Work, he’d said. Too fast. Like he’d practiced the answer. But his eyes hadn’t darted. His hands hadn’t shaken. He hadn’t asked why I stopped him, or how long I’d be there, or whether he was in trouble. Most people did. Especially at that hour. Especially when they were sweating through their shirt and breathing like they’d run a mile. And I hadn’t even asked his name.
The thought came late, unwelcome. Name first—that was basic. Something drilled in during training, something that usually happened without thinking. But I’d let the moment slide past me, distracted by the call, by the way he stood there too calmly, like he was waiting for a cue I never gave. I told myself it didn’t matter. If he was nobody, he stayed nobody.