Every workplace had that one person everyone seemed to rely on — the one who knew how to fix everything before anyone even asked.
At Orion System's Sales Department, that person was Ethan Jame Hein.
He wasn't loud. He wasn't the kind who drew attention through effort. Yet somehow, he stood out all the same — a quiet presence that didn't need to try. The kind that made people pause for a second when he walked by.
If someone's laptop froze, they called Ethan. If a system crashed or a report went missing, someone would quietly ask, "Has Ethan checked it yet?" His name floated around like a quiet assurance that things would eventually be fine.
People called him the Jack of All Trades.
He seemed to know a little bit of everything — from sales analytics to troubleshooting, from crafting client presentations to repairing a faulty headset cable. He carried himself with a calm steadiness rare in a workplace where stress was practically a constant hum.
But what really drew people in was how effortlessly he did it.
His calm voice, measured and warm, carried through the air like music in a noisy room. His posture, relaxed yet confident, made him look as though he belonged anywhere. And his looks — tall, graceful, sharp-eyed, with long, dark hair that brushed just past his collar — only completed the image. Some joked he looked like a character straight out of a novel.
It wasn't hard to see why people admired him. Or envied him.
But admiration could be heavy, especially when you were living a life that didn't feel as perfect as people believed.
---
When the clock struck six, the office lights dimmed one by one. Ethan packed his things quietly — a laptop, a pen, and a small notebook filled with reminders written in precise handwriting.
The moment he stepped outside the building, the noise of the city swallowed him. Traffic hummed, conversations overlapped, neon lights flickered above the pavement. It was a different kind of chaos — one that didn't demand smiles or composure.
He walked alone, as always. Hands in pockets, head slightly bowed, expression unreadable. The calm, dependable Ethan from the office faded into someone else — someone who preferred silence.
The bus ride home took an hour. He spent it staring out the window, earphones plugged in but music barely audible. It wasn't the songs he needed — it was the quiet hum that helped drown out thoughts.
When he finally reached home, the atmosphere shifted again.
The small apartment was dimly lit, smelling faintly of food and cigarette smoke. His mother greeted him from the kitchen with a tired smile. Her hair was tied up messily, and faint dark circles rested under her eyes.
"Ethan, you're home. Can you watch Elina for a while? I need to finish the laundry."
"Sure," he replied softly.
His half-sister — five years old, curious and endlessly talkative — ran up to him clutching a sketchpad. "Ethan! Look, I drew you!"
He crouched down, smiling faintly as she showed him a stick figure with long hair and a square for a briefcase. "You made me look cooler than I actually am," he said, gently patting her head.
She giggled. "You're the coolest, Ethan."
It was the kind of affection that felt unfiltered — the kind he didn't get anywhere else.
---
When his mother left the room, Ethan glanced around. The television was muted, and a half-empty bottle of beer sat on the table — his stepfather's, no doubt. There was always one there. Sometimes two.
He leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes. Faint voices came from the next room — his mother and stepfather arguing again.
Same words. Same tone. Same exhaustion.
He didn't interfere anymore. Not because he didn't care, but because he had learned it never solved anything. His stepfather wasn't cruel, just irresponsible — a man who had once promised to take care of them but instead became another weight on his mother's shoulders.
Ethan used to hate him for it. Now, he only pitied him.
---
His father — his real father — had been the opposite. A man of principle, discipline, and quiet strength. The kind of person Ethan once thought he'd grow up to be. But death had taken him early, leaving behind an emptiness that never fully healed. His mother had tried her best, but grief made her softer — too soft.
People borrowed money and never paid her back. Relatives dumped problems at her doorstep. She forgave easily, always believing kindness would bring kindness in return.
Ethan saw the truth early: it didn't.
He learned to smile even when angry, to speak calmly even when tired, and to stay composed even when the world felt unfair. Because someone in the family had to.
Maybe that's why he became the way he was at work — dependable, controlled, almost too perfect. He couldn't afford to make mistakes. He couldn't afford to lose control. The office was the only place where his efforts were noticed, where his presence meant something.
Home was just… survival.
---
Later that night, after dinner, he sat by the small window in his room. The city lights flickered through the glass, reflecting faintly in his eyes. He had his laptop open — not for work, but for silence. Sometimes, he just scrolled aimlessly through random articles or music playlists. It was his way of breathing.
Elina peeked into the room, rubbing her eyes. "Can't sleep," she mumbled.
"Come here," he said gently, lifting her up and setting her on his lap. "Close your eyes."
"Will you stay?"
"I'll stay," he whispered.
And he did — until she fell asleep, her small hands clutching his sleeve.
He stared at her for a while, wondering what kind of world she'd grow up in. Wondering if she'd inherit their mother's kindness, and if it would hurt her too someday.
He brushed a strand of her hair aside and whispered, "You'll be better than us, Elina."
His voice cracked slightly — a sound he rarely let anyone hear.
---
By the time he finally lay in bed, it was past midnight. The world outside was quiet, and for once, so was his mind.
He thought about work — about how people saw him as capable, confident, the man who could do anything. Sometimes, he wished they knew how exhausting that was. How tiring it felt to constantly live up to an image that didn't match the person behind it.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd walk into the office again, perfectly composed. He'd fix problems, guide others, and wear that same gentle smile.
Because that's what everyone expected from Ethan Jame Hein, the Jack of All Trades.
But when the lights went out, and no one was looking, he was just a young man trying to hold himself together — one quiet breath at a time.