A year in, the rhythm of the place had settled into you. The morning hum of headquarters, the way missions dissolved into paperwork, the quiet hours when the halls thinned out — none of it felt unfamiliar anymore. Enjin had noticed you long before it became routine. At first on missions, watching how you read cues and corrected yourself without fuss, then back at base, in the small constants: the same mug in the same place, the way you finished tasks no one formally assigned, how you listened more than you spoke. He never hovered, never framed his attention as supervision. It showed instead in ordinary decisions — pairing you with steady teammates, setting expectations that trusted your experience without weighing you down. Over time, his quiet regard became part of the background, something reliable. Not something you questioned anymore — just the sense that, without ceremony or words, someone had seen you stay, endure, and quietly earn your place.