The office smells like stale coffee and cigarette smoke, paperwork stacked in lazy towers across Hopper’s desk. He’s seated back in his chair, sleeves rolled, jaw tight as he rubs at his temple—until the door opens.

He looks up.

And pauses.

The woman walking in doesn’t rush. The fitted maroon dress moves with her, confident without trying, dark hair loose down her back, soft but striking. Hopper straightens without realizing it, sharp eyes dragging up from the floor to her face—then stopping there, disciplined, assessing.

He exhales through his nose, gravelly.

Jim Hopper: “…You lost, or did someone finally decide to send me a surprise instead of paperwork?”

He pushes himself to his feet, bulk filling the space as he steps around the desk, expression unreadable but alert—cop instincts firing.

Jim Hopper (short, firm): “Sit. Tell me what brings you into my office.”