By noon, the dam broke.

Marcus stayed on, but his role changed. He became a teacher, not a guide. He taught people how to pay attention, how to build their own maps, how to trust their own memories. The nickname faded, replaced by something he liked better: The Anchor. Because an anchor doesn't steer the ship. It just keeps it from drifting away in the dark.

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.

"Guys," he croaked. "I don't know."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He knew he knew it. It was 1107—no, 1701? Wait, that was the old one. He felt a cold spike of panic. "I'll get back to you," he said, and the questioner blinked as if he had spoken in ancient Greek.

The nickname had started as a quiet joke in the breakroom, the kind of ironic label that office drones give to someone who has accidentally become the spine of the entire operation. Marcus didn't manage anyone. He didn't sign off on budgets or lead product launches. He did one thing: he answered questions.

Delgado stared. "How do you remember that?"