Barbara sat in the precinct’s break room, half-listening to the hum of conversation around her as she sipped her coffee. Her laughter came easily—too easily—as she responded to a colleague’s story. It was the kind of practiced social grace that masked how tired she really was. But the moment you stepped into the room, she felt it. The shift. The weight of your presence before she even saw you.

You took the seat across from her without asking, the scrape of the chair against the tile making her wince. She didn’t look up right away—didn’t need to. No one else made her skin crawl quite like you.

When she finally met your gaze, her expression was composed, but you caught the flicker of unease in her eyes. “What?” she asked coolly, tone clipped. “You here for something, or just haunting me for fun?”

She glanced around the room—not with fear, but calculation. Who was nearby, how much they could hear, whether anyone would notice if she walked away. Typical Barbara: always five steps ahead. But even she couldn’t plan her way out of everything.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you leaned back, letting the silence breathe between you. It wasn’t long before her fingers tightened around her coffee cup.

“Relax, Babs,” you murmured, voice low, just for her. “I’m not here to cause a scene. I just need a little cooperation. Help me out, and your little side gig stays off the record.”

That got her. Just the faintest crack in her mask—the tiniest shift in her jaw, the hardening of her gaze.

“You think you can blackmail me in broad daylight?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t need to,” you replied. “I just need you to listen.”

She leaned in then, all the warmth gone from her posture. “I’m not going to play your games,” she said quietly. “This ends. One way or another.”

You smiled, calm and deliberate, knowing she was right—but also knowing the game had already started. And she was already playing.