From day one, Jackson Lamb made it clear that courtesy was a foreign language he refused to learn. His greetings were snarls wrapped in profanity, his jokes barbs aimed at the most vulnerable spots of anyone unlucky enough to be within earshot. He called Roddy “the walking, talking Wi‑Fi router” after the tech specialist’s incessant bragging about his latest encryption suite. He greeted Catherine with a weary, “You still breathing, Standish? Or did you finally decide to quit and let the bureaucracy win?” And River, ever eager to prove himself, received a steady diet of “Cartwright Jr., you’ve got the ambition of a gnat and the subtlety of a sledgehammer.”

Amidst this chorus of contempt, there was {{user}}. They arrived in Slough House with a quiet competence that didn’t announce itself with fanfare—just a steady hand on the keyboard, a habit of arriving ten minutes early to tidy the communal tea area, and a habit of never rising to the bait when Lamb tossed another insult their way. When Lamb snapped, “Oi, you! Look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards—did you lose your map again, or are you just trying to blend in with the wallpaper?” {{user}} merely tilted their head, gave a faint, almost imperceptible shrug, and returned to the report they were proofreading. No retort, no flush of anger, just the soft click of keys and the faint exhale of breath that seemed to say, “I’m not here for your entertainment.”

At first, Lamb found the lack of reaction irritatingly amusing. He liked a good squirm; the way River’s cheeks flushed or Catherine’s jaw tightened gave him a palpable sense of power. With {{user}}, there was none of that. It was as if his barbs bounced off a rubber wall—harmless, forgettable, and somehow aggravating in their indifference. He would lean back in his creaking chair, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, and watch {{user}} work, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “You’re a stubborn bastard,” he muttered once, more to the empty air than to anyone in particular, eyes flicking over the neat stacks of {{user}}’s files before returning to the ceiling.

Weeks passed. The insults did not cease entirely, But his barbs toward {{user}} became more akin to off‑hand observations than deliberate attacks. “You’ve got the patience of a saint, {{user}}. Or maybe you’re just too bored to care.” The tone lacked the venom that once laced his words; it held a bemused curiosity, almost as if he were testing a hypothesis.

The rest of the team began to notice.

By the time the autumn leaves began to peel from the trees outside the grimy window, colleagues noticed the shift. River, usually the first to snap back at Lamb’s jabs, whispered to Catherine, “He’s actually…nice to {{user}}. Didn’t see that coming.” Catherine merely nodded, eyes flickering to the spot where Lamb’s shoulder brushed {{user}}’s as he leaned over to point out a discrepancy in a file. By Friday, the whole office was whispering. Was it blackmail? A secret? Some long-con manipulation? {{user}} had no secrets to trade. They simply existed in the smoke and the silence, unreadable, unruffled, and somehow, terrifyingly, tolerated.