought.
His pencil flew.
Minutes blurred into something outside of time. The problem unfolded like a conversation between two minds—his and Cowel's—logic meeting instinct, precision dancing with creativity.
When he finished, the page was almost beautiful. The steps balanced, the answer simple and inevitable.
He leaned back, breathless.
Then, almost involuntarily, he looked up.
Cowel stood at the front, arms folded, scanning the room. His gaze drifted over the rows—and stopped on Aryan.
For a heartbeat, Aryan thought the professor was looking straight at the page in front of him, like he could somehow see the work.
Neither moved.
Then Cowel shifted his gaze away, expression unreadable, and began walking slowly between desks.
Aryan smiled to himself and turned back to double-check his work, the faintest pulse of pride warming his chest.
When time was called, papers rustled like waves. Students stretched, muttering half-prayers and half-rants. Aryan stacked his pages neatly, resisting the urge to peek at anyone else's answers.
As Cowel passed his desk to collect the sheets, Aryan caught his eye for half a second.
"Enjoy the chaos," Aryan said quietly.
Cowel paused, almost imperceptibly. "I look forward to the challenge," he replied, equally low.
Their gazes met for a fraction longer before Cowel moved on.
That evening, Aryan sat on the dorm rooftop with Mina and Jules, eating cold pizza under the city glow.
"How'd you do?" Jules asked.
Aryan took a long sip of soda. "Let's just say… I didn't crash and burn."
Mina squinted at him. "You're being mysterious. That means you did great."
"Or I blacked out and invented new math," he said. "We'll see."
They laughed, but part of him stayed elsewhere—back in that exam hall, back in that moment when everything had finally made sense.
For once, he didn't need reassurance. He already knew.
Cowel graded alone.
The clock on his office wall ticked past midnight, soft and relentless. A stack of exams sat before him, each filled with careful handwriting and familiar mistakes.
Then he reached one written in the slanted scrawl he now knew well: Aryan Carter.
He scanned the first pages quickly—clean, correct, confident. Nothing surprising. Until he reached Problem 8.
There he stopped.
He read every line twice, then again more slowly. The logic was flawless. The approach wasn't textbook—it was better. Shorter. Elegant.
It wasn't just correct; it was creative. The kind of leap he rarely saw outside of published research.
He leaned back, hands folded. The faintest hint of pride touched his face.
He pulled a red pen toward him, hesitated, then set it down untouched.
Instead, he wrote one small note at the bottom of the final page:
"Unorthodox. Brilliant."
He closed the paper and placed it gently at the top of the stack.
The next morning, the results went up on the board outside the lecture hall. Students clustered around, murmuring.
Mina's voice cut through the noise. "Carter! You're on top!"
Aryan blinked. "You're joking."
She pointed. His name, clear as daylight: 1st – Aryan Carter.
He stared for a moment, waiting for the universe to laugh. It didn't.
Jules whistled. "Well, damn. Guess you can retire now."
Aryan grinned faintly. "Not yet. Still gotta outsmart the professor who made the test."
"Good luck with that," Mina said.
But he didn't answer.
Across the hall, Cowel was standing by the doorway, arms crossed, speaking quietly with another lecturer. He looked up just as Aryan did.
Their eyes met for a second—no smile, no nod, just quiet acknowledgment.
But that was enough.
Later that evening, Aryan wandered the courtyard alone. The fountain murmured softly nearby, and the air smelled like wet stone and spring. He pulled the results slip from his pocket and looked at the bold black "1."
It didn't feel like victory. It felt like arrival.
He remembered something Cowel had said months ago: "Perhaps try learning from success for a change."
Aryan smiled to himself. "Guess I finally did."
He folded the paper carefully and slipped it back into his bag.
***
Back in his office, Cowel updated the record file one last time. Under Aryan Carter's name, he wrote:
Final evaluation: Exceptional analytical ability. Unorthodox methods. Independent reasoning beyond expectation.
He paused, tapping the pen lightly. Then added a final note:
He no longer imitates. He innovates.
Cowel closed the folder, the faintest trace of satisfaction flickering across his face.