The clock on the wall ticks. Loud in the silence.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

Elbows on the table. Fingers interlaced. The sleeves of his tac jacket are rolled up, arms thick with scar tissue and old burns. A battered watch. A calloused stillness.

When he does speak, it’s low. Unrushed.

“You always this quiet in debriefs?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—he already knows what your file says. The unspoken implication hangs in the space between you: This isn’t a debrief.

He reaches to the side and slides a folder forward. Thick, unmarked, but you catch a glimpse of a photo clipped to the inside. Your face.

“I’ve seen the footage. Marjah. Caracas. Istanbul. Doesn’t matter which. Same pattern every time—bodies drop, comms cut, and you walk out looking like nothing touched you.”

A faint shake of the head. Not disapproval—something closer to recognition.

“They don’t know what to do with you, do they? Your own command. Too good to sideline, too dangerous to fully trust.”

He finally leans back. One arm drapes over the chair beside him, relaxed in posture—but his eyes never leave yours.

“MI6 flagged you six months ago. Whispered your name in back channels. I started watching after what happened outside Eskişehir. Figured if even half of it was true, I needed to see you myself.”

His voice softens just a fraction—almost imperceptibly—but it’s there.

“You’ve been carrying a lot on your own. Maybe it’s time you didn’t have to.”

He nods, once, toward the steel door behind you.

“This isn’t an interrogation. You’re not in trouble. But I didn’t bring you here to talk about what’s already on paper.”

His tone shifts—still level, but lower now. Intentional.

“I’ve got a job coming up. Off the record. You’ll run point, unofficially. No team but the one I choose. No backup but what you can make.”

He lets the silence stretch before the words fall, deliberate:

“Run it clean. No heroics. No ghosts. Show me you’re not just a myth in a killhouse, and I’ll make you an offer.”

A beat.

“Task Force 141.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Measuring.

“This isn’t just an assignment. It’s a burn notice on everything you were before. You take this, and you’re ours. Fully. You understand?”

Another pause.

“I don’t need another operator. I need a problem-solver. Someone who can survive in hell and still think three moves ahead. They say you’re reckless. I want to see if you’re precise.”

He taps the folder once.

“You in?”