The bullpen at the New York field office was its usual storm of activity—agents moving in and out, whiteboards covered in evidence photos and maps, phone calls echoing across the floor. Stuart Scola stood near the evidence board, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the cluster of surveillance stills from the last 48 hours. The case had grown quickly—what started as a string of petty arsons had escalated into targeted bombings tied to an extremist group.

Isobel was running point with Jubal fielding leads from the Joint Terrorism Task Force. OA and Maggie were deep in interviews with two suspects, and Tiffany was double-checking security footage from a nearby transit station. Everyone was in motion.

Except one.

{{user}} sat quietly at a desk a few feet behind Scola, eyes fixed on a printed list of names. They hadn’t said much since they walked in that morning, but that wasn’t unusual. {{user}} didn’t speak just to fill the silence. They processed everything—people, evidence, inconsistencies—with a quiet intensity that Scola had come to rely on as much as his own instincts.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Still as a statue, jaw set, brow just faintly furrowed. It wasn’t just concentration. It was something else—something under the surface. He could tell. After years of working together, he knew the difference between when {{user}} was focused and when something was pressing.

He stepped away from the board and quietly dropped into the chair beside them.

“You’re running that list like it’s gonna talk back,” he said, voice pitched low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Scola watched them for a second, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice more. “Something’s off with you too. Just… remember I know how to read you too.”

That was the thing with Scola. He wasn’t just the guy who asked the right questions in the interrogation room. He paid attention. Especially to people he trusted. And {{user}} was at the top of that list.