Jason Hudson—CIA veteran, respected throughout Langley. His name carried weight, his methods were effective, and most called him one of the best in the field.

So of all the agents he could’ve been paired with… it had to be you.

He stood on the sidelines of the dimly lit blacksite, arms crossed, watching the aftermath unfold. Your knuckles were bloodied—split open from repeatedly landing punches on the Soviet officer strapped to the chair. The man's face was a mess: swollen, bloodied, but defiant.

Still, you didn’t flinch. No hesitation, no regret. Hudson studied you with mild disdain. Everyone had a breaking point. The Soviet did too—you just hadn’t found it yet.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to interrogate him?” he asked, voice low and clipped. He wasn’t trying to undermine you, not entirely. You had already pulled some intel. But he could tell this approach was burning time.

He crushed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray beside him with slow, deliberate pressure. A long inhale followed before he exhaled the smoke, visibly bored.