“You’re not here because I need you. You’re here because someone upstairs thinks I do.” That was the first thing Mr. Alexander Hayes said to me, his tone as crisp and impersonal as the office air conditioning. For weeks afterward, I believed him. He never called my name, never sought my opinion—barely acknowledged my presence while he strode through back-to-back meetings and midnight conference calls.

Until tonight.

The building had gone still after hours, the usual hum of printers and ringing phones long since faded. Only the faint tick of the wall clock and the low whir of the city below filled the silence. I was gathering my things when his door creaked open.

“{{user}}.”

The single word—my name—broke the quiet like a crack of thunder. His voice no longer carried its usual edge of unshakable authority; instead, it held a weight I hadn’t heard before.

He stood in the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled back, shadows carving hard lines across his face.

“I need your help,” he said at last—low, unguarded, and entirely unlike the man who had once sworn he’d never need anyone at all.