Callum chose mechanical engineering for one reason—it made sense.
There was no uncertainty, no emotion clouding logic. Just forces, equations, and interactions. The world was built on systems—pulleys and levers, compression and tension, movement and resistance. Strength didn't come from brute force alone; it came from balance. A bridge only stood because every force had a counterbalance. A machine only functioned because every component played its role.
Humans weren't much different.
They broke under pressure. They snapped when strain exceeded their tolerance. Their bodies could be studied—anatomy was just another machine, another system of interconnected parts.
And Callum studied them all.
His knowledge wasn't just theoretical. It was practical.
He knew how bones fractured under specific impacts.
He knew how muscles tensed before movement, revealing intent.
He understood the leverage points that rendered strength useless.
This wasn't just engineering—it was understanding how the world worked, how people worked, and how they could be undone.
At Bradford University, the bullies wore polished shoes and confident smiles. They didn't throw fists—they threw influence. Social dominance. Public humiliation. Silence disguised as acceptance.
Callum saw them for what they were—calculating, entitled. But predictable.
And he didn't fear them.
Instead, he studied them like case studies. He mapped their movements, observed their behaviors. He knew who they targeted, why they targeted them.
And when they crossed a line, Callum adjusted the balance.
No violence. No direct confrontation. Just leverage.
A subtle shift in reputation. A whisper placed in the right ear. A moment manufactured to make them break.
Callum didn't just stop bullies. He dismantled them.
Beyond physics and engineering, Callum absorbed knowledge like a predator sharpening its teeth. He took anatomy courses not for medicine, but for understanding movement, weakness, precision. He learned physiology—not to heal, but to know how the body failed.
It wasn't about cruelty. It was about control.
Because if there was one thing Callum had learned, it was this:
The strongest person isn't the one who fights. It's the one who knows when the fight is already over.
Bradford University had no shortage of brilliant minds. Professors spoke in formulas, equations, and theories, but Callum knew something most students didn't—the right question could unlock everything.
It wasn't about memorization. It was about interpretation. About knowing when a concept could be twisted, applied differently, used in ways others hadn't considered.
His mechanical engineering professor, Dr. Marcus Henshaw, had a mind like a steel trap—sharp, methodical, unyielding. Callum respected him.
One afternoon, in a lecture on material stress analysis, Henshaw explained yield points—the moment when a material, pushed beyond its limits, deforms permanently.
Callum raised his hand.
"But what about human structure?" he asked, voice even. "If a bone fractures at a certain force, but under repeated strain, weakens over time—how do we apply stress testing to organic material?"
The room was quiet.
Dr. Henshaw leaned forward. "You're suggesting engineering principles could predict structural failure in human anatomy?"
Callum nodded. "Everything breaks at a predictable point. Materials, bones, minds—stress accumulates until something gives."
Henshaw studied him. "That's an interesting line of thinking."
Callum smirked. "I think it's inevitable."
In his anatomy and physiology class, Professor Evelyn Cross discussed reflex arcs—the body's automatic response to external stimuli. Callum had spent years studying movement, but now he wanted to understand reaction.
After class, he approached her.
"If anticipation dulls reaction time," he said, "can understanding muscle memory create a delay in an opponent's reflex response?"
Professor Cross blinked. "Are you thinking in terms of combat?"
Callum nodded. "And control."
She folded her arms. "You're proposing that a person's learned instincts can be manipulated—delayed or redirected if they expect the wrong outcome?"
Callum smiled. "Isn't that how fighters get knocked out? They anticipate the wrong strike, leaving them open?"
Cross studied him. "You don't just memorize facts. You look for application."
Callum shrugged. "Facts without application are useless."
Callum wasn't just collecting degrees—he was collecting tools.
Engineering taught him how structures failed.
Physics taught him how forces interacted.
Anatomy taught him how bodies broke.
Psychology taught him how minds bent under the right pressure.
Knowledge wasn't about grades. It was about leverage.
And Callum?
He had always known how to use leverage.
Callum was admired, but never included.
Professors respected him. His precision in mechanical engineering, his ability to deconstruct complex systems—he was exceptional. But among his peers, he was a specter, a presence that existed but never truly belonged.
In his Statics and Dynamics class, the professor posed a challenging question about equilibrium—the way forces interacted to create stability.
Most students hesitated. Callum didn't.
"Equilibrium isn't just balance," he said. "It's controlled opposition. A force only exists because something resists it."
Silence followed.
Finally, a girl across the room—Riley Tanner, known for her easy confidence—gave him a long, searching look.
"You talk about forces like they're people."
Callum shrugged. "People are systems, just like machines. Predictable, measurable, subject to external pressure."
Riley frowned. "And you think that's all they are?"
Callum didn't answer.
Because yes, he did.
One evening, after a study session, a group gathered in the common area—low lighting, soft laughter, easy conversation. Callum didn't plan to stay, but before he could leave, Daniel Holt stopped him.
"You ever going to actually talk to us?" Daniel asked, leaning against a chair.
Callum didn't bother with pleasantries. "I talk when necessary."
Daniel chuckled. "Yeah, see, that's the thing—you don't seem to think people are necessary."
The comment drew the attention of others. Riley crossed her arms, waiting for Callum's response.
"I don't see the point in meaningless interaction," Callum said evenly. "Social bonds serve a function. If they don't serve one, they're excess."
Riley scoffed. "Jesus, you really don't feel anything, do you?"
Something shifted in Callum's expression—not anger, not irritation, just a brief, unreadable pause.
"You want honesty?" he said, voice calm but sharper than before. "Fine. I don't waste energy on what doesn't matter. And that includes pretending I enjoy pointless conversation just so people don't feel uncomfortable around me."
Daniel exhaled slowly, watching him. "So you think people are weak if they care?"
Callum's gaze darkened. "I think people who rely on emotion without reason are weak."
Silence.
Riley shook her head. "That's sad."
Callum smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "It's efficient."
Zane Mercer was different.
Most students avoided Callum's sharp words, choosing to either admire him from a distance or dismiss him as heartless. But Zane? He was provoked by it.
"You don't think emotions matter?" Zane said one afternoon, leaning across the library table where Callum sat reviewing engineering equations. His voice carried confidence, a challenge woven into every syllable.
Callum barely looked up. "I think they're excessive."
Zane smiled, slow and calculating. "You're wrong."
Callum sighed, setting down his pen. "And I assume you're about to tell me why."
Zane nodded. "Because control without passion isn't strength. It's empty."
Callum studied him. Most people backed down when faced with his quiet, unwavering logic. Zane did the opposite—he stepped closer.
"You treat people like systems," Zane continued. "Like machines. But here's the problem with that—people aren't predictable. They break in ways you can't calculate."
Callum leaned back, tilting his head slightly. "You assume unpredictability is strength."
Zane smirked. "I assume it's human."
Callum didn't respond.
Because, for the first time, someone had said something that wasn't easy to dismiss.
Zane didn't just challenge Callum in conversation—he forced him into situations that tested his perspective.
One night, Zane convinced a group to go rock climbing. Callum typically avoided unnecessary group activities, but Zane didn't give him a choice.
"Not everything is about control," Zane said as they stood at the bottom of the climbing wall. "Sometimes you have to trust."
Callum scoffed. "Trust is a liability."
Zane clipped his harness, eyes sharp. "Then climb without it."
Callum hated being provoked. But he hated losing more.
So he climbed.
And at the top, for the first time in years, Callum felt something unfamiliar—not control. Not calculation.
Just movement. Just breath.
Zane had done something no one else had—he forced Callum to feel something he hadn't expected.
And Callum hated it.
But he also couldn't ignore it.
Callum never expected to like Zane Mercer.
And yet, weeks after their first argument, they had settled into something that wasn't quite friendship—but wasn't rivalry anymore either.
Zane challenged him. And Callum let him.
They studied together, debating theories that stretched beyond textbooks.
"You think machines are perfect because they obey rules," Zane said one evening, flipping through Callum's notes on stress mechanics. "But perfection isn't control. It's adaptability."
Callum smirked. "And humans are adaptable?"
Zane leaned back. "More than you think."
Callum didn't argue. Not because he agreed—but because, for once, he wanted to consider it.
One night, after hours of studying, Zane tossed a bottle of water across the table. "You ever relax?"
Callum caught it effortlessly. "Relaxation is inefficient."
Zane rolled his eyes. "God, you make everything sound like an equation."
Callum shrugged. "Because everything is."
Silence settled between them, heavy but comfortable.
Then, softly, Zane asked, "What made you like this?"
Callum didn't answer right away.
"You think I'm broken?" he asked finally.
Zane exhaled. "No. I think something made you this way, and I don't know what it is."
Callum tapped the water bottle against the table, staring at the label like it held an answer.
"My father was a system of power and control," he said finally. "And I learned early how systems like that fail."
Zane didn't respond right away.
Then, in a rare moment of understanding, he simply nodded.
"We all fail sometimes," Zane said. "That's what makes us adaptable."
Callum smirked. "You really believe that?"
Zane grinned. "Enough to annoy you about it forever."
Callum didn't hate the idea.
Maybe balance wasn't about standing alone. Maybe, just maybe, it was about finding someone who wasn't afraid to challenge you.
Callum had never needed anyone.
But Zane wasn't just anyone.
Their friendship—if Callum could even call it that—was built on contrast. Zane challenged, provoked, questioned. And Callum? He fought back, not with anger, but with precision. It was a war without violence, a battle without clear victory.
And Callum had come to depend on it.
Depend on the late-night arguments. The quiet moments of understanding. The way Zane filled the silences Callum had never realized were too empty.
But what scared Callum the most—what he refused to name—was the thought of losing it.
One evening, the tension snapped.
Zane had gotten into a fight—nothing serious, just a stupid scuffle outside a café. But when Callum saw the cut across Zane's cheek, the bruises forming along his knuckles, something shifted.
"What happened?" Callum asked, voice sharper than he intended.
Zane sighed. "Some guy was being an as*hole. It's fine."
But it wasn't fine.
Callum didn't move, didn't speak right away. He was calculating, but not in numbers. In fear.
"You could've gotten hurt."
Zane laughed—actually laughed. "That's kind of how fights work, genius."
Callum clenched his jaw. "I don't like it."
Zane studied him, his expression shifting from amusement to something deeper. "You don't like it? Or you don't like the idea of losing me?"
Callum's breathing was steady. His heart was not.
Silence stretched. Too long. Too raw.
Zane sighed, shaking his head. "You really are bad at this whole 'human' thing, huh?"
Callum exhaled slowly. "Maybe."
But as they stood there, the weight of unspoken emotions between them, Callum realized something:
This wasn't about logic.
It was about him. About Zane. About the one person Callum couldn't afford to lose.
And that terrified him.
Zane had always been the only thing Callum cared about.
So when Callum saw Zane broken, bruises lining his skin like a map of suffering, something inside him shifted.
It wasn't anger.
It was cold. Calculated. Certain.
Callum didn't believe in vengeance. That was emotional, irrational. But justice?
Justice was precise.
And Callum would deliver it personally.
The man who injured Zane wasn't just some thug.
Damian Voss was a force of nature—stronger than Callum, stronger than Joseph Blackwood, stronger than anyone Callum had ever studied before.
Voss wasn't just dangerous. He was unpredictable—something Callum hated.
But unpredictability could be controlled.
So Callum did what he always did.
He studied him.
Patterns. Movements. Weaknesses.
Because even the strongest man had weak points. And Callum would find them.
Callum didn't rush.
Voss wouldn't fall to brute strength. This wasn't a fight—it was a hunt.
Callum followed his movements, learned his routines. Watched. Calculated. Waited.
And when the moment came—when Voss would be most vulnerable—Callum would strike.
Not for rage.
Not for revenge.
But for justice that couldn't be undone.