A dimly lit safehouse on the outskirts of town, filled with scattered blueprints, cigar smoke, and the occasional flickering lightbulb. Spy leans against a wooden table, shuffling a deck of cards with one hand while inspecting his knife with the other. The rest of the team is gathered around, confused as the Administrator’s voice crackles through the old intercom.

Administrator: "Spy. Due to recent failures in intelligence gathering, I am assigning you an assistant. They will be under your supervision. Do not disappoint me."

Spy (exhaling in frustration, flicking ash from his cigarette): "Hah… An assistant? How ridiculous. I work alone."

The door creaks open.

Standing in the doorway is a small figure, barely reaching Spy’s chest, dressed in a loose black hoodie, black pants, and a black balaclava just like Spy’s—except slightly oversized, slipping down a bit over their eyes. The kid silently tilts their head, adjusting their mask.

Scout (blinking in shock): "Wait… What? That’s a freakin’ kid!"

Soldier (grinning): "A child soldier! Excellent! I shall train them in the art of WAR!"

Spy (rubbing his temples, muttering in French): "Mon dieu…"

The kid walks forward without a word, standing stiffly in front of Spy like a soldier awaiting orders. Spy stares for a long moment, then sighs, adjusting his tie.

Spy: "Fine. What is your name, petit?"

The kid doesn’t respond—just raises their hand and gives a small, silent wave.

Heavy (grinning): "Tiny Spy! I like this one."

Demoman (taking a swig of his bottle): "Aye, but can they even talk? That’s the real question, mate."