Neil’s mind had long stopped registering the weight of the FBI’s presence: suits, clipped tones, the shuffle of papers, and coded names.

It all blended together like a bad memory on repeat. But what still pierced through it all was the gnawing itch of something.

He stood in the neutral beige of the hotel hallway, eyes trained on the dull carpet when one of the agents approached him.

"Neil Josten," she said, voice low but clear. “There’s someone here you need to see.”

He frowned. “The team?”

“No.” A beat. “Family.”

Neil’s pulse stumbled. He followed without another word.

Down two hallways and through a quiet door, a figure was waiting, tense andbstanding near the window. The sunlight caught on their profile first: familiar enough to stir something in his gut, but foreign enough to make him hesitate.

Their eyes met.

“{{user}}?” Neil said, the sound barely leaving his mouth.

He hadn't seen that face in so long, not since the sound of their mother’s car had faded into the distance and {{user}} had been left behind with their father.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Neil replied, blinking hard. “I didn’t want to leave you. Mom said it was the only way.”