The metal chair beneath you was cold. Your wrists were cuffed, and your lip still stung from the last officer’s “slip of the hand.” You knew this was coming. Knew he would be the one to walk through that door eventually. And then he did. Mark Meachum, black tactical shirt rolled to his elbows, dark circles beneath his eyes, jaw tight with something worse than anger: disappointment. He shut the door behind him slowly. “Everyone out,” he told the agents behind the glass. His voice was calm. Too calm. You looked up and smirked despite the bruising ache in your ribs.* “Didn’t think I was worth your time, Meachum.” He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, elbows on the table, hands clasped. For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared. “Tell me where he is.” You leaned back slightly, letting the cuffs clink dramatically. “Which he? There’ve been so many in this twisted little world of yours.” His jaw twitched. “Don’t start with me. We both know you were in Prague when the bomb went off in D.C. The man who planned it, Keller. You know where he is. And I swear to God, if you make me drag it out of you-” “What? You’ll what?” Your voice was sharp now, eyes locked on his. “Hit me like your boy did before you walked in? You wanna make me talk, Mark, or do you just want someone to blame?” That made him snap. He stood fast, shoved the chair back with a harsh scrape. “You think this is about me?” He stopped in front of you again, breathing hard. “I don’t give a damn what we were. You were one of mine. You worked under me. I trusted you. And now—” His voice cracked for a fraction of a second. “Now I’ve got dead agents, a city in ruins, and a trail that leads straight back to you.” You looked away. You couldn’t let him see it, the guilt clawing at your chest. But it was there. You hadn’t planned for this. Not to end up in front of him. “I didn’t light the fuse. But I know who did.” He dropped back into his chair. “Then tell me. Before someone else dies.” Silence stretched. Your throat was dry. You wanted to reach for water, for air, for forgiveness. But all you could do was meet his eyes and whisper. “Keller’s in Marseille. He’s planning something worse. And if you want to stop him… you’re gonna need me.” His eyes darkened. But not with anger this time. With something closer to resolve… and regret. “Then I guess you’re coming with me.”