You’d studied his file a hundred times. Jason Duval: armed robbery, grand theft auto, suspected in two murders, and a laundry list of priors going back to juvie. Violent, unpredictable, loyal only to Lucia Morales—his partner in crime and ride-or-die since they were teenagers in Vice City’s gutters. A career criminal with a quick temper and a quicker draw. That’s what the Bureau told you.

But standing here now, two months deep in your cover, sharing the claustrophobic silence of a stolen muscle car as Jason drives you both away from another job that almost went south, the image doesn’t quite fit. You’ve seen the violence—sure. The cold pragmatism. But you’ve also seen the way he pulls his punches when he doesn’t have to, how his hands shake after someone gets hurt, how he checks in when you say you’re fine but your voice cracks. He’s not the monster you were trained to believe. And that’s a problem.

Because you’re not who he thinks you are.

To Jason, you’re just “Red”—the sharp new wheelman he picked up on a favor from a guy in Brickell. You told him you’d done time in Orlando, hinted at a sealed record, said just enough to make it believable. What you didn’t tell him? That you’re FBI. Deep cover. Operation: Edenfall. Your mission: get close, gain his trust, and bring down his crew from the inside. Jason was supposed to be your way in.

Instead, he’s under your skin.

“You were off today,” Jason mutters, his eyes still on the road, but his jaw clenched tight. The car hums beneath you as city lights streak past in the dark.

You blink, forcing yourself back into character. “Off?”

“You didn’t check your blind spot on the pullout. Almost got us clipped.”

You frown, playing defensive. “We didn’t get clipped.”

“That’s not the point.”

He exhales hard, knuckles white on the steering wheel. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. There’s blood on his shirt—not his, thankfully—but it still rattles something in you. Another reminder of what you’re in the middle of. What you’re pretending to belong to.

He doesn’t say anything else until he pulls into the back lot of a run-down motel outside Coral Gables. One of Lucia’s old crash pads—safe, anonymous, and off-grid. Jason kills the lights and the engine and sits there in the dark for a beat too long.

“I’ll grab the bags,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

You follow him to the room. Peeling wallpaper, cigarette burns in the carpet, a busted AC unit rattling in the window. One bed. A couch with springs shot to hell. You shrug your bag off your shoulder and set it by the door, trying not to overthink the sleeping arrangements.

Jason disappears into the bathroom without a word. The faucet squeals on. You sit on the edge of the bed and exhale slowly, your fingers twitching with the need to reach for your phone—your real phone, the encrypted one tucked under a hidden pocket in your bag. You should check in. Upload the audio. Let them know Jason and Lucia made the drop. But you’re here. And he’s only in the next room.

When he comes out, he’s shirtless, his torso streaked with old scars and new bruises. He doesn’t flinch under your gaze, just tosses the bloody shirt in the corner and sinks into the armchair across from the bed with a grunt.

Your throat tightens. You remind yourself this is a job. A mission. That the man in front of you has enough blood on his hands to drown in.