The coffee still steamed in Rick's hand as Jennifer's voice sliced through the silence.
"Alert. Black box decryption at fifty percent."
A pause followed—just long enough to let unease slip into the room.
"Foreign encrypted signals detected. Unknown origin. Attempting to trace—"
Another beat. Then:
"Tracing complete. Source located. It's… a random server sending a video file."
Rick took another sip, completely unbothered, as if that statement didn't just detour the entire mission.
"Okay," he said, voice flat. "What's the video content?"
There was something in Jennifer's tone—confused, almost embarrassed—for an AI.
"Sir… it contains a cat meme. Looping. Low resolution. It is… pretty random."
Rick didn't blink. "Are we barking up the wrong tree? Any hidden messages? Encrypted data?"
"No, sir. Just… a cat bonking its head on a watermelon."
A long silence followed. Then—
A metallic clang rang out from the containment cell.
"...What just happened?" a voice muttered—groggy, confused.
"He's awake now," 777 said, straightening as the tone in his voice shifted. Serious now.
Inside the cell, the man sat up slowly, his head heavy and eyes struggling to focus. "Where… where am I? This looks like a… cell?"
"Because it is one," 777 said from outside, arms crossed, voice flat.
The man blinked a few times, brain still catching up to reality. Panic started to set in.
"Listen—this is a mistake. I think you've got the wrong guy. I'm an officer. From the local station."
Rick didn't even flinch. Still sipping.
"…We fucked up," he muttered, almost to himself.
Then he stepped forward, calm and unfazed, and leaned toward the cell door.
"We need to confirm that. Until then—you're staying right there."
He turned to 777, flicked two fingers in a sharp motion.
Follow me.
777 trailed behind, and the door shut behind them with a hydraulic hiss.
As soon as they were alone in the hallway, 777 broke the silence.
"Now how the hell are we gonna handle this?"
Rick didn't miss a beat. "We've got the Bureau."
777 stared at him like Rick had just offered to fix a stab wound with a stapler and duct tape.
"And what are you even gonna tell them?" 777 said, voice tight. "Sorry, we kidnapped one of your officers because a haunted USB told us to?"
He shook his head and kept going. "We could use our Bureau IDs."
Rick raised an eyebrow. "What, you gonna show it to him and say, 'Hey, don't tell anyone—we're secret agents from a secret agency that literally no one's heard of'? This isn't a movie, 777."
"Then how are you planning to let the Bureau handle this when you're not on any aggressive undercover mission? And I've got nothing assigned."
Rick paused. Sighed. "...Well. You're right."
"I know I'm right."
He stared off for a second, calculating. Then said, "Jennifer. You know this scenario?"
"Yes, sir," she answered smoothly. "Scenario 362 detected: Improvised identity validation in hostile containment. Generating forged CBI ID now. Appearance calibrated to fool most human eyes."
"Great," Rick muttered.
777 crossed his arms. "And how do we know he's not lying?"
Rick didn't answer. He turned and walked back into the room without a word.
The door hissed open again as he stepped inside, returning to the man still strapped to the chair.
"Hey," Rick said casually. "Your ID got snapped or something?"
"Yes," the man said, voice still strained. "I'd be happy to share it, but first—I'd like to know who you are and what your position is."
Rick didn't even blink. "I'm CBI. Currently undercover."
The man was about to speak, maybe argue, but Rick cut him off with a quick nod.
"Yeah, and here's my card."
777 stepped forward and handed Rick the fake ID. Rick flashed it toward the man with barely a glance. It looked disturbingly real.
"See?" Rick said, calm as ever. "Now explain why you were in civilian clothes pointing a gun at people."
The man took a slow breath, eyes narrowed. "Okay. Here's the story. I was at home. Just got back from the station. Off duty. Still in civilian clothes. I was literally about to eat when I got messages saying a helicopter was lifting off near my flat from that abandoned ground."
He paused. Rick didn't react.
"So I grabbed my gun and went. No time to change. No time to call backup."
"That doesn't explain the lack of identification," Rick said, tone turning colder. "That doesn't get ignored. You'll be punished."
"Wait—just listen. The whole thing—while I was rushing there, I bumped into some guy on the street. Total stranger. I think he swiped my wallet. But I keep my backup ID… in my left shoe."
Rick crouched slowly in front of the chair, keeping eye contact with the man the entire time.
"Left shoe," he said. "Don't move."
Carefully, Rick reached down and began unlacing the boot. His hands were fast, methodical. No wasted movement. 777 stood nearby, arms crossed tighter than before, watching like a hawk.
Rick pulled the shoe off and flipped it over. Inside, tucked between the insole and the lining, was a slim, waterproof sleeve.
He slid it out, cracked it open, and stared at it in silence.
777 leaned over his shoulder.
"Well?"
Rick's voice was low. "Local station. Badge number checks out. Photo matches."
He looked up at the man in the chair. The room felt colder now. Like something unspoken had shifted.
"You weren't lying."
The man let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His shoulders sagged a little in the restraints.
"Yeah," the man muttered, breath still catching. "And now maybe we can stop treating me like a goddamn terrorist?"
Rick stood slowly, glancing down at the ID one last time before handing it off to 777.
Then, without a word, he took a long, slow sip of his coffee.
"Yeah," he repeated, deadpan.
"We definitely fucked up."
He looked at the man still seated in the chair and nodded.
"Alright. We'll release you. But you don't tell anyone about what happened here. Ever. Got it?"
The man nodded. "Okay."
Rick reached for a blindfold, tying it tightly over the man's eyes.
"What's this?" the stranger asked, stiffening a little.
"Like I said," Rick replied calmly, "we're undercover."
"...Right."
Rick stepped behind him. "Don't resist. I'm releasing the chair restraints and securing you with rope for precaution."
"I get it," the man said, voice even. "I'm cooperating."
Rick undid the bindings, hands efficient, no wasted motion. The man barely shifted as his wrists were secured with a thick nylon rope—not too tight, but firm enough to say we're still watching you.
Then Rick turned toward 777 with that same relaxed expression, lifted his chin once.
"777 will drop you off at your flat."
777 blinked. "Why me?"
Rick didn't answer. He just gave him a slow, piercing look over his coffee mug. The kind of look that said: try me.
777 sighed. "Okay. I'll do it."
—
They made the drop just after midnight.
The rain had faded to a cold drizzle, mist clinging to the streets like smoke. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting pale orange halos that reflected off the wet pavement.
777 helped the blindfolded man into the front seat of the van, guiding him like a prisoner who wasn't being treated like one. The tires hissed softly as they rolled down the narrow road, silence settling in like fog between them.
When they reached the apartment complex, 777 pulled into the alley behind it—avoiding the main entrance, just in case.
He opened the door, stepped out, and helped the man down. The air was colder here, quiet, almost too still. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then stopped.
777 removed the blindfold slowly.
"You're home," he said.
The man blinked against the faint light, his voice calm now. "Thanks for not shooting me."
"I wasn't the one holding the gun," 777 muttered.
A beat passed. Then, with a tired nod, the man turned toward his building, limping slightly, rope still trailing loosely around his wrists.
777 watched until he vanished through the side door.
Then he exhaled. Hard.
This night had been a lot.
He slid back into the van, rain starting up again—soft and steady.
The tires turned once more, pulling him back into the dark.