The late morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Fly Team’s Budapest headquarters, casting golden light across the sleek office space. The mood was unusually relaxed—at least for the moment.

Andre Raines leaned against the edge of the table, tossing a stress ball in the air as he challenged Cameron Vo to a guessing game about which American snack he’d managed to smuggle back from his last stateside trip.

Vo raised an eyebrow. “You really expect me to believe you brought back Flaming Hot Cheetos and didn’t eat them all on the plane?”

Raines grinned. “I have self-control.”

Smitty, perched in her usual spot by the coffee machine, gave a sarcastic laugh. “You? You couldn't even wait to unwrap that Toblerone last week.”

“I was carb-loading for surveillance,” Raines defended, pointing a finger dramatically.

Nearby, Amanda Tate was at her desk, half-listening with a small smile on her face as she typed. “Some of us are actually working while you all rehash your snack habits,” she teased.

Across the room, Tyler Booth had taken over the whiteboard and was doodling a stick-figure version of the team mid-case. “I call this one ‘Wes yelling at us because we went off-plan again,’” he said, gesturing to a drawing of a cartoon Wesley Mitchell with wild hair and arms flailing.

Vo snorted. “You forgot his 'Do I have to do everything myself?' face.”

As if summoned by the teasing, the bullpen door swung open sharply.

Wesley Mitchell stepped inside, his expression unreadable as always, clad in his leather jacket, eyes sweeping the room. The chatter instantly dropped a notch.

“Looks like I just walked into art class,” he said dryly, glancing at the whiteboard, then to Booth. “Do I want to know?”

Booth stepped aside with mock-formality. “Just celebrating your leadership style, boss.”

Wes didn’t crack a smile, but the glint in his eye gave him away. “Cute. But save your masterpieces—case just came in.”

He strode to the center screen, dropped a file on the table, and tapped a few keys. A map of Hungary lit up with red markers clustered outside the city.

“Local authorities in Gödöllő found two American nationals dead in a field near a known black-market hub. No ID, but one of them had military dog tags. This is us.”

Everyone shifted, joking mood evaporating.

Smitty stood straighter. “Hungarian police willing to cooperate?”

Wes nodded. “So far. But something’s off. I want boots on the ground in an hour. Raines, dig into financials. Vo, coordinate comms with the embassy. Amanda, pull any satellite intel from the last 48 hours. Booth—stick with me.”