Leo didn't answer right away.
His face remained expressionless, still as stone. Yet inside, his thoughts churned.
Speed of understanding. Speed of discovery.
They sounded like some complex blend of psychology and physics—concepts far beyond his comfort zone.
Leo wasn't a scholar. These words felt like puzzle pieces to something bigger, but he didn't have the box cover to know what the picture was supposed to look like.
And that made him feel stupid.
He hated that. Whenever someone asked high-level questions, especially those wrapped in mystery or heavy with hidden meaning, he felt like a side character in his own story.
Like when Victor had once asked about the first explosion—it sounded like some grand secret, some high-tier enigma… but it turned out to be something basic: the start of the apocalypse.
Still, Leo had pride. Pride was his armor, forged from every struggle and scar he'd carried.
So when he didn't have the answer, it wasn't just ignorance—it was humiliation.
