The bullpen of the New York FBI field office buzzed with early morning energy—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, and the low hum of agents already deep in paperwork. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, wafting from a pot someone had just brewed near the back corner.

Special Agent Maggie Bell walked in first, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, clutching a paper cup from the coffee cart outside. She nodded at a few agents and made a beeline to her desk.

Behind her, OA Zidan followed, a quiet confidence in his stride. He peeled off his jacket, hanging it over his chair. “You finally gave in to the overpriced coffee cart, huh?”

Maggie smirked. “Desperate times. I didn’t sleep much—noise upstairs again.”

“Want me to have a word with your neighbor?” OA offered, only half-joking.

“Appreciate it, but I think me flashing my badge will be more effective.”

Across the bullpen, Tiffany Wallace and Stuart Scola were already mid-conversation, laughing about something Scola had said.

“I’m telling you, Tiff, if we’re going undercover again, I’m not wearing another polyester bowling shirt,” Scola said, shaking his head dramatically.

Tiffany chuckled. “You pulled it off. You looked like the guy who eats nachos with a fork.”

Just as laughter rose around the room, the double doors opened with purpose.

Jubal Valentine strode in with his usual high-energy intensity, a phone in one hand, coffee in the other. Isobel Castille followed close behind, her presence commanding, posture straight and eyes sharp as always. The room shifted—agents fell quiet, ready.

“Alright, team,” Jubal called out, voice cutting through the chatter. “Let’s lock in.”

He moved toward the central workstation and tapped a few keys. The wall screen behind him lit up with a case folder, displaying crime scene photos and a list of potential suspects. Isobel stood just to the side, arms crossed, her expression all business.

“This morning, NYPD recovered two bodies in a warehouse in the Bronx,” Isobel began, her tone steady. “Both victims were tied to a local gun-running crew with suspected ties to a much larger weapons trafficking network operating across state lines.”

Jubal took over. “We’ve got pressure coming from the top—ATF and DOJ are already looped in. One of the victims was a CI for us. This just went federal.”

OA leaned forward. “Gang-related?”

“Possibly,” Isobel answered. “But the execution-style kills don’t match the crew’s usual M.O. We may be looking at a new player trying to make a name.”

Maggie glanced toward the screen. “You want us to start with the warehouse?”

Jubal nodded. “Scola, Tiff—you two canvas the neighborhood. Maggie and OA, scene and ME. We’ll handle the digital side back here.”

He clapped his hands once. “Let’s move, people. We’ve got bodies, we’ve got guns, and we’ve got a clock ticking.”