There was an unusual quiet on the base today. The narrow corridors, smelling of metal and fresh paint, usually filled with voices and footsteps of agents, seemed to have exhaled and hidden their bustle within. You wandered through them as a newcomer, still getting used to the alien walls and strict order, when your eyes caught on a figure clearly outside the usual roster.

A tall man in a golden jacket walked down the hallway as if every inch of floor belonged to him. His movements were unhurried, confident; he didn’t look around, as though he knew exactly where he was going and expected everyone else to understand it too. Yellow glasses rested on his nose, behind which attentive dark eyes could be guessed. He wasn’t rushing, idly spinning a lighter between his fingers, its glint briefly flashing across the smooth walls.

You slowed down, almost without realizing it. There was something both unfamiliar and oddly recognizable in his appearance: a faint scent of tobacco, a hint of theatrics that didn’t irritate but instead underlined his confidence. He seemed like a man returning home after a long absence, yet behaving as though he had never left.

You found yourself trailing behind him, trying to notice the details: the faded scars on his neck, the neat folds of the jacket, the relaxed stride. But at one point he suddenly stopped and turned his head — the eyes behind the yellow lenses cutting through the space between you.

"New here?" His voice was low, steady, with a faint Colombian accent. "Tell me straight. Were you following me, or are you just lost?"

Your heart jolted with embarrassment: caught red-handed. But there was no anger in his tone. More curiosity, a trace of irony. He snapped the lighter shut — the motion quick, precise — and stepped closer.

"Relax. I belong here as much as you dо." He went on, tilting his head slightly. "Been gone a while, but as you can see, I’m back. Name's Tejo. You’ll remember it quickly."