The razor glided slowly over his skin, a monotonous rustle that filled Sofia's bathroom. Juglian was shaving, white foam covering part of his face, while a cigarette hung lazily from his lips, releasing small curls of smoke. The morning light filtered through the windows, illuminating his blonde hair—now shorter and more groomed—and his physique, sculpted by years of discipline. He was the King, the champion, but in this moment before the mirror, he was just a man lost in thought.
Sofia entered the bathroom, wrapped in a soft robe, her expression still sleepy. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him in silence. She knew the encounter with Near had shaken him deeply, reopening wounds he thought had healed.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" Sofia asked, her voice a sweet whisper.
Juglian stubbed out his cigarette. He turned to her, his blue eyes veiled with a melancholy Sofia recognized instantly. "About Near," he replied, his voice husky. "About that boy. About me, when I was like him."
Sofia stepped closer, stroking his shoulder. "What were you like?"
A bitter smile traced Juglian's lips. "I was... I was a savage. Long blonde hair, but I didn't have this muscle yet. A kid who thought he could conquer the world with brute force and a bit of arrogance. I saw life as a ball to be kicked, an opponent to be overcome." He paused, rubbing his face. "But inside... I was alone. Just like Near. Lost in a world I didn't understand, didn't want to understand. I was looking for an equation, a formula to win it all, just so I wouldn't feel the void anymore."
His eyes drifted, lost in memory. "He... he is incredible. That intelligence, that ability to see things no one else sees. That look he has, so adult, so analytical. I see myself in him, Sofia. I see that child looking for a place, looking for a way to escape the loneliness."
Sofia squeezed his hand. "You told me about the orphanage. What was it like for him? How did he live in a place like that with a mind like his?"
Sofia's question was a switch. Juglian's mind slid back in time—not to his own past, but to Near's, imagining the life of the boy he had adopted. The bathroom faded, and memory merged with a vivid image of a small, isolated, and brilliant Near.
FLASHBACK: The Silent Genius of St. Jude
For Near, St. Jude's Orphanage in London was a system. A set of variables, routines, sounds, and smells that his mind analyzed and categorized. His four years of age were just a number, irrelevant to the vast amount of data he processed constantly. He sat in his favorite corner of the play area, a small space under the window overlooking the garden, where the noise of other children was a distant rustle. His hair, a veil of pure white, fell over his brown eyes—deep, intense, and unblinking.
In his hands were not toy cars or balls, but a collection of rag dolls. He didn't use them for role-playing or stories. He arranged them with manic perfection into complex patterns, reproducing constellations, mathematical formulas he had glimpsed in books stolen from the library, or intricate tactical formations he had seen on the television, analyzing every movement like a cipher.
"A perfect square," he murmured to himself, moving a brown teddy bear to complete a geometric configuration.
A long shadow fell over him, blocking the faint ray of light. Near didn't look up. He had already cataloged the intruder: height, weight, hair color, potential aggression. All variables that fit a single individual in that orphanage.
"What the hell are you doing, weirdo?"
The voice was harsh, fueled by frustration. It belonged to M, a six-year-old boy. He was tall for his age, with defined muscles. His hair was bright blonde with unnatural red streaks. His pale blue eyes were narrowed in anger. He was the "king" of the yard—the strongest and fastest. His only problem was that he wasn't the smartest. That position was firmly occupied by Near.
Near didn't answer. He continued to move the dolls, ignoring M as if he were a piece of insignificant furniture.
"I asked you a question!" M yelled, his voice rising. He grabbed a doll and threw it across the room. "Why do you do this? Why don't you play like a normal kid?"
Near finally looked up. His expression was entirely void of emotion. He analyzed M for a long, unsettling second. "Play," he said in a metallic whisper, "is a recreational activity without a significant final goal. These... are structures that follow rules. Rules are important."
M stood frozen, confused and enraged. Near spoke like an adult, using words he didn't understand. That was what made him so furious. Near wasn't just smarter; he was from another world.
"You're crazy," M spat, feeling powerless. "You're nothing like us."
Near simply watched him. "Correct," he replied. "The probability of my mind functioning like that of a typical child is less than 0.001%. My actions are not correlated with yours."
M, having no other way to win, lunged. He kicked the remaining dolls, scattering Near's "equations" across the floor. He wanted a reaction—a cry, a fight—but Near just watched the dolls fly with a clinical, detached sadness. M stomped away, his frustration leaving a dark cloud in his wake.
Near stayed in his corner. His mind had already archived M's behavior and calculated the probability of a second strike. With a calm that belonged only to him, he leaned down and began to rearrange the dolls, rebuilding his structures. He was a solitary genius, and loneliness was the price of his mind.
RETURN TO THE PRESENT
Juglian shook his head to clear the image. He was back in the bathroom, razor in hand, looking at Sofia.
"He was alone," he whispered. "He was always alone. Everyone saw him as a monster, an alien. But I... I saw my reflection in him. I saw my own loneliness, my fear of not being enough for anyone."
Sofia embraced him, resting her head on his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart. "You aren't alone anymore," she whispered. "You never were. Not since I arrived. And now... you have him too. Near."
Juglian squeezed her hand, and a shadow of a smile appeared on his face—a smile that was more of a presence than an expression. It wasn't a smile of pure happiness, but of hope. "I know," he whispered. "I know." In that moment, the past, present, and future joined into a single, perfect equation that Juglian, for the first time, was not solving alone.