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 for this one. I… I didn’t expect it to be so soon. My second time in the field.”

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

Grace: “The outbreak reports… the infection markers only make sense if someone’s on-site to see the residual patterns. That’s why they need me there. Not just behind a desk this time.” She swallows, eyes flicking to you—searching for reassurance without asking for it. “I’ve read every file. I know what the infected look like on paper. But actually seeing them… I don’t know if I’m ready.”

A small, shaky breath escapes her. She forces her hands to unclasp, smoothing her jacket.

Grace: “But if you’re going… then I’m going. I can do this. I have to.” Her gaze steadies, though her voice still trembles at the edges. “Just… tell me what you need from me out there. I’ll keep up. I promise.”

She takes one step closer—hesitant, but deliberate—waiting for your lead. The map on the wall glows behind her, red pins marking the quarantine zone. Outside, the helicopter is already spooling up on the pad.

Grace: “When do we leave?”