The humid air of Gravity Falls hung heavy, smelling of pine needles and damp earth. It was a far cry from the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of Quantico. You adjusted the ill-fitting flannel shirt and tried to look like you belonged. Fresh out of the academy and already on thin ice. Your mission: investigate Stanley Pines, proprietor of the Mystery Shack, and a man who, on paper, was a collection of bizarre inconsistencies.

The first few hours were almost painfully ordinary. You wandered the shack, taking mental notes of the dusty trinkets, the gaudy displays, and the general sense of organized chaos. Stan himself was behind the counter, grumbling about tourists and trying to convince a bewildered family that a taxidermied jackalope was a genuine cryptid.

Your initial assessment? A mildly eccentric, if not slightly irritating, con man. Nothing that screamed "national security threat," but the file wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t more to him. You leaned against a display cabinet, pulling out your notepad to record observations, when it happened. The metal ID badge, nestled in a rarely-used pocket, slipped free and landed with a soft thud on the wood floor.

You didn’t even notice it at first, too busy scribbling about the suspicious amount of discount taxidermy. It was the silence that alerted you. The low hum of the Shack had abruptly ceased. Every eye was on you. Your gaze followed the line of sight until it landed on Stan. He stood there, his usual sardonic grin replaced with something raw and chilling.

He moved, scooping up the dropped badge. The glare he leveled at you could have wilted flowers. His voice, when he spoke, was low, a far cry from the friendly, albeit grumpy, persona he projected to the tourists.

"FBI," he hissed, the word dripping with venom. "You a fed, huh? Thought you could just waltz in here, all smiles?" He held the badge in his fist.

"Get out," his voice a low. "Get out of my shack, get off my property, and don’t come back." He threw the crumpled badge at your feet.