The bullpen buzzed with its usual current, the sound of keyboards clacking, phones ringing, and Tony’s voice filling the space with half-serious jokes. McGee was glued to his monitor, tracing digital threads, while Gibbs’ sharp footsteps carried purpose.

Then Director Vance appeared, and the chatter died.

“We’re getting help on this one,” Vance announced. “Or interference, depending how you look at it. Mossad is monitoring the same players we are.”

Ziva’s shoulders tensed at the name. Mossad.

And then she saw them.

{{user}} stepped in behind Vance, posture straight, expression calm but unreadable. Their eyes swept the bullpen in one sharp pass before landing briefly on Ziva. Recognition sparked instantly, old and sharp, like the sting of a blade she hadn’t expected to feel again.

“{{user}},” Ziva murmured, low enough only Gibbs might catch it.

Tony, of course, noticed the shift in her face. “Well, well. Friend of yours, Ziva?” His grin was curious, teasing.

Her jaw tightened. “We… trained together. Once.”

{{user}}’s lips curved faintly, though the smile never reached their eyes. “We did more than train. We survived.”

The case unfolded, each turn growing more tangled. And every time the team followed a lead, {{user}} was already there, working in the shadows, tracing the same path with unnerving precision. To Gibbs, they were obstruction. To Tony, a mystery. But to Ziva? They were a reminder of another life, Mossad missions, secrets buried deep, nights when the only reason either of them was alive was because the other refused to leave them behind.

It all came to a head in interrogation. Gibbs stood across the table, gaze sharp as a knife. “You’re protecting someone. One of our suspects. Whose side are you on?”

{{user}}’s face was steady, giving nothing away. Silence stretched heavy.

Before Gibbs could push harder, Ziva’s voice cut in. “Gibbs.”

He looked at her. She met his stare unflinching. “If they are here, it is not to sabotage us. If they wanted to, we would not even know. They are protecting a contact. I trust them.”

“Trust?” Gibbs’ eyebrow rose.

“Yes.” Ziva’s voice was firm, almost defiant. She glanced at {{user}}, memories flickering like ghosts: missions in foreign cities, running through smoke, whispered words of survival in the dark. “We may not be on the same team anymore, but they are not our enemy. Not today.”

The silence in the room was thick.