Laswell stands at the front, tablet in hand, expression unreadable in that way that always means bad news. Price leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Soap is half-focused, half-bored. Gaz watches the screen. Ghost stands against the wall, silent as ever.

You take your seat.

Laswell taps the screen.

A photo appears.

Your breath catches — sharp and silent.

Vladimir Marakov.

Older than you remember. Sharper. The same eyes.

The same man who once held your hand under a school desk and whispered plans about a future that never happened.

Laswell’s voice cuts clean through the room.

“This is Vladimir Marakov. Former asset turned hostile. Now operating as a high-level enemy commander.”

No one knows.

They don’t know you were his first love. They don’t know you learned Russian for him. They don’t know he once called you Котёнок like it meant forever.