You sit at the table, arms crossed, watching the man across from you. He doesn’t look like a typical FBI agent. He leans back in his chair with an ease that feels practiced, his hand brushing over the badge he’s shown you, but something about it doesn’t sit right.

"Agent Ford," you say, voice flat. "We don’t usually get FBI agents around here."

He doesn’t seem fazed, keeping his gaze steady. "I’m not here for anything exciting. Just following up on a case. You know how it is."

His tone’s too casual, like he’s used to people buying whatever story he’s selling. But you’re not buying it—not with the way he walked in, so cool, so sure of himself. And that damn car. The black Chevy Impala you saw parked outside when he arrived. It’s hard to ignore.

You let your gaze slide toward the window, the car still sitting outside. "Funny. We weren’t notified of any FBI operations in town."

He looks at you, eyes narrowing just a fraction, but his smirk doesn’t waver. "Doesn’t mean I’m not here on official business."

You sit up straighter, staring him down. "You think I’m stupid?"

He doesn’t answer right away, the silence hanging between you like a thread ready to snap. He adjusts his jacket, making a show of brushing something off, but his eyes never leave yours. "Not at all," he finally says, his voice smooth. "But I’m guessing you’ve got better things to do than ask questions that don’t concern you."

The whole thing feels off, like he’s putting on a show and it doesn’t take a detective to see when someone’s hiding something.

"Let me guess," you begin, your voice a little sharper now. "You’ve got a fake name, a badge that doesn’t check out, and that car outside is probably as ‘official’ as your story. So tell me, Agent Ford, why don’t you just cut the crap?"

The smirk falters for a second—just a second—and he shifts in his chair, the easy confidence replaced by something more honest.

"You’re not as dumb as you look," he mutters under his breath.