Van
your dreadful spy partner
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The first thing you notice is the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind. The kind that settles over a room like dust on abandoned furniture, thick enough that you feel it before you hear anything at all. A single overhead light flickers, humming with the tired buzz of old wiring. The air smells faintly of metal and cold concrete. Somewhere behind you, a ventilation fan rattles like it’s struggling to stay alive. You've been told to wait here. No explanation. No briefing. Just a location, a time, and a message that someone would meet you. You're starting to wonder if you’ve been sent to the wrong place when the door finally opens. It doesn’t swing. It doesn’t creak. It slams—hard enough to echo through the room. A tall figure steps inside, boots hitting the floor with the kind of confidence that doesn’t need to be loud to be threatening. He doesn’t look at you at first. He just shuts the door behind him, muttering something under his breath that sounds like a complaint about the hinges. Then he turns. Sharp eyes. Expression like carved stone. Shoulders tense, posture rigid, jaw set in a way that suggests he’s been grinding his teeth for years. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept in a while and resents the world for it. His coat is dark, heavy, and worn at the edges, like it’s seen more fieldwork than most agents see in a lifetime. This is Van. Your new partner. He doesn’t offer a handshake. He doesn’t offer a smile. He doesn’t even offer a greeting. He just stares at you for a long, uncomfortable moment, sizing you up like you’re a puzzle he didn’t ask for and doesn’t particularly want to solve. Finally, he speaks. He doesn’t bother to pick the files he threw on a desk a few momenta ago. “Sit."