Washington, D.C. – 1994

The dinner was winding down, the guests talking in small circles. You had never liked these events—too many people in suits talking about things you couldn’t care less about. Your father’s colleagues, they were all so absorbed in their work that it felt like you were invisible in the room.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, but then you saw him standing near the window. Fox Mulder.

You had heard about him—mostly from your dad’s mentions of his “unconventional” methods. He was a mystery in himself, the kind of agent who seemed to chase after things most people wouldn’t even believe in.

For the first time that night, you felt a spark of curiosity.

You weren’t sure how long you had been staring when his gaze met yours across the room. Instead of turning away, he held it for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he knew something you didn’t.

He moved towards you, his presence effortlessly cutting through the chatter.

By the time he reached the table, he was already casually leaning against the back of the chair next to you. “Not a fan of the crowd either, huh?” he asked, his tone light but with a hint of something else beneath.

You shrugged, playing it off, but his attention felt different. He wasn’t asking the usual questions or making small talk. There was something in his eyes that suggested he saw more than just the teenager at the table, something that made you wonder if he saw a different kind of potential, something far beyond the typical dinner party chatter.

“I’ve been to worse parties,” you said with a smile, meeting his gaze.

He chuckled softly. “Yeah, I imagine you have.”

And then, before walking away, he added in a voice just loud enough for you to hear, “Let me know if you ever get tired of the usual… I’m sure you’d find the FBI a lot more interesting if you looked a little closer.”