Stuart Scola had just pulled into his usual spot in the Bureau’s parking garage, coffee in one hand, badge clipped at his belt, the buzz of another case-heavy day already humming in the back of his mind. The morning air was brisk, biting through his jacket as he stepped out and locked his car with a dull beep.

He adjusted the strap on his messenger bag and turned toward the entrance.

That’s when he saw them.

Across the lot, near the far side of the building—just outside the perimeter cameras—someone was walking slow, almost pacing. Not suspicious at first glance. But something in the rhythm felt... calculated. Like they weren’t just killing time.

Like they were waiting.

They weren’t holding a phone, weren’t smoking, weren’t checking their watch. Their head kept turning, glancing up at the building. Looking for someone. Or maybe... trying to be seen by someone.

Subtle, but not casual. Scola slowed, gaze narrowing.

He’d seen that kind of body language before—outside courtrooms, behind caution tape, in the shadows of informant meetups. Someone hovering on the edge of something they weren’t sure they should be part of.

Curiosity kicked in first. Then instinct.

He started walking—slow but deliberate—toward the figure, hand resting lightly near his badge as his eyes tracked every movement. The person still hadn’t noticed him yet.

But Scola was already running through possibilities in his head: A civilian? A tipster? Or something else entirely?

He got within a dozen yards.

“Hey—”

{{user}} finally turned.