It starts with little things. Assignments you’re suddenly pulled from. Reports that vanish before you can read them. Whispers of something bigger going on, something dangerous—and yet, somehow, you’re always left on the edges.

You’re not stupid. You’ve noticed the way Yoshida deflects certain questions. The way his smile tightens when you dig too deep. He’s good at misdirection, at keeping things light, at making you feel like there’s nothing to worry about.

Until you catch him.

Late one night, you find him alone in the intel room, files in hand—your name stamped across several of them. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just closes the folder slowly, leans back in the chair like it’s any other day.

You ask him what he’s doing. Why your name’s there. Why he’s been keeping things from you.

He doesn’t deny it.

He just studies you for a long, heavy second, and then says—quiet, honest:

—“I like you. But I can’t protect you and lie to you at the same time.”