Liam Carter did not believe in luck. He did not believe in fate, destiny, or the sentimental nonsense people clung to when confronted with life's statistical unlikelihoods. He believed in numbers—specifically, the ones that kept him afloat at Aldridge Academy, where every student was ranked like a stock market ticker, and a single miscalculation could send them plummeting into mediocrity.
At precisely 6:42 AM, Liam woke to the sound of his alarm—programmed to play the least distracting frequency of white noise—and methodically began his morning routine. By 7:05, he was dressed in Aldridge's regulation uniform, his tie knotted to the precise millimeter dictated by the academy's dress code. At 7:15, he was in the dining hall, consuming exactly the caloric intake required for optimal brain function. By 7:45, he was seated in the library, reviewing notes that needed no reviewing.
Routine was the algorithm of survival. Deviations led to inefficiency. Inefficiency led to failure. And failure was not an option.
Yet, for all his meticulous planning, Liam had not accounted for the email waiting in his inbox.
Subject: Application Update – Yale University
A single line of text: We regret to inform you…
Liam stared at it. Then he reread it, as if the words might reorganize themselves into something more logical, something that fit the statistical models he had so carefully calculated. But no. The words stubbornly refused to change.
Rejected.
His first instinct was to search for an error. Perhaps an issue in the admission's portal? A clerical mistake? But the email was firm in its finality. Yale, the university that had practically been a foregone conclusion, had deemed him insufficient.
It didn't make sense. His scores were in the top 0.01 percentile. His research portfolio had been cited in academic journals. He had built a neural network from scratch at fourteen. He was, by all measurable metrics, an ideal candidate.
But then he remembered the words of the Yale admissions officer he had met months ago at a recruitment event. A woman with sharp eyes and a voice that carried the quiet finality of someone accustomed to deciding futures.
"You're a perfect algorithm," she had said, tapping his application folder. "We need a protagonist."
Liam had nodded politely at the time, filing the comment away under ambiguous human nonsense before moving on. But now, with the rejection sitting like a lead weight in his chest, the words came back with uncomfortable clarity.
A protagonist.
Yale, it seemed, was not interested in statistical perfection. It wanted human stories—ones with struggle and growth and whatever other ineffable qualities made admissions officers weep into their coffee.
Liam had thought his personal essay was sufficient. It had, after all, been structured flawlessly—an inspiring tale of resilience and ambition, crafted through careful study of previous Ivy League admits. It was the essay equivalent of a well-trained AI: impeccable, but ultimately synthetic.
Apparently, they had seen through it.
Across the table, a tray clattered onto the polished wood.
"Okay," Ethan Reyes announced, collapsing into the seat across from him. "I have exactly thirty-six minutes before I fail calculus. What's our battle plan?"
Liam blinked at him, momentarily pulled from his spiraling thoughts. Ethan was wearing his uniform with the kind of studied carelessness that suggested he had, at some point, made an attempt at ironing before giving up entirely. His tie was loosely knotted, his sleeves rolled up, and his brown hair was permanently in a state of near-chaos. His laptop case was covered in stickers—an abomination Liam had long since given up trying to scrape off.
"Battle plan?" Liam repeated blankly.
"Calculus," Ethan said. "Math. My impending doom. I need you to explain derivatives in a way that makes sense to my artist brain." He mimed a tiny explosion next to his temple. "Otherwise, I am toast."
Liam considered telling him that calculus was, in fact, one of the simpler branches of mathematics and that any failure would be entirely his own doing. But then again, Ethan had always existed in some kind of strange alternate reality where feelings dictated outcomes and knowledge could be acquired through sheer willpower and caffeine.
Instead, Liam pushed his tablet across the table. "I've highlighted the key concepts in green."
Ethan groaned. "You know I don't speak 'key concepts.' Can you just… I don't know, humanize it for me?"
Liam resisted the urge to point out the irony.
"Imagine you're running," he said finally. "The derivative tells you how fast you're accelerating. If it's negative, you're slowing down. If it's positive, you're speeding up."
Ethan squinted. "So… calculus is just running?"
Liam sighed. "Yes. Calculus is just running."
Ethan grinned. "See, that's what Yale wants, dude. You gotta explain things like that. They want stories, not spreadsheets."
Liam stiffened, the rejection email flashing back into his mind.
Stories.
A protagonist.
For the first time in his life, Liam Carter found himself facing a problem that numbers couldn't solve.
And he hated it.