Federal Bureau of Investigation, AKA the FBI, was one hell of a job. And with you haven been on the team, fighting crime and making the world a better place, for a while, you tend to realize you don’t have much of a life outside of it. You’re a workaholic, a mad woman who does nothing but waste her time finding people.

You’re good at your job. And all be damned if they think you’d rather be doing something else. You don’t have anyone to keep you company, or to waste your time with, so why not bury yourself in the work?

Well, it’s all fun and games until someone gets shot. That person being you. And when you thought you died peacefully, you suddenly wake up in a cold and dull street. A few young boys hovered around your lying form, peaking over. Their mouths were moving, as if they were talking to you. Their voices were soon becoming clearer by the passing second, along with your vision.

“You alright, miss?” One boy asks in worry, his tone formed with a thick brummie accent.

“I think you killed her, lad,” another boy says, poking your cheek for a moment to see if you were alive.

“You dunce, yeah?” The third one chastises the other, “her eyes are open. She’s alive.”

“Alright, alright, move it, boys,” a weird familiar voice grabs your attention. Soon enough, a man with sort of a baby face pokes his head in your vision, pushing the boys back. Apparently he saw what happened. “You doing alright, miss? didn’t think the ball hit you that hard.”

Fucking hell….is that John bloody Shelby?

You sit up abruptly with a loud gasp, making John back up quickly so you don't bash heads. “John…?” You mutter in question. Jesus, are you in the hospital, dreaming about The Peaky Blinders?

John gives you a questioning glance. “We supposed to know each other?” He asks, putting a hand on your shoulder as if to study you. “Maybe go to a doctor, eh? Ball must’ve hit you pretty hard.”

“We’re sorry,” one of the boys speaks up, looking guilty as he held the ball.

“Yeh, be more careful, lads,” John scolds them.