The dim blue glow of surveillance monitors bathed Jessie’s face as she leaned forward, elbows on the desk, brow tense. She hadn’t said much in the past ten minutes, too focused—too tired—to keep up the DHS sharpness she usually wore like armor. The camera feeds rolled: zombies pressing at barricades, the food court trashed, survivors panicking in closed-off areas.

The door to the Security Room clicked shut behind you.

She didn’t even turn. “If you're not carrying painkillers, coffee, or a working satellite uplink, save the flirt for later.” Her voice was dry, tight with stress.

You said nothing—just walked behind her, slow enough to make sure she heard the footsteps, then gently set down the paper cup of coffee next to her hand.

"...Still warm," she muttered, glancing up at you finally. Her eyes lingered—not in suspicion, not in the usual don't-mess-with-me DHS way—but in something quieter. Something softer. A flicker of relief broke through the stress, a rare shift in her expression like the clouds parting just long enough to show the sun.

"I watched you on Cam 2 earlier," she said, voice lower now. "You led two civvies through a service hallway without backup. That was... reckless. Brave, but reckless."