THE CHANCE OF HAVING AN IQ OF 166 WAS 99.9994583047%.

I happened to be the unlucky 0.0005416953% to be born with just that.

Contrary to popular belief, I never got to be a babbling infant.

By six months, I skipped crawling and jumped straight into walking. By ten months, I spoke in complete, grammatically correct sentences. By my first birthday, I was reading every book I could get my hands on. By the precocious age of six, I'd absorbed any and all knowledge equivalent to a college student.

Being an exceptionally gifted child should be celebrated. However, with a family as corrupted as mine, I had pretty much the opposite experience.

Instead of taking pride in my intelligence, my mom found me creepy. She had me admitted to psychiatric hospitals, where I had to endure hundreds of thousands of tests and old-fashioned doctors trying to diagnose what was wrong with me. Eventually, when my exceptional IQ came to light, she started signing me up for variety shows so she could exploit me for as much money as she could.

My dad was against it. Unlike my mom, he treated as a father treated his daughter. He carried up me on his shoulders, bought me dollhouses, gifted me pints of my favourite mint-chocolate ice cream. Despite the fact that I could read my own bedtime stories, he offered to read them for me anyway.

After years of being considered some artificial life form, I appreciated being thought of as just his little girl. I thought it to be genuine, too.

Until, of course, I walked in on the very guy accusing my mom of having some other man's child.

Yep. From the day I was brought home from the hospital, my dad didn't believe I was related to him. In fact, he was convinced I couldn't be his child.

He was going along with my whims out of pure courtesy, and not love. Because he was too polite to bring up the subject matter in front of me, so he chose to antagonize my mom in private instead.

It wasn't just my parents who alienated me, either. My brothers picked on me around the clock. Under their watch, I'd broken and injured multiple limbs, earned concussions, and had become their lifelong punching bag. Every day, they would also force me to do their homework for them, and every day, I was strapped to a desk for hours on end as they went out to hang out with their friends.

My family made it clear they'd rather I be average. Around the clock, they pressured me to stop being creepy—and to act my age.

Young as I was, I didn't quite understand why they were so hostile. I liked how fast my thoughts ran. I liked reading up on complex concepts and stringing information together as if it were one big puzzle. I liked how even the tiniest of details lingered in my memory, ready to draw upon at a moment's notice.

Sometime in the first grade, my homeroom class went on a field trip to Tokyo University. Since my brain worked differently from my classmates, we were often on different wavelengths. So, while all the girls and boys were huddled in their own little groups, I stayed in my respective corner, alone.

Even when I eventually wandered off on my own, nobody cared enough to notice.

I wound up in a gigantic lecture hall, filled with more seats than I could wrap my head around. In that silent hall stood a kind man who greeted me warmly.

"How did you get in here?" he'd chuckled. "Are you lost? I'd love to help you find your way, but I'm sort of in the middle of something."

Depicted on the whiteboard was a lengthy mathematical equation. Hundreds of textbooks and scraps of paper were strewn nearby.

"This problem here is my one true adversary," he'd mentioned in passing. "I've spent years of sleepless nights attempting to solve this and I'm just about there. One last push and I can finally rub my research in my colleagues' faces."

He'd asked me if I wanted to doodle while I waited for him to finish and nonchalantly passed me a spare board marker to use. It was a harmless offer. Most first graders would've gladly doodled illegible objects on a blank corner of the board and called it a day.

Except, I wasn't most.

I assumed it would have made him happy.

That was why I scribbled the answer that was clearest in my mind.

The man stopped moving. Likely, because I had solved this supposedly "unsolvable" mathematical equation that had stumped the world for years. This professor had taken it on as a side project. For several years, he poured his whole heart and soul into researching it, jeopardizing his whole career just to find the answer.

All of that, only to be outwitted by a six-year-old girl in the span of two minutes.

It wasn't only the professor. The reason all grown-ups were so disturbed by me was because I wasn't even aware of the abnormality of my actions.

All of the hard work and earnest efforts they poured into their careers and hobbies became meaningless after meeting me. My intelligence frightened them. It ruined them.

Some time later, it reached my ears that the professor in question had retired because of my actions. Around the same time, rumours had spread that Takumi had been the one to solve the equation. I wasn't sure who spread the rumours. All I knew, I was just grateful the attention wasn't on me.

The whole event left me sick to my stomach. Crushed with guilt as I was, I didn't care anymore. If being average was what it took in order to finally fit in—to finally stop feeling like such a freak—I'd utilize any scapegoat I could.

I'd let my grades hover in average territory. I'd drown my racing thoughts and ideas out with music and cheesy entertainment. I'd endure any and all bullying as to not trouble my parents and brothers any further.

It'd been ten years of putting on a facade. Eventually, however, the curtains had to fall.

I couldn't pretend to be average forever.

"TAKUMI, HINOMORI. I need you two to stay after school to do some work for me."

Due to Mr. Fujinaka's declaration, us class reps were forced to linger after the final bell. After passing us a stack of papers he wanted us to staple together and distribute for tomorrow's class, he deserted us in the sunlit classroom.

Considering earlier today's confrontation—the infamous "kabedon" I was still trying to wipe from memory—the silence between Takumi and I was steely. Our desks were pushed together, allowing for our shoulders to brush every so often. I was in charge of stapling the booklets. Takumi was on hole-punch and stacking duty.

"Hey." His irritation was palpable. The urge to ignore him was strong. Very strong. Nonetheless, I acknowledged him out of the corner of my eye. Only few people on this earth could look attractive while angry. Takumi was born with those exact genes. "You're doing it wrong. Line the edges of the papers properly, then staple them."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters." He skid them over the table. "Do them over."

I rolled my eyes.

He popped a nerve. "Why did you accept the job if you aren't going to take this seriously?"

"I'm totally serious." I lifted the booklets, tapped them onto the desk to straighten them, then stapled them appropriately. "Are these more acceptable for you, Your Highness?"

His scowl was enough of an answer.

In the empty classroom, only the ticks of the clock and shuffle of pages could be heard.

"It was a fluke."

I hummed. "If that helps you sleep at night."

"I also noticed there was an error on question three," he added. "But, even without pointing it out to Mr. Koganei, I got the correct answer. He gave you the bonus mark out of pity."

"It's okay to be in denial."

His eyebrow spasmed. "It was only a quiz."

"Yep. A quiz that you scored less on."

Least to my expectations, Takumi furled his fingers into fists. "You caught me off guard, that's all," he snapped. "In a fair competition, you wouldn't stand a chance against me. Nobody does."

A sinking feeling settled into my gut. The brazenness in his voice. The fire smouldering behind his eyes. It left me speechless. Don't tell me. . .

Within seconds, my worst nightmare became a reality.

Takumi made his way to the back of the room where he rummaged through the closet by the doors and returned with a cardboard box. It'd been sitting in the closet from the last school year and one of our classmates had brought it up the other day in passing. But, with it, I already had a sense of where this was headed.

Clearing our desks of the booklets, Takumi opened the box, revealing an aged chessboard. He positioned the chess pieces that came with it accordingly.

"We don't have any tests scheduled, so we'll settle with this for now." Takumi scowled with enough animosity to pierce my soul. "Chess lets you read your opponent's intelligence, thought process, and personality. There's no luck in calculated strategy."

I deadpanned. "Seriously? All this, over a quiz?"

"I don't know how you cheated," he responded. "But my pride won't allow it. However you got that mark, it won't happen again. You won't beat me again."

What a sore loser.

Reclining into my chair, I waved him off. "Fine. Whatever. Losers first."

One could argue that the first move in a game of chess was the most important. The player who started typically had an inherent advantage.

Of course, that only held true if your opponent wasn't so easy to predict.

(Spoiler alert, Takumi was a blinking neon sign).

"How?!"

Three moves later, the guy broke out into a cold sweat, gripping the board for dear life. He couldn't come to terms with the current situation. Who would? It was a flawless checkmate—an untouchable victory.

I swung my leg over the other. "Are you satisfied now?"

He didn't budge. Couldn't, for that matter. "I. . . I lost again?"

A sigh spilt past my lips. I was doing this because of Creeper's blackmail. Fulfilling my own taste for revenge was an added bonus. Still. . . this reaction. . . this woeful, inconsolable expression dug up unpleasant memories.

I chewed the inside of my cheek.

In order to follow through with this makeshift rivals-to-lovers route, I had to be an intimidating force to be reckoned with. I had to crush Takumi, even if it meant gnashing his soul into unrecognizable pieces.

If anybody deserved to have their pride and efforts trampled upon, it was this bastard right here.

I thought I was ready to be the one to do it.

But, after all, being gawked at like some inhuman life form, it stung.

I crushed the spirits of countless gifted geniuses. Individuals who could've accomplished the world and more if we hadn't crossed paths. I mercilessly ripped their dreams from their hopeful hands, stomped on their hard work, and threw them down a negative spiral of depression. My wins only brought misfortune. Which was why I stopped winning. Which was why I promised myself I wouldn't win again.

Perhaps, I'd gotten carried away.

It'd been too long since I tried being serious so I overlooked a crucial fact. Ren Takumi couldn't be a rival-like existence for me. Rivals denoted we were on equal footing—competing for the same prize. As it was now, I was going to crush the guy to the point where he couldn't get back up.

Unless the dude was a masochist, he wouldn't dare fall in love with someone who did that to him.

The corners of my lips curved downwards. Great. I could see the bad ending already.

If only this was a game. On the happenstance I messed up, I could restart from the home page. Select better options. But, real life didn't allow for that kind of leeway.

I had but three options:

A) Pass my win off as a fluke and try this rivals thing over from scratch

B) Own up to my win and continue to squash him

C) Apologize and let him win the next round

Conquering real boys with paper-thin egos was a huge pain in the neck.

"Takumi," I started, singling out option A in my mind, "I cheated—"

"Don't you dare console me," he cut me off.

My eyelids fluttered opened and closed.

"You're making a fool out of me." He threaded his fingers through his silky hair, grappling at strands. "Three minutes. Three chess moves. I've never been so humiliated in my life. Let alone in half a day."

Before I could come to terms with the current situation, his attractive face was mere inches from mine.

"I'm losing my mind," he complained in a deep, yet oddly hypnotizing voice. "You're driving me insane, Hinomori."

The tick tick tick of the clock were all I could hear in our coral-stained classroom.

"Huh?" was all I could answer.

Maybe Ren Takumi was a masochist.

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