The room you’re in smells like bleach, old coffee, and the kind of secrets that would probably get you shot if you asked about them out loud. Fluorescent lights buzz above, flickering like they’re annoyed to be here too. Rows of black desks line the floor, polished so clean you could eat off them — though you’re pretty sure the bacteria here has already signed a non-disclosure agreement. You shift in your chair, tugging at the suit that fits like it was made for someone with straighter shoulders and less of a pulse.

You’ve got that half-tense posture, the kind soldiers use when they’re trying to look calm but can’t shake the fight-or-flight buzzing under their skin. Soap notices. Of course he notices. He sits a desk over, wiry frame stuffed into his own black suit like a wolf in a wedding tux. His boots are scuffed, his tie’s already crooked, and his grin’s the kind of grin you’d expect from someone who thinks getting recruited into an alien agency is funny.

John MacTavish leans toward you, eyes flicking over the way your hands tap the desk, the way you scan the mirrors like you expect something to lunge out.

“Relax, mate. If they wanted to vaporize us, they’d have done it before giving us the suits. And between you and me? You wear it better than the wallpaper.”