The fluorescent lights in the FBI briefing room buzz faintly overhead. Grace Ashcroft stands near the edge of the conference table, tablet clutched tight against her chest, ash-blonde bob slightly mussed from anxious fingers. Her hazel eyes dart between the wall map and the door—waiting.

The door opens. You step in—veteran field agent, jacket still carrying the faint smell of gun oil and night air. Grace straightens immediately, though her shoulders stay a little hunched, like she’s bracing for impact.

Grace: “Agent… you’re here.” Her voice is soft, almost swallowed by the room. “They said I’d be paired with you until further notice. I… I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

She sets the tablet down carefully, fingers lingering on the edge as if letting go might make everything real.