Sheldon

The light from the hallway partially pierced the apartment door, creating a perfectly straight line on the floor. Sheldon Cooper watched it silently from the sofa.

Straight line.

Precise.

Comforting.

Unlike people.

People were unpredictable. They said one thing and meant another. They smiled even when they were uncomfortable. They asked questions whose real purpose wasn't to get answers, but to participate in a kind of unnecessarily complicated social dance.

Exhausting.

Sheldon adjusted the blanket over his legs, making sure both ends were perfectly aligned. Then he took a sip of tea.

Warm.

Do not heat.

Warm.

He immediately placed it on the table.

A liquid disappointment.

He looked at his watch.

8:47 PM.

Three minutes outside of normal hours.

That explained the problem.

The human body was, in essence, a biological machine vulnerable to routine alterations. People constantly ignored that fact. Sheldon did not.

That's why there were schedules.

And ready.

And organizational systems.

Because chaos didn't appear all at once. It seeped in slowly. First, tea served after hours. Then disheveled socks. Then entire civilizations collapsing.

It was mathematically logical.

She sighed slightly and picked up the remote control.

He pressed the button.

Nothing.

He frowned.

He pressed again.

Nothing.

Sheldon stared at the remote for several seconds, as if assessing a personal betrayal.

—Interesting… —he murmured.

He removed the battery cover.

One was slightly displaced.

Slightly.

That was enough.

The universe was a delicate system sustained by microscopic details and irresponsible people who didn't know how to put batteries in correctly.

He corrected his position.

He pointed the television again.

It worked.

Of course it worked.

Science doesn't fail.

Human incompetence, yes.

Sheldon allowed himself a small expression of satisfaction before settling back into his seat.

Sheldon Cooper, The big bang theory, Young Sheldon