Everyone at Halden University knew who Elias Moreau was.

He was the star of the swim team, lean build, strong jaw, tousled hair that never stayed down even when wet. His freestyle was effortless, his starts silent and deadly. Coaches watched. Teammates chased. No one caught him.

But it wasn’t just the speed.

Elias wore glasses.

Not the trendy kind, actual prescription, round lenses he pushed up during lectures on cognitive science or theoretical math. He double-majored. Sat front row. Took notes in immaculate handwriting. Always had a book in his bag and a calm, unreadable expression that made people lean in just to hear him speak.

There was something about him, cool without trying, confident without the performance. The kind of guy who’d ace a final and still offer to help someone study after practice.

People whispered. “He’s got it all.”

But Elias never played to the crowd. He trained early, studied late, moved through campus like someone with nothing to prove. He smiled rarely, but when he did, it landed. Precise. Disarming.

Perfection wasn’t what he aimed for. Control was. Balance.

In the water, in the classroom, in life, he moved with intention. Like everything was connected. Like he understood the formula behind it all and chose, every day, not to flaunt it.

He didn’t need to. He was already living it.