Aidan Avery

Dark brown hair, skin as tan as the temperate earth, and eyes as gray as the fog of an impending storm. His face seemed sculpted by the gods themselves, with perfect lines and a firm jaw. He stood 6'4" (almost two meters) tall and was a pure presence: an athletic body shaped not by vanity, but by discipline.

At first glance, Aidan was the perfect boy. The smartest in his class—probably the entire university—quiet, calculating, impenetrable. He didn't go unnoticed, even though he would have given anything to become invisible.

Born into an upper-middle-class family, he never lacked anything, but he wasn't raised in excess either. He was indifferent to luxury. Money, unnecessary. Love, a useless emotional expenditure. For Aidan, life was an equation, and emotions were a contaminating variable.

His days were spent between books on advanced physics, philosophical theories, and video games, which he chose only to keep his mind moving. He hated attention, unexpected touches, trivial conversations, and well-crafted lies. He despised religion with the same fervor with which he defended science: cold, logical, unquestionable. If something couldn't be explained rationally, it simply wasn't worth it.

Some said he had the soul of a dictator; others called him a "functional sociopath." But in reality, Aidan simply didn't trust the world. He preferred to observe from a distance, control what he could, anticipate what he couldn't. He hated having his things touched, wouldn't share anything he considered his, and loathed parties filled with noise and "riff-raff"—as he used to call those who weren't on his intellectual level.

He had no friends, only temporary allies: useful companions, if they were bright enough not to bore him. He wasn't cruel... just honest. Brutally honest. To Aidan, social masks were a waste of time. And he hated wasting time.

Dark brown hair, tanned skin like the warm earth after a gentle rain, and gray eyes like the thick fog before an impending storm. His face seemed sculpted with almost divine care: symmetrical, with clean lines, a firm jaw, and strong brows that projected an eternally imperturbable expression. He stood 6'4"—almost exactly two meters—and every inch of his body spoke of discipline. It wasn't a body forged out of vanity, but out of necessity, out of structure. A body that stayed strong because his mind wouldn't allow him to fail at anything.

At first glance, Aidan was the perfect boy. Academically, no one could match him. He was the brightest in his class, and probably the brightest in the entire university. A true genius, one of those rare types who don't memorize: they understand. Aidan learned effortlessly, spoke when absolutely necessary, and always listened with his eyes, not his ears. Quiet, observant, logical to a fault. His silence was his best defense, and his mind, his only homeland.

What many didn't understand—and would never understand—is that Aidan didn't seek admiration. In fact, he hated being seen. He would have given anything to become invisible, to be able to walk through the world unnoticed, unmarked as "that weird kid," "that arrogant guy who never smiles," "the one who always gets A's without studying." Every compliment was just another sound in the symphony of chaos he insisted on silencing.

He was born into an upper-middle-class family. He never lacked food, education, or shelter. Nor did he lack pampering. His parents were rational, hardworking, absent in their own way. They raised him with independence, routines, clear rules, and moderate affection. No harsh punishments or obvious traumas. No endless hugs or theatrical celebrations. Aidan grew up in a functional environment… too functional. He learned not to expect anything…