"If you've made it this far," his voice would say, lighter now—almost amused, "then you deserve to meet a very specific version of me."
A pause.
"The one people didn't quite know what to do with."
Another pause.
"The one I didn't plan."
—
O'Brian O'Brian had changed.
Not in a sudden, dramatic way.
No—those changes had already happened. Quietly. Precisely. Calculated.
This was something else.
This was… expression.
It started small.
A comment here. A remark there. A reply that came just a little too quickly, just a little too sharp.
Then it grew.
"Daniel," O'Brian said one morning, walking beside him toward school, "if you walk any slower, we might arrive yesterday."
Daniel blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," O'Brian replied calmly, "your current pace is inefficient."
"I'm recovering!"
"And yet gravity hasn't increased."
"…You're insufferable."
A pause.
"Statistically accurate."
Daniel sighed.
"…You're different."
"I've been told."
—
School noticed.
Not just the way he walked. Not just the way he looked.
But the way he *spoke*.
Teachers who once overlooked him now paused when he answered. Students who ignored him now listened—even when they didn't want to.
Because O'Brian didn't just speak.
He *cut*.
Not cruelly.
Not always.
But precisely.
"Mr. O'Brian," a teacher said during class, slightly hesitant, "would you like to explain your answer?"
O'Brian leaned back slightly. "I could."
A pause.
"…That wasn't an invitation to hesitate."
"I'm not hesitating," he replied calmly. "I'm deciding how much of it you'd understand."
The class froze.
Daniel covered his face.
"…He's joking," Daniel muttered quickly.
"I'm not," O'Brian added.
A few students laughed.
The teacher blinked.
Then, slowly, "Just… explain the answer."
And he did.
Perfectly.
Without notes.
Without effort.
It didn't take long for the results to follow.
Tests came back.
Scores were posted.
And for the first time—
O'Brian O'Brian didn't sit at fifty percent.
He sat at the top.
100%.
Every subject.
Every time.
Daniel stared at the paper in disbelief. "You didn't even hesitate."
"I rarely do."
"That's not normal!"
"You've mentioned."
Daniel leaned closer. "You're going to attract attention."
"I already have."
A pause.
"And?" Daniel asked.
O'Brian glanced at him. "I've decided to allow it."
"…You're terrifying."
"Thank you."
—
Competitions followed.
Not because O'Brian signed up.
Because he was *pushed* into them.
"Math competition," Daniel said, practically dragging him along. "You're doing it."
"I don't recall agreeing."
"You don't need to."
A pause.
"…Fine."
The competition wasn't close.
It wasn't even competitive.
Problems meant to challenge entire groups were solved in minutes. Patterns identified before others even understood the question.
The judges exchanged looks.
Students whispered.
And when the results came in—
First place.
"Of course you did," Daniel muttered.
"I tried not to," O'Brian replied.
"You *tried* not to win?"
"Yes."
"…How?"
"I left one answer incomplete."
Daniel stared at him.
"…You're unbelievable."
"Frequently stated."
—
Then came the races.
That one surprised people.
O'Brian didn't look athletic. Didn't act it.
But when Daniel signed them both up for a school race, O'Brian didn't object.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked.
"Because you need to experience life!"
"I am experiencing it."
"You're analyzing it."
"…Fair."
The race began.
Students lined up.
Energy. Noise. Movement.
O'Brian stood still.
Observing.
Breathing patterns. Starting positions. Foot placement. Muscle tension.
"Ready!"
A pause.
"Set—"
Calculation.
"Go!"
He moved.
Not explosively.
Not dramatically.
Efficiently.
Each step placed with intent. No wasted motion. No panic. No rush.
Others sprinted.
He maintained.
And then—
They slowed.
He didn't.
He passed them one by one.
Not aggressively.
Inevitably.
By the time the finish line approached—
He was ahead.
By enough.
He crossed it without celebration.
Without reaction.
Just… done.
Daniel arrived seconds later, gasping. "You… don't… even look tired."
"I'm not."
"That's not fair!"
"Life rarely is."
—
It didn't stop there.
Chess club.
Debates.
Logic games.
Team challenges.
Everywhere O'Brian went—
He won.
Not loudly.
Not arrogantly.
But undeniably.
And people noticed.
Especially her.
—
The moment was… awkward.
There was no other word for it.
Daniel felt it before it happened.
"You feel that?" he muttered.
"Yes," O'Brian replied.
"What is it?"
"Unusual behavior approaching."
"…What?"
"Observe."
Nora Hamin walked toward them.
Alone.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
She stopped in front of them.
Didn't speak immediately.
Didn't posture.
Didn't perform.
Just… stood there.
Daniel blinked. "Uh… hi?"
Nora hesitated.
Then—
"…Can we talk?"
Daniel looked at O'Brian.
O'Brian looked at her.
A pause.
"You are talking."
"…Not like this," she said quietly.
Another pause.
"…Alright," O'Brian replied.
Daniel looked between them. "Wait—what's happening?"
"No idea," O'Brian said.
—
They moved to a quieter area.
The air felt different.
Uncertain.
Nora crossed her arms lightly—not defensive, just… unsure.
"I…" she started.
Stopped.
Tried again.
"I wanted to ask something."
"Then ask," O'Brian said.
She exhaled.
"…Can we be friends?"
Silence.
Daniel choked slightly. "I'm sorry—what?"
Nora didn't look at him.
Her eyes stayed on O'Brian.
"I mean it," she added, quieter now. "No games. No… anything like before."
Daniel blinked rapidly. "Is this a prank?"
"No," she said firmly.
O'Brian studied her.
Not intensely.
Not dissecting.
Just… observing.
Then—
"Why?"
The question was simple.
But it mattered.
Nora hesitated.
"…Because I was wrong."
A pause.
"And because…" she looked away briefly, then back, "you didn't have to do what you did. But you stopped."
Silence.
"And I—" she exhaled softly, "I don't want things to stay like they were."
Daniel looked at O'Brian. "This is weird."
"Agreed," O'Brian replied.
Another pause.
Then—
"Alright."
Daniel froze. "Wait—what?"
"I accept," O'Brian said.
Nora blinked. "You do?"
"Yes."
"…Just like that?"
"Not exactly," he replied. "There are conditions."
Daniel groaned. "Of course there are."
O'Brian ignored him.
"No manipulation," he said. "No games. No hidden intent."
Nora nodded quickly. "Okay."
"And—"
A slight pause.
"Try to earn your confidence without borrowing it."
That—
Landed.
Nora's expression softened slightly.
"…I will."
Daniel looked between them. "I feel like I missed several chapters of development."
"You did," O'Brian said.
—
Things didn't become perfect.
They became… different.
Nora didn't hover anymore.
Didn't command attention.
But she stayed.
Sometimes joining conversations. Sometimes just listening.
Daniel adjusted slowly.
"This is still weird," he muttered one afternoon.
"It will stabilize," O'Brian replied.
"You talk like this is an experiment."
"It is."
"…We're your friends!"
"Yes."
"That didn't make it better!"
—
O'Brian, however—
Didn't go back.
He stayed as he was.
Sharp.
Observant.
And now—
Talkative.
In his own way.
"Daniel," he said one day, watching him struggle with a problem, "you've been staring at that for twelve minutes."
"I'm thinking!"
"You're not. You're hoping."
"…There's a difference?"
"Yes."
"…I hate you."
"Unlikely."
Nora laughed softly.
Daniel pointed at her. "Don't encourage him!"
"I'm not," she said, still smiling. "I'm just enjoying it."
O'Brian tilted his head slightly.
"Progress."
—
And just like that—
The quiet boy who once sat at fifty percent—
Became something else entirely.
Not louder.
Not reckless.
But present.
Engaged.
Alive.
A sarcastic, observant, impossibly precise mind wrapped in calm expression.
And for once—
He wasn't hiding it.
Because some rules were never meant to be followed.
Only understood.
And rewritten.