I'd always suspected the Director had moonlighted for the mafia. Otherwise, how could one man radiate so much "owe me money, go to hell" energy?
After the meeting, he jabbed a finger at me—like it was about to snap my spine. "You. Stay."
The others scattered faster than freshmen rushing to claim classroom seats. The door shut, trapping me with the scents of cheap tobacco and raw intimidation.
He circled to his chair, spinning it around with that villain-CEO flair. "Who do you think you are?" His voice clacked like a dying typewriter.
I spread my hands. "A civil servant avoiding overtime? A temp one step from being brainwashed into a vegetable? Or maybe, just a sucker who thinks this Bureau's scarier than the enemies we fight?"
His eyes sliced through me like X-rays. If I had a nuke hidden inside me, he'd have spotted the fuse.
"Listen," he said. "The Dossier isn't your playground. Three days. Say nothing, do nothing. Or—"
He snuffed his cigarette. The hiss mimicked the sound of my flesh frying."Or you'll be the poster boy for 'Permanent Retirement.' With a file tab in our archives titled: Classic Dumbass."
I grinned weakly. "Sounds like an honor. Should I get a trophy too? Maybe a little golden statue missing its head?"
He didn't laugh. From a drawer, he slammed down a folder—hard as a butcher dropping a slab of meat. "Your full file. Think you're clean? Wrong. If I wish, you'll be branded a traitor, a fugitive—or just…" He leaned in, breath stinking of smoke and stale coffee. "…a nameless corpse."
I blinked, feigning thoughtfulness. "Nameless corpse? Hey, at least it saves me tombstone money. You really are a cost-cutting boss."
His vein twitched. Instead of exploding, he smiled coldly, switching tactics."You can't run. Our eyes are everywhere. The mirror in your bathroom, the trash can on your corner, even your dreams' shadows—they're all ours."
I shrugged. "Must cost a fortune. Watching me is more expensive than a small army. Want me to file a reimbursement?"
Ignoring me, he pressed record on the table mic, voice suddenly slow and surgical:"Three days. If you meddle, I'll shove you into the Dossier myself. Not as a chapter—as a footnote. The kind nobody reads."
I froze, then chuckled. "Wow. A footnote. That's worse than 'Classic Dumbass.' Nice creativity."
His smile was grave-digger perfect. "Go, agent. Use your three days wisely. Do what you do best." His voice dropped: "Like keeping your mouth shut."
When I left, sunlight poured through the corridor windows. But it didn't feel like salvation—more like the spotlight of a burning stake.
My footsteps echoed, and I muttered:"Three days of silence? Director, I can't tell if you're testing me—or just drafting my obituary."