Chapter XXXI: Partials Behind the Equations
The rain falls in slanted sheets over London, slapping against windows, streaking the pavements until the city becomes a watercolor blur.
Nathaniel Cross wakes to it.
The sound is steady, relentless, drumming on the glass above his small flat. He sits up slowly, throat dry, hair tangled, eyes burning from the strain of too many nights bent over equations that refused to surrender. The alarm had long since gone silent, defeated by his heavy hand hours ago, but the rain becomes its replacement, tugging him awake whether he wants to rise or not.
He swings his legs onto the floor. The air is damp, carrying the faint smell of mildew mixed with the metallic tang of the radiator. He presses a palm over his chest. The scar hums faintly beneath his shirt, a quiet ember. Not pain. Not yet. But a reminder. Always a reminder.
He dresses mechanically—black trousers, white shirt, scarf knotted clumsily at the throat, coat thrown over his shoulders. The mirror offers him a reflection that looks older than it should: eyes shadowed, cheeks sharp, lips pressed thin.
But he tells himself again, like a mantra: Today is for progress.
By the time he reaches King's College, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, though the sky remains a washed-out canvas of grey. The corridors hum with their usual tide of students, coats dripping, umbrellas tucked awkwardly under arms. The scent of wet wool and coffee clings to the air.
Nathaniel threads his way into the lecture hall, sliding into a seat halfway up the tiered rows. His notebook opens with a crack of its spine, pages already filled with messy scrawls from previous days. He grips his pen like a weapon.
Professor Aldridge begins immediately, chalk squealing against the board.
"Today—load distribution in trusses. Pay attention, this is where theory collides with failure. A single miscalculation here, and your entire structure collapses."
Equations scatter across the board in tight, furious lines. Force diagrams unfold like spiderwebs, arrows pointing in every direction. Nathaniel copies, but his hand falters.
The numbers blur. Each ratio slips away just as he catches it. Tension, compression—opposites wrestle across his mind, colliding, collapsing. His breath quickens.
He scratches notes harder, pressing ink into the page as if he can will the formulas into obedience. Around him, laptops clatter, classmates mutter, a cough echoes. None of them hear the frantic pounding of his heart.
For a moment, his pen hovers uselessly in midair.
Then the ember in his chest stirs—warm, steady. Not intrusive, not searing. Almost reassuring.
Anchor yourself, he thinks. Stay here. Stay human.
He drags his focus back to the board, forcing himself to see the pattern behind the chaos. And slowly—painfully—he begins to catch it.
The spiderweb of forces starts to resemble sense. A beam bending beneath pressure. A joint stabilizing under weight. Not perfection. Not mastery. But understanding.
When the lecture ends, his notebook is a battlefield of scratches, but his chest feels lighter. He has not drowned. Not today.
"Nathaniel Cross."
The voice finds him as he's packing his notes. Smooth. Calm. Too calm.
He turns.
Adolf van Giovanni stands at the end of the row, pale hair damp from the rain, grey-green eyes sharp despite the dim light. His dark suit clings neatly, without a wrinkle, as if the weather itself had been careful not to offend him.
Nathaniel exhales. "You again."
Adolf's lips curve faintly—not into warmth, not into friendliness, but into something sharper, a blade disguised as expression. "We keep meeting where numbers fall apart."
Nathaniel slings his satchel over his shoulder. "That's what engineering is. Numbers falling apart until you learn to fix them."
Adolf steps closer, voice low. "But not everyone learns. Some break under the weight. Some..." His eyes flick briefly, too briefly, toward Nathaniel's chest. "...carry burdens that crack them from within."
The words land heavy, like stones in water.
Nathaniel stiffens. "You don't know me."
Adolf tilts his head, studying him like a specimen under glass. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I know enough."
He leaves the sentence unfinished, turns, and descends the lecture hall stairs with unhurried steps. The notebook in his hand swings softly, its pages hidden, its contents unreadable.
Nathaniel watches him go, jaw tight. Something coils under his skin—not fear, not quite, but irritation. The kind that digs, that lingers, that waits for a crack.
He shakes it off. Shoulders his satchel. Leaves.
But Adolf's voice follows him like an echo that refuses to fade.
Days stretch into their merciless rhythm. Lectures. Libraries. Deadlines. Equations multiplying like weeds across his notes. Nathaniel feels the pressure mounting with every passing hour, each assignment heavier than the last.
His classmates seem to carry it better. Some complain, some laugh, but they still move with the ease of those unburdened by invisible weights. Nathaniel moves differently—slower, sharper, as though balancing on a blade.
In the evenings, the library becomes his refuge. Tall shelves cast shadows over long tables, lamps glowing in pools of yellow light. He sits hunched, pencil scratching, fingers stained with graphite and ink.
Sometimes, fatigue drags his head down, eyelids heavy. And in those moments, he swears the numbers on the page bend—curving into hourglasses, splitting into mirrored reflections. He blinks, shakes his head, breathes until they straighten.
The ember in his chest listens quietly. Never gone. Never letting him forget.
And always, somewhere between the aisles or in the periphery of his vision—Adolf van Giovanni.
Sometimes leaning against a shelf, flipping through a book he never seems to read. Sometimes passing behind him with footsteps too soft for a man his size. Sometimes simply there, eyes lingering too long, smile thin as a knife.
Nathaniel pretends not to care. He forces himself deeper into study, into equations, into anything but the pull of that gaze. But the tension builds. Like steel beams straining under weight, he feels the pressure.
One evening, leaving the library late, Nathaniel steps into the rain. It falls in fine mist now, clinging to his coat, dripping from the edges of his scarf. The lamps outside cast halos through the fog, making the city look blurred, unreal.
He walks quickly, head bowed, books heavy in his satchel. His mind hums with formulas, diagrams, the ghost of Adolf's words.
And then—
"You walk as if chased."
Nathaniel stops cold.
Adolf stands under a lamppost at the corner, pale hair catching the dim light, notebook in one hand, the other buried casually in his pocket. He looks untouched by the rain, as if the weather parts around him.
Nathaniel exhales sharply. "Do you enjoy this? Appearing out of nowhere? Watching?"
Adolf steps forward, slow, deliberate, his shoes striking the wet pavement like measured beats. "I observe. Observation is not crime."
"Feels like stalking," Nathaniel mutters.
Adolf's eyes gleam faintly in the rainlight. "You mistake interest for intrusion. I see weight in you, Cross. And weight fascinates me."
Nathaniel's hand tightens on the strap of his satchel. "Whatever game you're playing, I don't care. I've got enough to deal with without—"
"Without me?" Adolf interrupts softly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's me you can't afford to ignore."
The ember in Nathaniel's chest flares suddenly, heat pulsing outward. His breath hitches.
Adolf's gaze flicks—just once—toward that place. And his lips curve faintly again.
"You hide it well," he murmurs. "But not from me."
Nathaniel's blood runs cold.
Before he can speak, Adolf turns away, notebook tapping softly against his thigh.
"See you tomorrow, Nathaniel Cross."
And then he vanishes into the rain, leaving Nathaniel frozen, heart pounding, scar burning faintly beneath fabric.
Back in his flat, Nathaniel drops heavily into his chair, papers spilling across the desk. His hands tremble as he grips his pen, but he forces himself into the work. Equations, diagrams, endless numbers.
Adolf's words echo, sharp as blades: You hide it well. But not from me.
The ember in his chest pulses, hot, steady, waiting.
Nathaniel grips tighter. "No," he mutters to himself. "You don't control me. Not you. Not anyone."
He scratches numbers harder, faster. And this time, the equations yield. Slowly. Painfully. But they yield.
He sees the pattern in trusses. The flow of stress through steel. The way numbers bend but do not break when handled right.
He works until dawn, the rain outside fading into silence. His eyes burn, his hands ache. But when he finally sets his pencil down, his notebook is filled with answers that make sense.
Not perfect. Not easy. But progress.
The ember hums in agreement.
Morning comes again, grey and damp. Nathaniel walks to King's with heavy steps, but his chest feels steadier. He takes his seat in the lecture hall, notebook open, pen ready.
Adolf is there, two rows back, notebook in hand, eyes sharp. Watching. Always watching.
Nathaniel does not look back.
He writes. He studies. He learns.
Because for every weight pressing down, he has found a counterweight. For every gaze that cuts, he has found defiance.
He endures.
And in endurance, there is progress.
To be continued...