Marlowe
Something had gone wrong with King overnight, and by breakfast the whole den was tiptoeing around him like the floor might give out.
He snapped at Cricket for being two minutes late to roll call. He snapped at a supplier on the phone loud enough that half the mess hall went quiet trying not to look like they were listening. He snapped at Bear, of all people, over something so minor I didn't even catch what it was, and Bear just took it, jaw tight, the particular patience of a man who'd clearly seen this mood before and knew better than to poke it.
He didn't snap at me at all.
If anything, he went the opposite direction — quieter around me than usual, careful in a way that felt almost deliberate, like he was rationing something out and I was the one exception to whatever had put
