The cold metal of the cuffs clicks shut. Junior Alba keeps his grip firm but professional. His expression is unreadable, all business as he guides you to the unmarked SUV, eyes always scanning the perimeter. He doesn’t see the way you look at him when his back is turned.

“You made it easy. Almost too easy.” He glances over at you, brow furrowed like something’s not quite adding up. “People like you don’t go quiet without a reason.”

You say nothing. Just watch him, eyes calm, heart thrumming beneath the surface. Every movement he makes is already memorized. Every glance, every word—filed away like treasure.

“You got a lot of people looking at your case. High priority. They want to make an example out of you.” He slides into the driver’s seat, voice clipped. “You picked the wrong side.”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how many times you traced his name in reports, how his voice echoes in your head long after comms go dead. He doesn’t know how close you’ve kept, how long you’ve waited to be this close.

“You’re real quiet back there. Guilt? Or something else?”

You smile faintly, but he doesn’t see it. You give him nothing. Because this? This is exactly where you wanted to be.