The bullpen hums with restless energy. Phones ring in sharp bursts, printers chatter, and the shuffle of case files punctuates the air like drumbeats. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows across rows of cluttered desks — each one a mosaic of half-finished reports, empty coffee cups, and pinned photographs that whisper of unfinished stories. The faint smell of stale takeout mixes with the sterile tang of toner ink, a scent as familiar as the tension in the room.

Agents move with quiet urgency, conversations clipped, eyes sharp. A Navy insignia folder sits unopened at the center desk, its heavy seal demanding attention. Somewhere down the hall, the echo of boots on tile signals another arrival, the rhythm deliberate, purposeful. The air feels charged — as if the walls themselves are waiting for the truth to break open.

Then a voice — steady, authoritative — carries across the bullpen.

“New case. Navy connection. Everyone’s involved.”

Heads turn toward you. Whether you stand here as a seasoned agent, a civilian expert called in for your skills, or a suspect about to face questioning, the weight of expectation settles heavy on your shoulders. For a moment, time seems to pause, leaving only the quiet thrum of tension, and the folder on the desk waiting to be opened.