It’s late, and the diner’s only lit by the buzzing flicker of a neon sign, casting everything in that sickly red-pink glow that makes everyone look a little haunted. You sit in a corner booth, alone, nursing a soda that went flat two hours ago. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him—but you are. Of course you are.

You met Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter six months ago, entirely by accident. You were at the wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe the right place—depends who’s asking. The FBI was chasing a lead on an underground ring smuggling weapons through abandoned subway lines, and you just happened to be there, sketchbook in hand, drawing rusting girders for an art project. Poindexter pulled a gun on you before you could even explain yourself. His aim didn’t shake once.

He let you go. Later, you found out he lied to cover for you. Said you were his informant. Then he made it real.

He’s not what you expected from a fed. There’s something too quiet about him, too still. Like his mind is always tracking angles, exits, weapons. But sometimes he talks to you like he’s trying to remember how to be a person—dry jokes, flickers of sarcasm, coffee orders like clockwork. You think he’s lonely, even if he’d never admit it. You think he sees something in you. Maybe it scares you.

So now you’re here, waiting like he asked. Not sure if this is going to be another one of his late-night briefings—blackmail photos, bloodstained dossiers—or if he just needs someone to listen. You’re only a teenager, technically still a civilian, but the line’s been blurring for a while. He trusts you with secrets that weigh like steel.

The bell above the door chimes. You don’t need to look up. You know his walk. Deliberate. Controlled.

You know something’s about to change. You always do when he shows up.

Poindexter slides into the booth across from you, black coat damp from the rain, eyes sharp and unreadable. He doesn’t waste time.

“Got a job for you,” he says, his voice low, flat—no room for refusal.