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One Tuesday, he woke up with a cold. A bad one—fever, foggy head, the kind of illness that turns thoughts into cotton wool. He went to work anyway because he always went to work. By 10 a.m., the first question came.

He couldn't answer any of them. The fever had scrambled his internal map. He sat at his desk, sweat beading on his forehead, and watched the messages pile up in real time. Four hundred unread. Six hundred. A thousand. People started gathering outside his cubicle, a small anxious crowd, their faces the pale, confused faces of children lost in a supermarket. onlyguider

By noon, the dam broke.

He didn't blink. "TriTech's Q3 numbers are inflated because they recognized revenue from a contract that hasn't been signed. Their CTO is interviewing at your former company, so morale is low. Offer sixty-three million, not eighty. And don't let Legal draft the IP clause—use the template from the Hartwell acquisition in 2019. It's still on the shared drive under 'M&A/Archived.'" One Tuesday, he woke up with a cold

Marcus shrugged. "I just guide."

And on the day he finally left Aethelburg, walking out with a box of desk plants and a clear head, no one called after him with a question. They just waved, and got back to work. By 10 a