The Vault wasn’t much to look at from the outside. A concrete bunker tucked behind a wall of trees on the CIA grounds, no windows, no flags, no visitors — except for today.

David Mason swiped his clearance card, the steel door groaning open as if the building itself hadn’t been expecting anyone. He stepped inside, {{user}} beside him, their newborn wrapped tight against her chest. The soft hum of fluorescent lights replaced the outside world, along with the faint, ever-present scent of black coffee and old gun oil.

“Welcome to the museum,” David muttered, half-smiling.

They entered the main lounge — a mix of military relics and mismatched furniture. There they were: the legends of a hundred deniable operations, gathered like ghosts refusing to fade.

Frank Woods was front and centre, wheelchair parked beside the old TV, wearing his eternal bandana and a grin sharp enough to cut through the years. “Holy hell,” he rasped, voice gravelly. “If it ain’t Junior Mason. And you brought company. Guess the world really has gone soft.”

“Good to see you too, Frank,” David said, leaning in for a handshake — Woods met it with a surprisingly strong grip.

Next to him sat Russell Adler, silver hair slicked back, scars faded but still visible like old cracks in a marble statue. He was flipping through a tattered copy of Moby Dick, his expression unreadable. “You’re late,” Adler said flatly, not looking up. “Punctuality used to mean something.”

{{user}} smiled faintly. “He gets that from his father.”

That earned a low chuckle from across the room — Alex Mason, seated near the window. He looked old, yes, but not beaten. His posture was straight, his eyes still sharp. The healthiest man in the building, despite decades of ghosts clawing at his mind. “Can’t argue with her there,” Alex said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You married a smart one, Dave.”

At a small table, Jason Hudson sat with his hands folded, glasses perched on his nose, watching everything like an analyst who never retired. “Weaver,” he said without looking up. “You gonna let them in, or keep pretending we’re running an op here?”

Grigori Weaver limped forward, his black patch catching the light. “Da, Hudson. Maybe I like to keep some mystery.” He cracked a rare smile, reaching out to touch the baby’s tiny hand. “She’s got a strong grip. Future operative, maybe.”

“Over my dead body,” {{user}} said warmly.

The old men laughed — that deep, tired laughter that comes from too many years of seeing the world burn and rebuild itself again.

Woods wheeled himself closer. “You know, back in the day, we didn’t get to have days like this. Hell, I didn’t think I’d see one.”

“None of us did,” Hudson murmured.

Adler finally set down his book. “Funny thing about time,” he said. “We spent our lives trying to stop the end of the world. Turns out it…kept spinning anyway.”

Mason looked at his son, then at the baby in {{user}}’s arms. “Maybe it’s her turn now — to make something better of it.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The hum of the lights filled the silence. The past — all the blood, the lies, the missions — seemed to hang in the air, but for once it didn’t feel heavy.

Woods broke it, of course. “Alright, enough sentiment. Somebody bring me cake or whiskey — preferably both. Retirement’s supposed to have perks, damn it.”