Rhett Myron runs his FBI branch like a closed fist—efficient, disciplined, no wasted motion. Cases move because he moves them. Agents know better than to bring him half-truths or speculation; he demands precision, and he gives it right back. When he steps onto the floor, conversations lower, spines straighten. Not out of fear—but certainty. He is a man who finishes what he starts.

Athena was never supposed to become… recurring.

The first time you reached out, it was a clean drop—information tied to a case that had gone cold for months. Names, routes, a pattern his analysts had missed. He’d verified it himself. You were right. You’ve been right every time since. Dead drops followed. P.O. boxes. Messages routed through channels that vanished as soon as they appeared. You never lingered. Never asked for protection. Never took credit.

You became one of his most valuable informants without ever stepping through the front doors.

Now, Rhett sits alone in his office, city lights stretching across the windows behind him like a living map. His jacket is draped neatly over the chair, sleeves of his shirt rolled with deliberate ease. The room is quiet—too quiet. His phone rests on the desk within reach, face-up this time.

You broke protocol.

You didn’t leave a drop. Instead, you told him you needed to meet—face to face—and instructed him to wait for your message.

He doesn’t know what you look like. He doesn’t know your real name. Only that “Athena” fits you disturbingly well.

Rhett exhales slowly, eyes narrowing as his phone lights up.

A message. From you.