Chapter Text
I had a theory that the CIA cafeteria coffee was actually a covert psychological experiment—some sick test to see how long high-functioning operatives could survive on a caffeine supply that tasted like burnt regret.
I drank it anyway. Every morning. Because that’s who I was—someone who adapted, endured, and, apparently, made terrible choices before 7 a.m.
The worst part? I never learned my lesson. Just like I never learned to stop looking over my shoulder, never learned to stop expecting the other shoe to drop. I took another sip. Bitter as hell. But I kept walking.
The hallways of Langley smelled as always—like clandestine operations, recycled air, and the faint undertone of bureaucratic exhaustion. A mix of disinfectant, government-issued carpeting, and the ghost of a thousand classified conversations.
It was a scent you got used to, like a permanent layer of security clearance settling into your skin. Some agents carried the smell of gunpowder, of fieldwork, of adrenaline still burning in their veins. Others, like me, carried the scent of paperwork, redacted documents, and the lingering frustration of trying to fix people who didn’t want to be fixed.
I took another sip of coffee. Still awful. Still mine.
The door to the main briefing room was supposed to be touch-activated. Supposed to be.
Every morning, I approached it the same way—hand out, waiting for the seamless slide of government-issued efficiency. And every morning, it refused to acknowledge my existence.
I could stand there for ten full seconds, looking like an idiot, before it finally gave in and opened like it was doing me a favor.
It only did this to me. I was sure of it.
Maybe I could’ve reported it. Filed some maintenance request. But some part of me respected the pettiness of it. This job already took enough from me—the least I could do was win my daily fight with a door.
I stepped inside, the room already buzzing with post-coffee tension. The morning briefing was a daily ritual, equal parts necessary and mind-numbing. Behavioral analysts, Medical officers, Security personnel and Senior CIA psychologists like myself sat in the clinical room, shuffling through reports filled with black ink, red stamps, and the kind of intelligence that ruined lives before breakfast.
I slid into my usual seat, second row, two chairs from the left. Close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend I wasn’t invested. My notebook hit the table with a soft thud. I had no intention of taking notes.
Dr. Michael Ellison, head of Behavioral Health, cleared his throat from the front of the room. A subtle warning for the latecomers to sit down before he started talking. He always looked slightly annoyed, like he’d been woken up at 3 a.m. by a crisis that wasn’t his problem but had been dumped in his lap anyway.
“Alright,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s begin.”
A shuffle of papers. A sip of bad coffee. The hum of the air conditioning coming to life.
Business as usual.
Ellison started running through the agenda, his voice blending into the usual morning drone—updates, returning operatives, protocol reviews. The same cycle, the same predictable rhythm.
My mind wandered. Not far, just enough to escape the monotony of classified briefings and procedural nonsense. The weekend had been unremarkable. Not good, not bad. Just… there.
I’d gone grocery shopping, which was a mistake. Trader Joe’s on a Saturday morning was its own kind of psychological warfare. An entire swarm of people blocking the aisles, debating the existential worth of oat milk while I stood there, wondering how I’d lost control of my life.
I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time picking out a bottle of wine—something full-bodied, dark, a distraction in a glass. And I’d opened it alone that night, sitting on my couch with a book I never actually read. I wasn’t sure what felt worse—the quiet or the fact that I’d stopped noticing it.
Sunday had been the usual. A long run, a short shower, and the creeping realization that Monday was waiting to gut me.
Ellison flipped to the next page of his folder, I took another sip of my coffee and struggled to swallow. Then, as he flipped a page, his voice slowed as he read aloud:
“Agent Porter. Middle East Division. Injured during an extraction mission in Lebanon. Stabilized in Germany; expected to arrive on US soil within 72 hours.”
The words didn’t register at first. Not completely. Just a collection of syllables, syllables that didn’t mean anything until they did.
"Agent Porter."
My grip tightened around my cup, fingers pressing into cheap cardboard.
Bette.
The room kept moving. Papers rustled, pens scratched against paper, someone shifted in their chair. Normal things. Everyday things. But the air in my lungs had turned to concrete.
I forced myself to swallow, but my throat wouldn’t cooperate. The coffee sat like lead on my tongue. I stared down at my notes, but the words blurred. Black ink, red stamps, a name that shouldn’t be there.
One year.
One year since I’d seen her. 346 days to be exact. Since I’d spoken to her. Since I’d stopped allowing myself to wonder where she was, what she was doing, if she was still alive.
Apparently, I had my answer.
For a full year, she had been a ghost. Off the grid, deep under, drowning in whatever world she had chosen over this one. Over me.
And now she was back—not because she wanted to be, but because she had no other choice.
"Category 1 psychological case. High-risk trauma exposure."
I didn’t blink. Didn’t move. But something inside me cracked, quietly, efficiently, the way glass does right before it shatters. My chest felt tight. Not the dramatic kind, not a gasping, hands-clutching moment of grief. Just pressure. Like my ribs had shrunk, like my lungs had been pressed into a box too small to hold them.
Ellison kept talking. I couldn't focus.
Of course, Bette would go and get herself shot. Of course, she’d make it out—half-dead, bleeding, but too stubborn to actually go down.
She never knew when to walk away.
Neither did I.
I forced my fingers to loosen around the cup before it collapsed in my grip. Lifted it to my lips and took another sip, even though it burned, even though it tasted like acid.
My heart was racing, but no one could tell.
I sat there, completely still, breathing around the weight pressing into my ribs.
I wasn’t sure how long I stared at the report in front of me before I heard it.
"Dr. Vaughn, you’ll be taking point on this case."
I barely heard it over the ringing in my ears. The words landed flat, sterile, procedural. Just another name assigned to another psychologist. Just another decision made by people who had no idea what they were really dealing with.
Bette.
Assigned to Vaughn.
I stared at my notepad, but I wasn’t reading. I was recalibrating.
Because my instinct, my first instinct, was to protest.
To say no, that’s wrong.
To say she’s mine.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Not here. Not now.
I kept my breath even, my spine straight, my hands still. I forced my fingers to stay loose, my jaw to stay relaxed, my heartbeat to slow.
Vaughn made a note on his folder, flipping a page like he’d already moved on. Like this was just another assignment to him.
Because it was.
Because he didn’t know her.
Not like I did.
Not like I used to.
"Expected reintegration assessment to last a minimum of a month. Regular evaluations will determine psychological fitness for operational return."
One month.
One month of Vaughn sitting across from her, asking the wrong questions, missing the signs he wouldn’t know to look for.
One month of Bette shutting down, dodging, lying through her teeth.
One month of this being handled wrong.
I could already hear Vaughn’s methods in my head. His structured assessments, his clinical detachment, his belief that every mind could be mapped like a blueprint, broken down into predictable variables.
Bette wasn’t predictable.
She was sharp edges, unreadable silences, wounds that didn’t show until they bled out all at once.
She would never let someone like Vaughn see her.
Which meant he would sign off on her return without ever knowing if she was actually ready.
And if she wasn’t?
That thought landed heavy in my chest, but I didn’t let it show. Not here.
Instead, I flipped my notepad closed.
Steady. Measured.
The meeting wrapped up. Chairs scraped back, low murmurs rose as analysts and psychologists filed out, moving on to whatever broken operatives or classified files were waiting for them next.
I waited.
Waited for Vaughn to leave first.
Waited until it was just Ellison and his stack of case files. He was already gathering his things, his attention flicking toward an assistant who had handed him another folder—another case, another agent to be cataloged, assessed, assigned. Another life turned into a checklist.
Then, I stood.
Now.
Now, I would make sure that this decision didn’t stand. I stepped forward. "Director, do you have a minute?"
Ellison glanced at me, then at his watch. A subtle message: make it quick.
"Walk with me."
I followed him out into the hallway, matching his pace, waiting for the moment when I could speak without an audience.The fluorescent lights burned my eyes, the familiar scent of Langley wrapping around us like a noose. I didn’t hesitate.
"I want Bette Porter’s case."
Ellison didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even blink. Like he’d been waiting for me to say it.
"The case has already been assigned, Dr. Kennard."
I exhaled through my nose, steady. "Reassign it."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that I’m the best person for the job."
Ellison finally stopped, turning to face me. His expression was unreadable, but I knew how his mind worked. He wasn’t just hearing my words—he was reading the weight behind them.
"You’ve never contested an assignment before," he said, voice even.
"Because I’ve never had a reason to."
A pause. A test.
"And this is your reason?"
I didn’t flinch. "Agent Porter spent a full year under deep cover. That kind of trauma doesn’t fit into Vaughn’s neat little reintegration strategies. You know that."
Ellison studied me. He didn’t argue, because he knew I was right.
"Vaughn is more than capable."
"Vaughn is good at checking boxes," I countered. "Agent Porter doesn’t fit in a box."
Ellison let out a slow breath. "You’re pushing for this. Harder than you should."
"Because I know her."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Too close, too revealing.
Ellison’s gaze sharpened. I had just given him exactly what he needed to question me.
"You know her."
Not a question. A statement.
I held his stare, forcing my voice to stay even. The only way out was through.
"I know how she thinks. How she processes trauma. How she compartmentalizes. I know how to get through to her in a way Vaughn won’t."
Ellison was silent for a long moment. Then—
"And that’s not personal?"
I swallowed. "No."
Another lie.
Another test.
Ellison exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "If you weren’t one of my best, I’d think you were making a mistake."
"I’m not."
A beat. A hesitation. Then—
"Fine." Just like that. "Agent Porter is yours."
The words settled in my chest like a weight, heavy and immovable.
I had won.
So why did it feel like I’d just lost something?
Ellison gave me one last look before walking away, leaving me standing in the hallway.
I exhaled.
Bette was coming back.
Alive.