Heads turned. Not dramatically, but like a ripple from the bar to the photo booth. A beat of silence. Then the buzz resumed, thinner now, threaded with smirks.
He adjusted his cuff, rubbed a thumb along the envelope crease in his pocket, and drifted in.
“Yo, that’s him, right?” a voice murmured behind a pillar.
“Yeah,” another voice replied, amused. “Same hoodie vibe. Told you he never changed.”
A soft laugh. “I heard he’s stocking shelves somewhere. Please.”
“My cousin says he’s back at his aunt’s place. Wow. Five years and nothing.”
Marcus kept walking. The carpet cushioned his steps. On the stage, a slideshow flashed high school photos—lacrosse jerseys, prom crowns, a science fair ribbon he’d once refused to pose with.
The MC, Tyler Voss, stood with a tight jaw and loud cufflinks. He tapped the mic. “Reunited and richer?” he said, prompting laughter. “We’ll see.”
Marcus chose a table near the back, half in shadow, with a good sightline. He set down a glass of water and watched the room the way coders watch logs—quietly, looking for signals.
Brooke Whitman floated by with a champagne flute, diamond earrings catching the LED wash. “Marcus,” she said, her smile not touching her eyes. “What’s up, stranger? You look… vintage.” She didn’t wait for an answer.
At the bar, a card machine beeped with that particular denial chirp. Chase cleared his throat, snatched his card back, and tried another. The bartender turned the screen discreetly, too polished to announce the failure.
Two guys nearby filled the silence. “Did you hear? Chase’s app folded. Again.”
“Sure, investors hate public autopsies.”
Tyler pushed the mic again. “All right, all right. Quick game: Then and Now.” Photos rolled—lawyers, med school, a Pilates studio grand opening. When Marcus’s slide arrived, the frame held only a blank gray square. Photo not provided.
A snort broke out, then another. “Guess some stories don’t upload,” Tyler said, faux-sad. More laughter.
Marcus sipped his water. The glass left a damp ring that he wiped with one slow circle of his sleeve. He felt a bass in his sternum, a chatter skimming his skin.
A pair of girls drifted behind him, oblivious to how close their whispers carried. “Who invited him?”
“Tyler,” the other said. “Said it’d be hilarious. Full-circle pep talk. Savage.”
“Relax. It’s just a joke.”
Brooke reappeared with a cluster—Chase, Haley Roman. “So, Marcus,” Brooke said, chin tilted. “What’s the grind? Still into computers?”
He nodded once. “Something like that.”
“Nice,” Chase said, voice a notch too loud. “We’re all building things. Startups. Exits coming. You know, just a matter of timing.” He tugged at his blazer sleeve, hiding a frayed seam. “Market’s weird. Rent’s weirder,” Roman muttered. A glare shut him up.
Across the room, a portable photo printer spit out glossy squares. The headline banner above the stage read Class of 2018, Presented by Summit Gatherings in clean sans-serif. Marcus’s gaze rested there for half a beat, then moved on. No one followed the glance. No one ever looked where he looked.
Awards began—paper certificates with gold borders. Best Glow-Up. Most International. Biggest Boss Energy. Jokes built like Jenga, wobbling toward mean. Tyler’s grin tightened each time the room didn’t laugh fast enough.
At the end, he raised a final envelope like a magician. “Honorable mention: Most Likely to Still Be… Different.” He paused. “Marcus, you around?”
Eyes turned. Someone coughed—a thin, cutting sound. Marcus let the silence breathe. He felt his heartbeat, unhurried. He slid his chair back with a soft scrape, stood, and offered a small nod that could have been anything—thanks, refusal, mercy. Then he sat again.
The microphone drifted away, jokes stumbling behind it. Around him, the gossip rethreaded itself. “Why’d he even come?”
“Content,” someone joked. “We need a villain or a mascot.”
“Nah,” another whispered, softer now, uncertain. “He’s calm. That’s not nothing.”
The projector hummed. Air vents whispered. Glassware chimed as people pretended to toast their own stories. Marcus folded the edge of his napkin into a perfect right angle, then another, patient hands building a tiny white square. He waited, letting the room tell on itself.
The night wore on, and the room pulsed with shallow cheer. Music thumped from the rented speakers, but it couldn’t hide the cracks—voices too high when they bragged, laughter too sharp when it faltered. Marcus stayed in his seat, still, like the eye of a storm.
A waiter passed with shrimp skewers. Brooke snapped one without looking and tossed the tail into a half-empty glass. Chase was mid-rant about seed funding in Q4 when his phone buzzed. He snatched it up, eyes flickering, then dimmed. “Just an investor follow-up,” he mumbled, sliding it face-down. The screen had screamed Final Notice.
Whispers moved around Marcus like smoke. “Did he overhear?”
“Nah, probably hitchhiked.”
“Yo, look at those shoes. They’re history.”
Each laugh brushed against his back like cold fingers. Marcus finished his water, setting the empty glass down with deliberate care. His hoodie sleeve dampened the condensation ring again, the same slow circle.
He looked up, finally, and caught Tyler’s gaze across the room. Tyler, still riding the mic, leaning too hard on the spotlight. “Alright, alright,” Tyler called, voice buzzing with rehearsed charisma. “Time for a shout-out to our sponsor tonight. Because none of this”—he gestured at the balloons, the catered spread, the half-dead DJ—“would be possible without a generous contribution.”