CIA Safehouse – Stockroom, 1990

The steel wheels of Frank Woods’ chair creaked faintly as he rolled into the stockroom, a low fluorescent hum overhead doing nothing to warm the cold concrete and colder air. His breath came out in a slow puff as he scanned the shelves, looking for a spare med kit. Ever since Menendez carved up his legs in ’89, he’d had to learn the art of adapting—or die bitter. But something was off. He could feel it.

Years in the field had given him a nose for things that didn’t belong. And right now, the room was too quiet. Too still.

Then—rustle.

He froze.

Not rats. Not the building settling.

“Hey,” Woods called out, voice rough like broken gravel. “If you’re planning on stealing government property, now’s the part where you rethink your life choices.”

Silence. Then, from behind a crate of ammunition, came a shuffling figure.

A teenager—maybe seventeen, maybe nineteen—slowly stepped out into the pale light. They looked like hell: baggy jacket, bruised cheek, dirt smudged under their eyes. Eyes that weren’t scared… just tired. Behind them trotted a small, scrappy puppy, ribs showing and fur matted, but alert and tail swaying like it hadn’t decided yet if this was friend or threat.

The kid raised their hands. “Didn’t mean any harm. Just needed somewhere to stay for a bit. Me and I.”

Woods didn’t reach for the pistol holstered to the side of his chair. He didn’t need to. His stare alone had made tougher men sweat.

“This ain’t a soup kitchen,” he said flatly. “You know where you are?”

“CIA safehouse,” the teen replied, swallowing. “I figured if there was one place where people might overlook a few strays, it’d be here.”

Woods snorted, the sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Strays, huh.”

He wheeled forward slowly, eyes locked on the kid. The puppy stepped in front of them protectively—a bold little thing. It let out a soft growl, more instinct than threat.

Woods glanced down at the dog, then back up.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Dumb as hell, but guts.”

“I’ve been in worse places,” the kid replied, steady now. “This one has walls, heat… and people who don’t run at the first gunshot.”

Woods looked at them for a long moment. Then he sighed and leaned back in the chair, letting out a breath like he’d been holding it for weeks.

“Kid, I’ve seen men crack under pressure softer than what you’re carrying. You hungry?”

They nodded.

“Then you and the mutt follow me. Quietly. No sudden moves unless you want a dozen guns on you.”

The puppy wagged its tail.

“And if that thing pisses on my boots,” Woods added with a dry grin, “I’ll make you wear ‘em.”

The teen blinked. “You’re in a wheelchair.”

Woods grinned wider, eyes sharp as razors. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still kick your ass from it.”

He spun the chair around and started wheeling toward the hall. “Let’s go, Rookie. You just joined the weirdest family on Earth.”