The Internal Affairs office at Quantico had the particular sterility of a space designed to make people uncomfortable.
Agent David Matthews sat across from me, my personnel file open on the table between us. He was mid-fifties, gray at the temples, with the careful expression of someone who'd spent decades asking questions people didn't want to answer.
"Agent Mercer." He clicked his pen twice—a habit, not a threat. "Thank you for coming in promptly."
"Of course, sir."
"You understand why we're here?"
"Two officer-involved shootings in six weeks. Both involving lethal force decisions. Standard review protocol."
Matthews nodded, flipping through the file.
"Marcus Webb, Fredericksburg. November 8th. Subject drew on federal agents during apprehension. Your shot disabled his weapon arm, preventing him from completing his attack. Clean, justified, no civilian casualties."
"Yes, sir."
"Daniel Reese, Philadelphia. November 21st. Subject took a hostage during arrest attempt. Your shot neutralized the threat without killing the subject or harming the hostage." He looked up. "Also clean, also justified."
"Yes, sir."
"So why am I concerned?"
The question hung in the air.
[DECEPTION MAINTENANCE: STABLE]
[RECOMMENDATION: TRUTHFUL RESPONSES WHERE POSSIBLE]
"I assume it's the pattern, sir. Two incidents in close succession suggests either bad luck or something else."
Matthews set down his pen.
"You seem to find yourself in situations requiring lethal force, Agent Mercer. More than most agents with your tenure."
"I seem to find situations where people are about to die, sir. The force becomes necessary because the alternative is watching them die."
"That's a noble framing."
"It's an accurate one."
Matthews studied me for a long moment. His file contained more than just the shooting reports—I could see the edges of Quantico evaluations, CID service records, psychological assessments.
"Your instructors at the Academy noted something interesting in their reports." He pulled a page from the stack. "'Agent Mercer demonstrates unusual situational awareness. Almost anticipatory in threat response. Recommend advanced tactical training to capitalize on natural abilities.'"
My stomach tightened, but I kept my face neutral.
"Training and luck, sir. CID prepared me well."
"CID." Matthews flipped to another section. "Three years tracking military criminals in Kosovo, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Multiple commendations. Early promotion to supervisory agent. And then a lateral move to the BAU, despite having no background in behavioral analysis."
"I wanted to catch a different kind of criminal."
"The kind that shoots at federal agents?"
"The kind that preys on civilians. Serial offenders. Predators." I met his eyes. "The ones who keep hurting people until someone stops them."
Matthews was quiet for several seconds.
"Both shootings are ruled justified," he said finally, closing the file. "You're cleared to return to full duty."
"Thank you, sir."
"But Agent Mercer—" He leaned forward. "A third incident will require a more extensive review. Psychological evaluation. Tactical assessment. The works." His voice softened slightly. "I'm not accusing you of anything. Your record is exemplary. But patterns matter in this job. Stay aware of the one you're creating."
"Understood, sir."
I stood, shook his hand, and walked out of the office.
Elle was waiting in the hallway.
She leaned against the wall in that particular posture she adopted when she was thinking too hard—arms crossed, weight on one hip, eyes tracking everything. She pushed off when she saw me, falling into step as I walked toward the exit.
Neither of us spoke until we were outside, cold November air cutting through the artificial warmth of the building.
"Cleared?" she asked.
"Cleared."
"Good."
We walked in silence for another thirty seconds. I could feel the question building in her, the pressure of things unsaid.
"You see things coming before they happen."
Her voice was quiet, controlled.
"Elle—"
"Let me finish." She stopped walking, turned to face me. "In Philadelphia, you spotted that reflection in two seconds. Nobody else saw it in two hours. And the shot on Reese—you had maybe half a second to decide. The angle, the risk, the possibility of hitting the hostage. You didn't hesitate. You didn't even look uncertain."
"Training—"
"Stop." Her eyes were sharp. "I know training. I've trained with the best the Bureau has. What you do isn't training. It's something else."
[TELL DETECTION: ACTIVE]
[ELLE — DETERMINED, NOT HOSTILE]
[UNDERLYING EMOTION: NEED FOR TRUTH]
[FOCUS: -3]
"You move like you've already decided before the situation exists," she continued. "Like you know what's going to happen before it happens. I need to know—is that training, or something else?"
The question I'd been dreading.
I stopped walking. Really considered the question. Considered telling her everything—the transmigration, the system, the meta-knowledge that let me see patterns before they fully formed.
And what happens if you do?
She thinks you're crazy. Or dangerous. Or both.
You lose her.
You lose everything you've built.
But the alternative was lying to someone I loved. And that had a cost too.
"There are things I can't explain," I said finally. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." I turned to face her fully. "I'm not a threat to this team, Elle. Everything I do is to protect people—the victims, the team, you. But how I do it... that's complicated in ways I don't know how to articulate."
She studied my face for a long moment.
"Are you hiding something illegal?"
"No."
"Something that would hurt the team?"
"No."
"Something that would hurt me?"
The question cut deeper than she knew.
"I would never willingly hurt you."
"That's not a no."
"It's the truth."
Elle was quiet. The wind picked up, carrying the first hints of winter.
"I don't like secrets," she said finally.
"Neither do I. But some aren't mine to tell."
She reached out, took my hand. Didn't let go.
"When you can tell me, I want to hear it. All of it."
"I know."
"Promise me that."
I squeezed her hand.
"I promise."
We walked toward the parking lot, fingers intertwined. The conversation wasn't over—we both knew that. But for now, we'd found a fragile détente. Honesty about the existence of secrets, if not their contents.
How long can that last?
As long as it has to.
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