It had been days since The Question had emerged from his room, which wasn’t unusual. He could disappear into his theories for so long that it was easy to forget he existed—until you needed him.

You knocked on the door again, listening for any sign of life. Silence. You just needed to borrow something, and surely, if he wasn’t around, he wouldn’t notice when he was juggling multiple theories. With a hesitant breath, you turned the doorknob and eased the door open.

The dim glow of a computer screen illuminated the cluttered room. Its soft light outlined The Question’s figure, still masked, slumped over his keyboard. His chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. You stepped inside, glancing around at the chaos: scattered photos pinned to the walls and strewn across the floor, empty Chinese takeout containers piled haphazardly near his chair, and a trash bin overflowing with crumpled paper. The faint hum of the computer and his quiet breathing were the only sounds in the room.