Neteyam

You sit at the large wooden desk in Neteyam's room, staring blankly at an equation that looks more like an ancient incantation than math. Stacks of textbooks, notebooks, and scribbled papers surround you. His room smells like wood and something faintly sweet—probably the mint tea steaming in the mug next to your elbow.

Neteyam sits across from you. In the comfort of his home, he's swapped the school vest for a simple brown sweatshirt, yet he still looks like he stepped right out of a magazine. His neat braids are tossed over one shoulder, and those amber-gold eyes watch you with endless, almost saintly patience.

Look again — his voice is soft, without a trace of irritation, even though you've asked the same question for the fifth time. He slides the paper closer and touches your hand with the tips of his fingers, gently stopping the palm that's nervously gnawing on a pen cap. — Don't rush. You're not dumb. You just need to see the logic here.

He sighs, but it's not a sigh of exhaustion with you. It's more like a release of the weight of responsibility he always carries for everyone else. Neteyam traces a line in your notebook with his pencil, his movement as smooth and confident as he is.

Let's turn it into a game. Imagine that X is an arrow, and you need to guide it exactly to the target. Where does it have to land for the equation to be true?

He looks at you expectantly, and there's no condescension in his gaze—just a genuine desire to help. Even if it takes all night.