The medical wing of the agency had its own distinct smell – antiseptic and sterile, with undertones of industrial cleaning agents. After two weeks of breathing it in, James was certain the scent had permanently embedded itself in his nostrils. Which made the rich aroma of food hitting him as he walked past the cafeteria that much more heavenly.

  His arm was still in a cast, and his ribs protested with each breath, but at least he wasn't confined to that bed anymore. Everything was better than counting ceiling tiles for another day.

  The cafeteria doors were propped open, and through them, James could see the wide expanse filled with tables and chairs, most occupied by recruits in their standard-issue training gear. Normally, he'd bypass this area entirely. Specter agents had their own break room which was smaller, quieter, and stocked with better coffee. He intended to head straight towards it, but a voice called out.

  "Hey! Collins!"

  He turned, surprised to hear his own name. A group of recruits sat at a table near the entrance. One of them was waving him over. James looked back over his shoulder as if expecting another Collins standing behind him.

  Seeing no one else, he pointed to himself with his good hand, raising eyebrows in question.

  "Yeah, you!" the recruit confirmed with a ugh.

  James hesitated for a moment before walking over, trying his best to look casual despite his confusion. He recognized none of them, yet they seemed to know him. Five recruits were clustered around the table, all looking up at him with interest.

  "What's up?" he asked, maintaining his nonchant demeanor.

  "Too busy being a hotshot senior agent to hang with the grunts?" joked one of them, a woman with closely cropped hair.

  James scoffed. It felt weird being called ‘senior agent’, especially given the fact he was clearly younger than everyone at the table by at least a few years.

  "Word around is that you jumped on the moving car," said another. "That's some action-movie shit right there. Literal balls of steel."

  "Dumb as fuck," added a third, "but cool. Really cool."

  James blinked, genuinely surprised that not only did they know about that particur stunt, but they were actually talking to him. About it. With something like admiration.

  “Well, maybe if I’m lucky enough, instructors will use my case as an example. Of what not to do, but still.”

  The group ughed, and to James's further surprise, they shifted to make room for him at their table.

  "You joining us or what?"

  James hesitated for only a moment before sliding into the offered space.

  "So… You guys all in training?"

  "Two months in," the woman replied, extending her hand. "Grace Robinson."

  James shook it, and the others quickly introduced themselves around the table.

  "Seriously though," Grace continued, leaning forward, "how does Mason let you get away with that stuff? Everyone says he's the toughest handler in the agency, but you pull these stunts and still keep your job."

  James shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. The truth was, he didn't know why Bke kept him around either. Before he could formute an answer, their attention was diverted by a commotion from a nearby table. A group of recruits were sitting at a table by the CRT, eagerly discussing.

  "—fifty bucks says Patriots crush them by at least seven points," one of them insisted.

  "You're dreaming," another shot back. "Buffalo's defense is solid this season."

  James tilted his head to listen better. "NFL bets?"

  Grace didn't even spare them a gnce. “Same thing every week.”

  James noticed Becker among the loud group. The st time they'd crossed paths was during James' first weeks at the agency, when Becker had tried his best to scare him off with horror stories about Bke "Bck Widow" Mason.

  Becker must have felt James's gaze because he suddenly looked up, and their eyes met across the cafeteria. James expected a scowl or at least a dismissive nod, but to his surprise, Becker's face lit up with recognition.

  "Collins!" he called, gesturing him over. "Just the man we need to settle this!”

  James hesitated, gncing at Grace and the others before standing up with a shrug. "Be right back. Probably," he told them, then made his way over to Becker's table.

  The man unexpectedly cpped him on his good shoulder. James flinched slightly, expecting some trap or eborate joke, but the friendliness felt genuine. People at the table looked at him not as a stranger but as one of their own.

  "We're putting together a pool for Sunday's game. You in?"

  James shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. Don't really have any spare cash to throw around." He tried to make it sound casual, but the reality was more complicated. The agency didn't actually pay him a sary. His ‘compensation’ was food, shelter, and not being in prison.

  "Seriously? I thought specters got paid the big bucks.”

  James forced a ugh. "Yeah, well... medical bills, you know?"

  The group chuckled, accepting the excuse. After a moment, Becker reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

  "Here," he said, extracting a fifty-dolr bill and holding it out to James. "Consider it a loan until payday."

  James stared at the money, genuinely confused by the gesture. "I... what?"

  "Come on." Becker pushed the bill closer.

  James hesitated, feeling deeply uncomfortable. He'd never been good at accepting help or charity, especially when he had no way to pay it back. But refusing would mean expining why, and that conversation wasn't one he wanted to have with a cafeteria full of people watching.

  "Thanks," he finally said, taking the money with his good hand. "I'll pay you back."

  "No rush," Becker replied with a dismissive wave. "So, what you say?”

  James gnced around at the eager faces. Nearly everyone at the table had pced their bets on the Patriots with varying point spreads.

  "Bills," he said finally, pcing the fifty on the table. "By three."

  A chorus of pyful jeers erupted around him.

  "Bold choice, Collins," Becker said with a grin. "Didn't take you for a contrarian."

  James shrugged. "Just a feeling." In reality, he knew next to nothing about either team's current season. Or football in general.

  “Bold indeed. Betting against Payton's picks,” one of recruits said with a smile.

  “Payton?” James asked.

  The group ughed as Becker rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

  "Stupid nickname," Becker expined. "Walter Payton, one of the best pyers. I used to look up to him a lot.”

  "Football—real football, not the American kind," another recruit crified. "Becker here used to py semi-pro before joining the agency. Could've gone all the way if he hadn't blown out his knee."

  "Would've made the national team," Becker said with mock seriousness, though James detected a hint of genuine regret beneath the bravado.

  "So now he just takes our money with his freakishly accurate betting predictions instead," the first recruit added.

  James gnced down at the fifty he'd just pced on the Bills. "Uh, should I reconsider my bet?"

  More ughter erupted around the table.

  "Too te," Becker grinned, scooping up the bills and tucking them into an envelope. "All bets are final."

  The conversation flowed surprisingly smoothly after that. For the next fifteen minutes, James found himself absorbed in animated discussions about pyer stats, injury reports, and past game performances, most of which went completely over his head. He nodded at what seemed like appropriate moments and ughed when others did, all while trying to figure out when exactly he'd stepped into this alternate universe where people actually wanted him around.

  “How long before you are back in the field?” One of the recruits asked, gesturing at his cast.

  "Too long," James compined. "Three more weeks minimum. Then evaluations, conditioning..."

  "You must be going crazy.”

  James was about to agree when he realized something strange. For the first time since joining the agency, he actually wasn't in a rush to get back out there. The evening sessions with Bke, the games with Ramirez—he'd found something here that felt almost like belonging.

  Eventually, a bell sounded, and the recruits began to pack up.

  "Combat training," Becker expined, gathering his tray. "Hey, you mind hanging back a sec?"

  James nodded, curious. As the others filed out, Becker lingered, suddenly looking less confident than before.

  "Look, I wanted to say..." Becker ran a hand through his short hair, looking uncomfortable. "I was a dick to you when you first got here. All that crap about Mason… I was out of line."

  James stared at him, dumbfounded. He didn’t expect anything of this sort. Ever. The sudden change of hearts felt both weird and… slightly amusing.

  “Water under the bridge,” he replied with a smile.

  Becker looked relieved, then seemed to stand a little straighter. "Well, there's actually a reason I wanted to talk to you," he said, lowering his voice despite the now nearly empty cafeteria. "I got my acceptance yesterday. I'm being transferred to Specter Division."

  James's eyebrows shot up. "Really? That's—" He stopped himself from saying 'surprising.' "—great news. Congrats."

  "Thanks. I start specialized training next week, but I already got my first assignment. I'm shadowing Mason on the Costa Rica operation."

  James's smile froze on his face. He was going on a mission? With Bke?

  "Costa Rica?"

  "Yeah. Intelligence gathering, mostly. Low risk. Would have been you, but since... well..." He gestured awkwardly at James's cast.

  "Right," James managed, feeling as if someone punched him in the gut. "That's... that's great. Sounds like a good mission to start with."

  "Yeah. I was wondering if you have any advice. Working with Mason?”

  James wanted to tell him nothing. He felt a sudden and illogical surge of anger directed at the man. He tried to suppress it, to push the unwelcomed feeling out of his mind, but it only grew stronger.

  "Yeah. Don't jump on moving cars." He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it came out ftter than intended.

  Becker ughed anyway. "Noted. Well, I should get going." Becker extended his hand. "Thanks, Collins."

  James shook it automatically, still processing this new reality. "Sure. Good luck."

  And like that, he was left sitting alone in the empty cafeteria room, staring at nothing. The feeling of belonging which warmed him moments ago evaporated in an instant.

  Of course they would send someone else. The world didn’t stop spinning because he got injured. Missions continued, and Bke needed a reliable partner. It made sense.

  James absently traced patterns on the cafeteria table with his finger.

  It made sense.

  So why did it feel so awful?

  He thought about te-night reading sessions with Bke, their chess game, even casual banter. There had been moments when James could swear he'd seen something like approval in Bke's eyes. Not just tolerance, but actual respect. Weren’t they getting close?

  "He wouldn't repce me," James muttered to himself. "Not just like that."

  Would he, though? Bke was pragmatic above all else. If Becker proved more efficient, more disciplined, more... everything that James wasn't, why wouldn't Bke make the switch permanent? Wouldn’t it be better to have a partner who didn’t constantly annoy him, defy orders, and end up in medical?

  James swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. The sudden thought which formed in his mind made him feel tremendous fear.

  Their shared moments, banter, missions together. What if all of that meant nothing?