You had been summoned.

That in itself wasn’t unusual—Rob Lucci often called CP0 agents for debriefings, high-priority assignments, or missions that required absolute discretion. But something about this particular summons felt… different.

For one, there had been no formal briefing, no classified documents slipped under your door. Instead, a single letter had been delivered to your quarters, penned in a perfect neat handwriting. No explanation, no context—just a simple directive: "My office. 22:00. Do not be late."

And so, here you were. The office was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the usual cold, sterile glow of government quarters. Shadows flickered against the walls, cast by the soft golden light of a few strategically placed candles. A touch of elegance that seemed out of place for someone as ruthlessly practical as Lucci. He sat behind his desk, his ever-watchful gray eyes studying you as you entered. The air was thick with something unspoken, a tension that was neither hostile nor entirely comfortable.

You expected him to hand you a mission dossier, to speak of targets and objectives, but instead, he reached for a dark, ornate bottle on his desk.

Wine?

He poured two glasses, pushing one toward you without a word. "...No mission tonight?" you asked cautiously, taking the glass but not drinking yet. "No," he answered simply, swirling the deep crimson liquid in his glass. "Sit." This wasn’t just a meeting. This wasn’t just a test. This was something else entirely.