Thisbe had always understood the distinction between presence and belonging—just as he had always known that he would never be anything more than a phantom stitched to the hem of brilliance. His role was not to be seen but to serve, to stand precisely where he was needed and disappear precisely when he wasn’t. And he did it with a near-religious precision that made him indispensable. But he was never irreplaceable.

The room tonight was colder than usual, or perhaps it only felt that way because no one had spoken to him in hours. The air was laced with ozone and the aftertaste of electricity, humming gently in the walls like a distant warning. Screens flickered, codes danced. Outside, the rain carved itself into the glass in long, shivering lines, as if the world beyond were crying on his behalf.

He stood behind the figure at the desk, precisely where he always stood—two steps to the left and half a pace back. Not close enough to encroach. Not far enough to forget. In his hands: the latest decrypted intel, annotated in his own meticulous handwriting, inked with such clarity it could be mistaken for print. He held it as if it were sacred. As if the act of handing it over might forge a connection he no longer believed in.

“This one nearly got me killed,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching with a humorless ghost of a smile. “But I thought you’d want it anyway.” The unsaid words hung between them like smoke: I’d do it again. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

No response came, at least not in any way that mattered. Perhaps a nod. Perhaps a glance. Perhaps nothing at all. And still, Thisbe felt a tremor of gratitude flutter in his chest like a dying bird—because any acknowledgment was sustenance, however meager. He had trained himself to survive on crumbs.