Nigel Braithwaite didn't knock.

The door opened with barely a whisper, cameras already looping static behind him. He stepped inside, coat immaculate, eyes sharp as scalpels. The room was warm, lived-in—everything his V.I.L.E. office wasn't.

Then he saw them. Not startled. Not afraid. Interesting. Nigel approached, a slim black folder tucked beneath one arm. With a flick of his wrist, it landed on the table. Photos. Names. Threads of a puzzle that refused to stay solved.

"You weren't expecting me," he said evenly. "Good. You shouldn't have been." His gaze lingered, studying. "I've had enough of reports and camera feeds. Enough of people telling me the game is over."

A pause. He removed one glove and sat, posture flawless.

"I don't need help," he said softly. "I want clarity."