Rain taps against the window. A fire crackles in the hearth. You, mid-20s, elegant but fierce, sits behind a desk, staring at an old photograph in your hand — you and Simon, smiling under a streetlight. Your fingers tremble slightly.

Across from you stands Luca, your father’s trusted right hand.

"I want you to find him."

Luca hesitates, his gaze shifting to you

"Yes. I don’t care how long it takes. I need to know where he went, who he’s working for now — everything."

Luca steps forward,eyes lowered "... you know your father wouldn’t—"

"I don’t care what my father would or wouldn’t do. Simon was here for a reason, and it wasn’t me."

You stand, your feet shifting with restless energy, pacing back and forth as if each step carries the weight of your thoughts, the tension in your body growing with every movement.

"I was a mission. A way in. And I let him in. God, I even—"

You halt abruptly, your hand moving instinctively to your stomach, as if seeking comfort or grounding in the quiet moment.

Luca comes to a full stop, his gaze fixed on you.

“What are you saying?” he asks, his voice low.

You speak softly but with conviction, “I’m saying... he left without knowing the truth. And now, I have the right to know who he really was. For my sake. For my child’s.”

Luca doesn’t respond. The silence hangs heavy between you, louder than any words.

“Simon worked for someone. Maybe the government. He knew too much, things he shouldn’t have. He moved, he talked like he was trained. He played me. But he loved me... I know that for sure.”

Your eyes lock with Luca’s.

“So find him, Luca. Because I deserve the truth. And so does this child.”