A couple of days slipped by, the time puddling together like ink on wet parchment.

"Hey Zeke," Fredric anxiously said.

"What?" Zeke wondered, lowering his book.

"I think I'm gonna fail the exams," Fredric added with a nervous laugh.

"What do you mean?" Zeke pressed, sliding the volume shut.

"Well, you know how we had those mock tests last week…" Fredric shifted his gaze.

"Yeah," Zeke leaned in, brow knitting.

"Well I failed all of them," Fredric giggled, scratching the back of his head.

"What the fuck!" Zeke shouted, vaulting to his feet. "What have you been doing all this fucking time?"

"Slacking off," Fredric paused, grin tilting. "Intensely," he giggled again.

"For fuck's sake," Zeke retorted, fists clenching in visible aggravation.

"Hey, now that I think about it. Do I even need to graduate?" Fredric wondered aloud.

"Of course, dumbass!" Zeke exclaimed. "Enough fucking around—I'll tutor the stupidity out of you."

The next morning dawned into exam-preparation week—a sacred lull when no classes met, so every corridor echoed with the hush of last-minute cramming. Marble hallways stood unusually silent, and even the holo-ads dimmed their volume in respect.

Zeke and Fredric commandeered a corner table in the upper gallery of the Grand Library: a vast chamber of polished oak, spiral staircases, and stained-glass skylights that scattered jewel-toned light over the reading desks. To keep Fredric tethered to reality, Zeke turned the space into a war room—spreading charts, flashcards, and color-coded scrolls across their mahogany battlement, stalwart as any fortress wall.

He deployed visual aids—glyph-ink diagrams, spectral light projections, quick sketches that bled charcoal dust onto crisp paper. He forged mnemonic rhymes in Fredric's native cadences, transforming rote lists into half-catchy limericks that stuck like burrs. Interactive drills followed: whispered recitations, timed quizzes, and mock duels of question and rebuttal. Each time Fredric stumbled, Zeke patiently rewound the lesson, scaffolding the concept until comprehension clicked in place like a lock accepting its key.

The deeper they dove, the more Zeke's examples bridged theory to practice. Probability curves became dice collisions in an alleyway bet. Thermodynamic constants morphed into steam valves in Babel's under-rail engines. Abstract arcanum found flesh in everyday gutter slang. Under that relentless spotlight, even Fredric—habitual procrastinator, champion of daydreams—felt his boredom peel away. Zeke's calm persistence drew him forward, step by incremental step, until sense took root.

They battled through practice papers, dissecting questions with surgical precision. Zeke's eagle-eye spotted every hidden hinge, every trap answer; his strategic breakdowns exposed patterns in what had once seemed chaos. In his wake, Fredric discovered he could navigate the labyrinth—still wary, but no longer lost.

Between skirmishes they allowed measured breaks: a stroll to the courtyard for fresh air, a detour to the vending automata for sugared tea, a moment to stretch cramped fingers. Yet even in respite, Zeke stayed vigilant. He'd quiz casually while watching koi circle the fountain, or re-illustrate a tricky proof with chalk on the stone bench beside them—quiet sparks for Fredric's roaming mind. Each pause ended on a soft reminder, a nudge back toward the ramparts of study, a candle re-lit before it guttered.

Still, Fredric's restlessness clung like static. At first, his thoughts drifted outward—riding clouds beyond the stained-glass ceiling, chasing pigeons that swooped past spires. In the library, his gaze snagged on every flicker: dust motes waltzing in sun-shafts, the lazy sway of tree branches visible through leaded panes, the subtle prismatic halo around each lamp lens. The gentle hush of turning pages lulled him, and time itself felt elastic, a languid serpent sliding out of reach.

Yawns ambushed him. He stole glances at the grand clock suspended over the central rotunda, measuring seconds like drips from a leaky tap. And each time distraction tugged too hard, he met Zeke's steadfast stare—obsidian, unblinking, determined to anchor him. The silent reprimand cut deeper than any shouted rebuke.

With every admonition—some gentle, some sharp—Zeke coaxed Fredric back to the text. But the harder Zeke pushed, the more Fredric's instincts urged flight, whispering of stolen catnaps and phantom freedoms. Their wills tangled: one man's iron focus against another's drifting reverie. Yet beneath the clash was a thread of stubborn camaraderie, binding them together beneath the vast hush of books and stained light, tightening with each shared victory, each reclaimed second of attention.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

A couple of days slipped by in a blur of high-pressure study sessions and restless sighs until, late one afternoon, fate rolled another die. The Grand Library was dressed in its usual hush—sunset glass mosaics strewing carnelian shards across the parquet, dust motes dancing like embers above the tiered desks—when Violet happened upon them.

"Hi, Zeke, Fredric," she called, lifting a hand while Calvin wheeled her closer on silent rubber tires. "What are you two doing here?"

"We're studying," Zeke replied with almost boyish cheer, glad for a human voice that wasn't reciting definitions.

Fredric, however, groaned theatrically and slammed his face into the oak desktop, burying it amid ink-scribbled pages. "Violet… Dear… Please kill me!"

"Well, that is an interesting fellow," Calvin remarked, one brow arched, the fluorescent down-lighting catching the chrome accents of his prosthetic joints.

"I admit, he's a little eccentric, but a good guy nonetheless," Violet answered, her smile warm as late-summer dusk.

"I'M STILL HERE, YOU KNOW!" Fredric barked, voice muffled by paper.

"Really? I couldn't see you there," Violet laughed, covering her mouth in mock surprise.

"Ha, ha, very funny," Fredric muttered, lifting his head just enough to glare.

"So, are you guys studying for the exams?" Violet asked, tilting her head.

"Bravo!" Fredric clapped twice, deadpan. "Ten points!"

"Fredric failed his mock exams," Zeke confessed, exhaling through his nose.

"Oh," Violet said, eyebrows climbing.

"Oh, what?" Fredric snapped.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, still smiling.

"Oh, he must have been having a lot of fun while I was stuck studying?" Fredric baited.

"Oh, I didn't think you were dumb," Violet finished, sweet as sugarcane.

"God dammit," Fredric scoffed.

Zeke burst into deep, unguarded laughter, shoulders shaking until tears dotted his lashes. "She really got you," he wheezed.

"Man! I'm fucking sick of this place; this library is going to be the death of me!" Fredric cried, fists digging through his hair.

"Then why don't you come study at my place?" Violet offered, simple as pulling a curtain.

"Really?" they chorused, surprise harmonizing.

"Sure. My mom did ask about the next time Zeke was gonna come over," she added.

"So how are we gonna go there?" Fredric asked, scanning the vaulted room as if a portal might appear.

"Monorail?" Zeke suggested.

"Car," Calvin smirked, dangling keys that chimed like distant wind bells.

They gathered notes, stuffed parchments into binders, and filed toward the academy's multilevel garage. Calvin's vehicle— the same sleek van Nia once drove—waited beneath sodium lamps: tinted windows, reinforced bodywork. Inside, however, space was a premium. Three seats only: a customized docking rig in back for Violet's wheelchair, one driver bucket, one shotgun.

"You boys are gonna have to stack," Calvin chuckled, popping the passenger door.

Zeke, the broader of the two, wedged himself first; Fredric perched on his knees, elbows akimbo. The ride itself was smooth, thanks to the vehicle's premium tech most bumps were bare felt. Yet, every turned corner pressed Fredric closer to Zeke until their mutual discomfort turned into slapstick—an unspoken pact of suffering neither dared break with a complaint.

They rolled into an underground car park slick with marble and soft-blue guide lights. The air here smelled almost sterile—run through private filtration towers that sifted away the city's usual iron tang.

"Ahhhh, safe zone," Fredric sighed, stretching the kinks from his spine. "The air's different here thanks to all those expensive filters. I can never get used to it."

"You come here often?" Zeke asked, curiosity piqued.

"You know I live here, right?" Fredric replied.

"No," Zeke blinked. "Don't tell me you live in a penthouse or something."

"Of course not. Who the hell has that kind of money?" Fredric barked—just as Violet let out a tiny anxious giggle behind them.

They climbed granite stairs into the vestibule—vaulted ceiling, brass chandeliers, and security cameras tucked behind ornamental irises. The polished floor mirrored their arrival like still water. Instantly the concierge, an elderly man by the name of Vince, shot upright behind his desk.

"YOU!" he thundered, voice echoing off marble. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

"Hi, old man," Fredric said, waving as if greeting a pet cat. "Been a while."

"Calvin! Do you have any idea who you're bringing along?" the man raged.

Calvin only laughed, servo-joints whirring. "No, but whatever he did to piss you off, he must be one hell of a troublemaker," he said, nudging Fredric's shoulder with a metallic fingertip.

"Calvin! You can't let him in here—you just can't!" the concierge pleaded, nearly climbing over the counter.

Zeke eyed Fredric, who stood motionless, a devilish gleam lighting his grin. "What did you do?"

Fredric's eyes sparkled with shameless pride. "Well, since I lived here, I used to come home exhausted and filthy. I tracked mud everywhere—hallways, lifts, even the lobby carpet. One evening he tried to scold me, but I had my earbuds in and thought he was just some senile old man." Fredric chuckled. "Next morning he woke me at dawn, yelling at me to clean up. I ignored him… until my access pass got revoked. So I snuck back in and decided that, if he hated dirt so much, he'd better learn to live with it."

"What did you do?" Zeke lowered his gaze.

"I filled his house with fresh manure," Fredric nonchalantly remarked.

"When you say 'filled' you mean…" Zeke paused in deep thought.

"Filled, like from the floor to ceiling kind of filled. Open the door, and it all spills out kinda filled," Fredric laughed.

"You also spray-painted my walls with dicks you little bastard!" Vince shouted, waving his fist.

"Oh yeah, I did that too," Fredric wiped tears off his face.

"But you more than deserve it you stupid geezer!" He gleamed aggressively at Vince.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.