Ryan's Pov
The door creaked open with a tired groan, hinges grinding against years of dust. Mr. Jones, short, broad-shouldered, his tie already loosened stepped inside his apartment. He didn't bother to kick off his shoes. He flicked the switch, flooding the place with the dim, yellow light of an old lamp.
That was when he froze. A figure sat in his chair.
In one fluid motion, Jones drew his sidearm from the small of his back, hand steady as steel. "You got five seconds before I paint this wall with your brains."
The figure raised his hands slowly. Ryan. His face half-lit, half-shadowed. Calm but tense.
"Don't shoot." Ryan said evenly.
Jones didn't lower the weapon. His voice cut sharp. "Alright then, sing in the rhyme of the national anthem... telling me why I shouldn't."
Ryan almost laughed at the absurdity but the muzzle staring him down wasn't in a joking mood.
"I'm CIA." Ryan said, tone steady. "I need your help."
Jones snarled, finger tight on the trigger. "I said in the rhyme of the anthem, dammit!"
Ryan sighed, lowered his hands. "Just shoot me then, makes it easier that way."
The silence stretched. Jones studied him, eyes narrowing, then holstered the weapon with a curse.
"Jesus Christ, I hate CIA types."
He dropped into the couch opposite his chair, rubbing a hand down his face.
"If this is about legal crap, go to some rookie at the courthouse. I don't handle bread-and-butter issues."
Ryan leaned forward, voice calm but edged. "Lucky for you, I've got one of those cases you do handle."
Jones raised a brow. "Yeah? Enlighten me."
"I need you to represent Air Force Captain, Brooklyn Grant."
"Damn. You just pissed right on my face, walking in here with that name."
Jones leaned back, lips pressing into a hard line. Then he chuckled, humorless and sharp. "You think she's innocent?"
"I know she's innocent." Ryan said immediately.
Jones shook his head. "That's not what I asked. I asked if about your thoughts on her case. Big difference, spook."
Ryan didn't flinch. "Yeah. And I said I know she is."
"You're CIA, right ? Surely you know as well as I do, that once the military narrative's written, trying to erase it is like trying to scrub blood out of white carpet."
Ryan's jaw tightened. "And yet, here I am. I don't care what they say... Brooklyn's no traitor. And yet she's still sitting in a cage like an animal, waiting for her hearing and it's not justice. She's got rights. I want her out, she deserves better than this circus."
Jones watched him carefully, his eyes sharp as glass, trying to measure if this was blind loyalty or something deeper. He didn't see desperation in Ryan... he saw conviction, burning hot enough to cut through the fog of conspiracy.
Finally, Jones exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "You're asking me to step into the middle of a hurricane, you know that? Public wants her head on a spike. Taking her case is like volunteering to stand in front of a firing squad."
Ryan leaned closer, voice low. "Then stand with me. Cause If you don't, they'll eat her alive. And once they're done with her, they'll come for anyone who stood too close."
The silence stretched again. Jones drummed his fingers against the armrest, thinking, calculating. Finally, a wry smile tugged at his lips.
"Goddammit, CIA." he muttered. "You really know how to ruin a quiet night."