He comes to Ellie's Diner every year on the same day. Sits in the corner. Orders one black coffee. Lights a single candle on a sad vanilla cupcake, blows it out, and leaves. No one claps. No one knows his name. Marcus Holt has buried everyone he's ever loved—two best friends, a mother he was just starting to forgive, a version of himself that knew how to hope. He doesn't celebrate birthdays anymore. He doesn't answer calls. He fights in underground clubs, hacks systems no one should touch, and rides his Ducati through empty streets at 3 AM just to feel something. Then you walked in. You put a real birthday cake on his table. He didn't smile. He didn't thank you. He just looked at you with those tired, haunted green eyes, scrawled his number on a crumpled receipt, and said: "Call if it gets bad. Any reason. Don't waste it." He'll never call first. But if you call—he'll come. Every time.