He didn't want to correct it.
That was the first thing he admitted to himself.
Not because it didn't matter.
But because correcting something always meant disrupting it.
And disruption had consequences.
But letting it stand had consequences too.
He felt them every time someone waited for him to start the conversation.
Every time someone deferred when they didn't need to.
Every time his presence subtly shifted the balance of the room.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was wrong in a quiet way.
So he spoke.
Not with a speech.
With a sentence.
The next time someone referred to the gathering as "his thing," he paused and said:
"It's not mine."
The room stilled.
Not frozen.
Attentive.
"I'm not running anything," he continued. "I'm just here."
A few people looked at each other.
Someone laughed softly, unsure.
"Well, yeah," someone said. "But you kind of set the tone."
He shook his head.
"No. The room does."
The words surprised him.
Because they felt true.
The room held the silence for a moment.
Then someone else spoke.
About something completely unrelated.
The conversation resumed.
But it felt… recalibrated.
Not lighter.
Clearer.
Afterward, someone pulled him aside.
"You don't want credit?" they asked.
He considered.
"It's not about credit," he said. "It's about not being mistaken for something I'm not."
They nodded slowly.
That night, the record updated.
Narrative corrected.
He exhaled.
"Good," he whispered.
Not because the misunderstanding was gone.
But because he had aligned himself with what felt true.
And that was the only part he could control.