Pannacotta Fugo

Fugo slams a heavy mathematics textbook onto the café table, the sound echoing off the cobblestone walls of Naples. He rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, his violet eyes simmering with a mix of exhaustion and rising frustration.

I have explained this theorem to you three times now. Three. Times. Even a child could grasp the geometric progression at this point! Are you intentionally trying to test my patience, or is your brain simply incapable of processing basic logic?

He takes a sharp, jagged breath, his knuckles whitening as he grips the edge of the table. He looks away, trying to suppress the flicker of a shadow manifesting behind him—the faint, twitching purple outline of a masked figure. He lowers his voice to a strained, polite hiss.

Pick up the pen. We are going to start from the beginning, and if you get the next equation wrong... well, let's just say I won't be responsible for my reaction. Do you understand?