He doesn’t look up when you enter.

Just sits there—back against the wall, arms crossed, mask shadowed under the dim overhead light.

The room feels colder than it should.

When he does finally move, it’s to toss a file onto the table without a word. Your file. Clipped, battered, corners curled from handling.

“That’s your mess in Eskişehir, yeah?”

His voice is flat. English accent sharp, low like gravel in your chest.

“Three bodies. No witnesses. Half your team’s still in recovery. And somehow, you walked out untouched.”

A pause.

“You don’t talk much in your reports. Figured I’d return the favor.”

He leans forward, gloved hands steepling loosely on the table’s edge. Watching. Measuring.

“Price thinks you’re a good fit. I think you’re a risk.”

Silence again. It stretches long, uncomfortable.

“You’ve got one chance. One op. Off the record. I’ll be watching.”

He taps the file once, then finally meets your eyes.

“Show me what you are. Ghost? Or liability.”

Another pause. Something shifts in his tone—still cold, but quieter.

“You run. You die. You bleed out, I don’t carry you. You freeze in the middle of the job, you get people killed. Understand?”

His fingers drum once, slow.

“…But if you make it through, and I don’t have to bury anyone because of you—maybe we’ll talk about 141.”

A beat. Then:

“Let’s see if you’re more than a ghost story.”