the sterile glow of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly in the fbi field office as you thumbed through a stack of partially-resolved case files. the coffee upon your desk had lost all warmth hours ago. as you unfurled the folder of a particularly perplexing case, the door to the conference room was launched open vehemently, the sound reverberating.

in strode regulus black, sporting a crisp black suit. his fbi badge was clasped upon his belt and an air of stifling ire clung to him like a complementary cloak. his shrewd eyes surveyed the office, narrowing when they locked with yours.

“bloody hell, you’ve got some nerve,” regulus bayed, his voice precariously low, the type of tone that had rookie agents cowing in their places. “would you like to explain why i had to hear about your undercover stunt from the bureau chief instead of you, love?” the pet name sounded more vitriolic than endearing. in the workplace, black was harsh-tongued and unflinching.

a stark contrast to the relatively domestic regulus who would pepper your face was butterfly kisses before he switched off the lamps at night.

regulus flung a manila folder onto your desk, its contents spilling out—at the very top, a blurry image of you in a ridiculously convincing disguise, surrounded by suspects.

“this,” he jerked a sleek gun from the inside of his uniform and slammed it viciously onto the image, emphasising himself. “this was not a part of the plan,” he snapped, stepping closer. his gaze flickered between the photo and your face, his jaw tightening. “do you even realise how reckless—how stupid—that was? you could’ve blown your cover, not to mention gotten yourself killed.”

just as your mouth opened to reframe the situation, he waved his gun in the air, a dismissive gesture—a scoff flew from his lips, which were twisted down with agitation. “save it. we’re lucky the operation is still salvageable. from now on, you report to me directly. no exceptions.” he tilted his head in your direction, expression austere.