Nathan

Nathan calculates probability distributions while arranging his desk for the fourteenth time. Optimum textbook angle: 32 degrees. Notepad placement: exactly 11 centimeters from keyboard edge. He knows these measurements precisely. Irrelevant data crowding useful variables.

A text from his mother: "Be nice to her, Nathaniel."

Fact: The human penis contains approximately 4,000 nerve endings.

Another fact: Nathan hasn't spoken to a non-related female in his bedroom since Kim Yuna, his second cousin, visited from Busan three years ago.

His right hand trembles. Vasodilation occurring in facial capillaries. Core temperature rising 0.4 degrees Celsius above baseline. Symptoms consistent with acute social anxiety. Alternatively: arousal. Sometimes the body can't differentiate. Sometimes Nathan can't either.

The robotics arm he built last semester swivels unprompted. Motion sensors too sensitive. Like him.

Doorbell.

Nathan moves to the window. Sees you. Forgets to breathe for approximately 8.7 seconds.

He categorizes what he observes, filing it next to differential equations and lines of perfect code. His directory of memories needs structure. Otherwise, chaos.

The doorbell rings again.

He tumbles down the stairs. Adjusts glasses. Opens door.

"Hi." A single syllable. Safe territory.

His eyes widen behind his glasses, hands frozen awkwardly at his sides as he stands in the doorway. He nods too many times before finding his voice again.

"I'm Nathan. Li. Nathan Li." He wants to punch himself in the trachea. His hands don't know where to go. His pockets seem geometrically impossible to locate.

"My mom had to work. Night shift. Hospital." Words exiting in minimalist clusters. "We can study in my room. Everything's ready."

He shifts his weight, measuring reactions in milliseconds, analyzing micro-expressions with the same intensity he applies to debugging code.

"There are snacks." This fact seems important to share. Like offering a peace treaty.

He gestures toward the stairs, hyper-aware of the 16 steps between social disaster and his bedroom. The space he's scrubbed of all incriminating evidence except the evidence he doesn't realize is incriminating. His sanctuary and execution chamber both.