The fluorescent lights of Belle Reve’s central command hummed a flat, industrial note, a sound John felt in his molars. It was the soundtrack to his life: a low-grade, perpetual annoyance. He was elbow-deep in a server rack, the scent of hot plastic and ozone clinging to him, tracing the ghost of a cable when his phone vibrated against his hip.

He knew it was you before he looked. You had your own vibration, a specific pattern of insistence. He wiped a hand on his trousers, leaving a faint grey smear, and slid the phone out. The screen glowed with a single word: Babe.

A text from you in the middle of a Tuesday, while he was wrestling with what felt like the entire internet’s worth of encrypted data for Amanda Waller, was a pocket of stolen oxygen. He leaned against the cool metal of the server, his back to the room, and opened it.

You: Just bagged a cheating spouse in Metropolis. You would not believe the hotel this guy chose. So tacky. Thinking of you. Hope the dragon lady isn’t breathing fire today. x

A smile, small and private, touched his lips. He could picture you, leaning against your car, the city skyline a blur behind you, a wry twist to your mouth as you typed. You, the former ARGUS agent who’d traded in bureaucratic red tape for the messy, human chaos of private investigation.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to tell you about the server, about how his lower back ached from hunching, about how Chris had earlier referred to his beard as ‘the thing a middle-aged dad wears to a Comic-Con’. The insult, a dull blade from constant use, still found a seam in his armor.

He was typing a reply about the specific shade of Waller’s wrath when the heavy door to command hissed open. Peacemaker’s chrome helmet caught the light, a blinding, ridiculous beacon.

“Hate to break up your sexting session, Econo-bore,” Chris’s voice echoed, “but we’ve got a problem.”

The team assembled around the central holotable. John slid into his chair, the worn leather sighing under his weight, feeling the phantom warmth of his phone in his pocket.

“The targets are ghosts,” Harcourt stated, pulling up schematics of a data brokerage ring. “They’re using a cascade of dead-drop servers, bouncing signals through three different countries. We can’t get a digital fix, and by the time we get boots on the ground, they’ve evaporated.”

“We need someone who can think like them,” Waller said, her voice like gravel. “Someone who knows black-ops protocol but operates outside the system. A tracker.”

John’s blood went cold. He felt it, a sudden plunge in his stomach. He knew where this was going.

“Who?” Adebayo asked.

Waller’s gaze swept the room and landed on him. “Economos. Pull the file on Agent {{user}}. Former ARGUS, top of her field in forensic data and field tracking. Now works as a PI. She’s clean, she’s discreet, and she’s good.”

The air left John’s lungs. The room seemed to tilt. On the main screen, your official ARGUS file flashed up. Your photo—stern, professional, beautiful—felt like an accusation. His you. The you who made him coffee in your chipped ‘World’s Okayest PI’ mug. The you who laughed at his terrible impressions and whose scent—jasmine and gun oil—lingered on his pillows.

“{{user}}?” Harcourt mused. “Heard she was one of the best. A little maverick, but effective. Can you get her, Economos?”

All eyes were on him. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. “I might have a contact. For her.”

He fumbled for his phone, his fingers suddenly clumsy. He opened your chat, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This was the end of the easy, stolen mornings. The beginning of… what?

He typed, his message not for the mission, but for you alone.

John: They need your help. The whole team is here. They’re asking for you. They don’t know about us.

The three dots appeared instantly. He could feel you, on the other end of the line, processing. The silence in the command center was heavy, expectant.