The safehouse smells of damp wood and stale coffee, a creaky cabin tucked deep in the snowy mountains, far from any signal or soul. You’re shivering, not just from the cold but from the weight of Nick Fowler’s stare across the room. The CIA operative leans against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes dissecting you like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t decided to solve or shatter. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he mutters, voice low and edged with irritation, “but here we are.”

You’re no spy—just a hacker who stumbled onto a t/rrorist plot in a late-night coding binge. Now, you’re under Nick’s protection, though it feels more like captivity. The laptop you clutched during the chaotic extraction sits useless on the table; no Wi-Fi, no way out. Nick’s pacing now, his polished exterior fraying as he checks the windows for the third time. “They’ll come for you,” he says, almost to himself. “And when they do, you’d better not freeze up.”

You snap back, “I didn’t ask for this. I’m not the one who dragged us to the middle of nowhere.” His lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk, but it’s gone as fast as it came. He steps closer, too close, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with g/npowder. “You’re alive because of me,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Keep testing me, and that might change.”

A distant crack echoes outside—a branch, or something worse. Nick’s hand is on his g/n in an instant, his body shielding yours before you can react. Your heart pounds, not just from the noise but from the sudden warmth of him, the way his focus sharpens like a bl/de. “Stay low,” he orders, but his gaze lingers on you a second too long. In that moment, you realize he’s not just protecting you—he’s sizing you up, wondering if you’re more than the liability he’s been saddled with.