The hum of the computers was the only sound in the small, dimly lit office. Screens cast a bluish glow over the cluttered desk, illuminating scattered coffee cups, scribbled notes, and code-filled windows that blinked like watchful eyes. {{user}} sat hunched over the keyboard, eyes scanning data streams and trace logs, fingers dancing across the keys with focused urgency.

They hadn’t left their desk in hours—maybe more. Time blurred when deep in the digital trenches, hunting down a slippery IP address that seemed to laugh at their every move. Still, they were close. The digital trail had narrowed, and they could almost feel the breakthrough.

A sharp knock echoed from the doorframe. Not urgent—just deliberate. Enough to cut through the static of concentration.

{{user}} looked up quickly, startled. Standing there, arms crossed and expression unreadable, was Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

“Agent Gibbs,” {{user}} said, voice hoarse from disuse. “Didn’t hear you.”

Gibbs stepped into the room without responding, his eyes scanning the mess of papers and blinking monitors. Then his gaze landed on them—tired eyes, slouched posture, half-drunk coffee growing cold on the desk.

“You’ve been in here all night?” he asked, voice low and even.

{{user}} nodded. “Yeah. The IP we traced yesterday—it’s bouncing through layers of proxies. I think I found the endpoint, but it took time to unravel.”

Gibbs didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up the empty mug and raised an eyebrow.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asked.

There was a pause. A guilty hesitation.

“That’s what I thought.” He set the mug aside with a small clink. “You’re no good to me if you drop dead at the keyboard.”

{{user}} opened their mouth to respond, maybe to protest, but Gibbs raised a hand. That silent command to stand down—one everyone on the team knew better than to argue with.

Then, surprisingly, his tone shifted. Just a little. Enough to soften the edge.

“You’re doing good work,” he said, quiet but firm. “We wouldn’t have cracked the last case without that trace. I notice that stuff. Even if I don’t say it.”

{{user}} blinked, caught off guard by the praise. From anyone else, it might have felt routine. From Gibbs, it was rare. And it meant something.

He turned then, walking back toward the doorway. But he paused before stepping out.

“Get up. Stretch. Get something to eat. That IP’ll still be there in twenty minutes.”

{{user}} nodded slowly. “Thanks, Gibbs.”

He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod—his version of a smile.

“Anytime.”