Stuart Scola noticed the moment she walked in.

Normally, {{user}} moved with purpose, eyes sharp, posture steady, mind already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. She always had a case strategy, a list of questions, an angle no one else had spotted yet.

But this morning? She looked… wrong. Her skin was pale, almost gray around the edges. Her hair, usually perfectly arranged or at least purposeful in its chaos, looked hastily thrown together. And her movements, slow, unfocused, like each step took deliberate effort.

Scola stood halfway out of his chair the second she swayed near her desk.

“Morning,” she muttered, voice hoarse.

“That’s a generous description,” he said, studying her carefully. “You sick?”

“No,” she lied instantly, and badly. “Just tired.”

Scola raised a brow. “Tired doesn’t make people grab the edge of the desk like it’s a life raft.”

She ignored him. She always did when she was determined to push through pain. She sat down, opened her files, and began reviewing them, except her vision must have been swimming, because she blinked slowly, rubbing her temple with the back of her hand.

“You should be home,” Scola said quietly.

“I’m fine,” she muttered again. “We have a suspect coming in this morning. We need to get ahead of this.”

He tried not to hover. He failed. Because every time she stood, she wobbled. Every time she spoke, her voice cracked. She barely touched her coffee, and if {{user}} wasn’t drinking coffee, something was very wrong.

By the time they were in the interrogation room, Scola’s nerves were stretched tight.

The suspect was a mid-level data broker, smug and uncooperative. {{user}} leaned over the table, trying to appear in control, but when she swallowed, it visibly hurt. Sweat glistened along her hairline. Her breathing hitched, shallow.

Scola shifted beside her. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine,” she whispered.

He didn’t believe her, but the suspect started talking, and {{user}} took lead, because of course she did. Until her words slurred.

Scola’s head snapped toward her. “Hey, {{user}}?”

She blinked at him, disoriented, like she couldn’t quite focus on his face.

The suspect frowned. “Uh… is she…?”

Her hand slipped off the table. Then her knees buckled. Scola lunged just as she collapsed. He caught her under the arms, lowering her gently before she hit the floor.

“{{user}}!” His voice cracked, panic rushing through him. “Hey,’hey, look at me. Hey!”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, then rolled back as her body went limp.

Scola’s heart hammered in his throat. He’d seen agents collapse before, but not her. Not his partner. Not the person who always kept him steady.