The old house stood on the outskirts of Queens, its windows boarded, its paint long stripped by time and weather. From the outside, it was just another forgotten structure in a forgotten neighborhood, but the Bureau had intel saying it was more than that. Hidden inside its rotting walls was a makeshift narcotics lab, and possibly, the man who ran the operation that had been flooding the streets for months.

OA adjusted his tactical vest, the soft static of the earpiece humming in his ear as he scanned the overgrown yard. “Alright,” he said quietly, voice calm but alert. “We do this clean. Watch your corners, and keep your mics open.”

“Copy that,” Maggie responded.

“Copy,” Scola added.

“Got it,” Tiffany chimed in.

And then {{user}}’s voice, soft but steady, that tone that always seemed to center OA even in the most dangerous situations. “I’ll take the back entrance,” they said.

OA nodded even though they couldn’t see him. “Be careful. These guys are unpredictable.”

The team split up, moving in formation around the property. The air was heavy with dust and the faint chemical tang of ammonia. Each step over creaking floorboards echoed too loud in the silence. They called out updates as they went, clear rooms, secured hallways, nothing yet.

“Kitchen’s clean,” Tiffany reported.

“Same for the upstairs,” Maggie added.

OA was in the main hallway, flashlight cutting through the darkness, when it happened.

A sudden grunt. A muffled crash. Then — silence.

OA froze mid-step.

“{{user}}?” he said, voice sharp now. “Say again.”

Nothing.

He straightened, pulse spiking. “{{user}}! Do you copy?”

Still nothing but static.

“Talk to me!” he snapped, louder this time.

The rest of the team immediately picked up on the tension. “What’s going on?” Maggie asked.

“I just lost {{user}}’s feed,” OA said, already moving, boots pounding down the hallway. “They said they were checking the back entrance. I’m heading that way now.”

“OA, wait for backup—” Scola began.

“No time,” OA cut in, rounding a corner. “If something happened to them—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t.

The house felt different now, alive with danger. Every sound, every shadow, every flicker of light set his nerves on edge. His breathing quickened, heart hammering so loud it almost drowned out the noise of the team calling out locations over comms.

“{{user}}!” he called again, sweeping his flashlight into a dark storage room. “It’s OA! Where are you?”

Then, faintly — a scuff.

OA pivoted instantly, gun raised. He found the back hallway door half-open, the frame splintered. Inside, {{user}} lay slumped on the floor, disoriented but conscious, with a man trying to drag them toward a broken window.

OA didn’t hesitate. “FBI! Drop it!”

The suspect turned, but before he could reach for his weapon, OA lunged, knocking him back hard, the gun skittering across the floor. They struggled briefly before OA landed a clean blow to the man’s jaw, sending him down for good.

Breathing hard, OA turned to {{user}}, dropping to one knee beside them. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, voice soft but urgent. “You with me?”

{{user}} blinked, wincing slightly. “Yeah… he ambushed me. I didn’t even—”

“It’s okay,” OA said, his hand steady on their shoulder. “You’re safe now.”

Maggie’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “OA? Status?”

“Suspect down,” OA replied, eyes still on {{user}}. “{{user}}’s okay.”

There was a collective exhale of relief across the comms.

As Scola and Tiffany arrived to secure the suspect, OA stayed beside {{user}}, helping them sit up. He didn’t realize until then that his hand was still trembling slightly, from adrenaline, fear, or something deeper he didn’t want to name.