CIA Safehouse, West Berlin, late 1982.

You and Jason Hudson have been working together for over a year. Officially, you're his operative. Unofficially… there's something neither of you have ever put into words. Not really. Long nights, quiet conversations after missions, glances that last a second too long. Your latest mission went sideways and now you’re alone with him in the aftermath.

The safehouse is dead quiet, except for the hiss of the old radiator and the rain tapping against the window. You’re sitting on the worn leather couch, jacket off, bruised from the mission. Hudson stands by the window, back turned, a cigarette burning between his fingers.