Chapter Text
June 2019 – Los Angeles
Violet tossed the last piece of luggage into the trunk and dusted off her hands. Very soon, she would be saying goodbye to the California sunshine—and to the police badge she had worn here for years. The FBI transfer order had been officially issued; she would report to the Hoover Building in Washington, D.C.
It was her last night in L.A. Returning to her now nearly empty apartment, she turned on the TV without thinking.
“…Latest update: one of the fugitives involved in the December 22, 2018 Pacific Bank Heist—also known as the ‘Eve Case’—has been arrested in Ohio.”
The glass of water paused halfway to Vi’s lips. Her eyes focused sharply on the screen.
“With this arrest, all identified suspects in the ‘Eve Case’ have now been apprehended. The shocking robbery, which resulted in massive financial loss, has finally come to a close after six months…”
Violet no longer listened to the rest. She remembered that case—too well. She hadn’t been directly involved, but it had weighed heavily on every law enforcement department in the country. Fragmented reports had always mentioned the same things: chaotic shootouts, millions stolen, officers killed or injured.
Later coverage had also noted that the leader of FBI’s Second Unit—an agent named Caitlyn Kiramman—had suffered an “operational mishap,” losing her service weapon during the chaos. It was picked up by a robber and used to kill an officer.
Violet had caught only a glimpse of the photo back then, didn’t remember the face, only the tragedy.
“It’s finally over,” she murmured, turning off the TV.
For her, the case was done. She looked forward to her new job.
But what she didn’t know was that just a few hours earlier, behind a one-way observation glass in an interrogation room in the Hoover Building, Caitlyn was staring expressionlessly at the so-called “final fugitive.”
“I’d like to hear your FBI’s internal conclusion on the case.”
“On December 22, 2018, the Pacific Bank Heist occurred… The last fugitive has been arrested in Ohio. However, the stolen cash has not been fully recovered.”
“Are you certain?”
“That’s the truth.”
“I’m a dead man walking, so I don’t care. But are you sure we’re all done for?”
The man was being escorted out when he suddenly turned his head toward the surveillance camera, flashing a smile that was both mocking and uncanny. Then he silently mouthed a single name:
“Landa.”
Beside Caitlyn, Unit Three Chief Frank’s expression changed instantly. Unit Three had led the operation and carried the primary responsibility. Caitlyn’s Second Unit had only been in a supporting role.
Caitlyn’s heart tightened, as if gripped by a cold hand.
Who was “Landa”? Where had they come from? Were they still on the run with the missing money?
The information was immediately reported upward—and locked down. Only the top brass and a handful of primary personnel were informed.
Back in her office, Caitlyn closed the door and leaned against it, inhaling shakily.
For half a year, guilt and nightmares had gnawed at her. She had already submitted a transfer request, but management rejected it—claiming the case wasn’t fully resolved and reassigning personnel would waste time.
She had planned that once the final suspect was caught, she would leave this place—this building where every hallway reminded her of failure.
But now, the “final suspect” had brought worse news.
The case wasn’t over.
One ghost remained—vanished with the stolen fortune.
Her transfer request was officially denied.
She had lost the chance to leave with dignity.
The Night BeforeFrank’s Suicide
Caitlyn sat alone on her sofa, the Washington nightscape glowing outside her window. She hesitated, then opened her message thread withFrank. Their last exchange had been months ago—routine discussions about the case.
Caitlyn — 22:47
I received the disciplinary notice.
Frank — 22:49
Me too. Demotion, reassignment… maybe worse.
It was my mistake—underestimating their firepower. I rejected your request for backup. I charged in anyway.
Caitlyn — 22:49
We all made mistakes.
Frank — 22:51
No. It’s on me.
I led Marcus and the others into that mess.
You dropped your gun because of the chaos I created.
If we had waited for SWAT like you suggested, Marcus might still be alive.
You wouldn’t have been hurt. Your gun wouldn’t have hit the ground…
Caitlyn could imagine the pain behind each word he typed.
Caitlyn — 22:52
It was an accident, Frank. We were all in it together.
Frank — 22:52
Not an accident. Consequence.
Every night I see Marcus fall. I see your gun in that bastard’s hand.
I see the look on your face. Caitlyn, I ruined everything.
Frank — 22:53
Your transfer request… is it because you can’t face this place, or because you can’t face me?
Face the man whose mistake put that death on your shoulders?
Caitlyn froze. She couldn’t answer something that cut that deep. While she struggled to form a response, another message arrived—his tone strangely changed.
Frank — 22:55
I tried, but I can’t keep going. The guilt is too heavy.
Caitlyn — 22:56
Don’t say that. We just need time—it will get better.
Frank — 22:56
My road ends here. Yours doesn’t.
Find that Landa. Finish what needs finishing.
Caitlyn — 22:56
Where are you? Let’s talk in person.
Caitlyn — 23:00
Frank?
Caitlyn — 23:03
Pick up the phone!
Her calls went straight to voicemail.
Minutes later, one final message arrived—cold, stripped of life:
Frank — 23:10
Take care of Unit Three for me.
Tell them I’m sorry.
My stubbornness killed Marcus.
Those numbers on the screen became his final words to her.
No voice. No expression. Only the weight of text—and a decision that couldn’t be undone.
The internal funeral was small and private. The official statement claimed he had “passed from illness.” Nothing more.
The primary responsible party was gone.
The “secondary” one—Caitlyn—was left behind to face the wreckage.
Management acted swiftly and coldly:
Until a new chief was appointed, Caitlyn Kiramman would temporarily lead Unit Three.
When she stood before Unit Three to make the announcement, she could feel the unspoken hostility. Frank’s suicide left them grief-stricken—and they needed someone alive to blame.
“I know this is difficult,” Caitlyn said. Her voice was calm, though she alone knew how fragile the calm truly was.
“Chief Frank… carried what he believed he had to carry. Now it’s on us to finish the job and bring every responsible party to justice—for Marcus.”
But some of them could see only one thing:
Caitlyn had dropped the gun.
The weapon used to kill their brother had been hers.
They didn’t know her transfer request had been denied. They only saw that she had stayed—and taken over.
Management needed someone to clean the mess. Caitlyn, exhausted in body and spirit, felt as if every minute in the Hoover Building was a new form of torture. But her professional integrity—and her need for answers—kept her in place. Without closure, Marcus’s death andFrank’s suicide meant nothing.
She was caught in a torment unlike anything she’d known.
And in that suffocating atmosphere, Violet arrived.
That afternoon came a knock.
“Come in.”
A firm, confident figure stepped inside—solid build, the alert eyes of someone who had worked her way up from the ground.
“Special Agent Violet , reporting as Deputy Chief of Unit Three.”
Caitlyn looked up, meeting her eyes.
“Welcome. Your record is impressive.”
“Thank you,” Violet replied formally.
“Agent Olay, why did you choose to accept this transfer?”
“I received orders.”
“From Los Angeles to Washington. Leaving your familiar territory is a major move. You have the right to contest interstate transfer—even refuse it. So why accept?”
She needed to know Vi’s motives.
Ambition?
Political arrangement?
Violet smiled, warm and confident.
“Because my family supported the decision.”
She said it so naturally, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
“Family support…” Caitlyn repeated softly.
Her mind briefly flashed to her own distant family across the ocean—disappointment, silence, estrangement.
Support was a luxury she’d never had.
“Sounds like you have a very happy family.”
“I do,” Violet said. “My parents are ordinary people, but they gave me everything they could.”
No pride—just a quiet grounded Ness.
Caitlyn shut down the wandering thoughts.
This wasn’t the time.
“Good. You may already know part of the situation. The ‘Eve Case’ isn’t over. One suspect remains at large, codename ‘Landa.’ I’m currently overseeing both Unit Two and Three. Your arrival is timely—Unit Three needs stability and leadership.”
Violet caught the heaviness in her tone—and the flicker of emotion when she mentioned Unit Three. Rumors had already reached her ears: Frank’s suicide, the resentment toward the temporary leader.
“I understand. I’ll get familiar with the situation and personnel as quickly as possible.”
“Good. Time isn’t on our side.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Outside, several Unit Three agents exchanged glances, whispering about the new deputy—and the temporary chief in the office.
A few days later, near dusk, most agents had gone home. Caitlyn stood before the bulletin board, staring at outdated notices and team photos, then turned toward her office.
Violet was packing up when a knock came.
“Do you have a moment? I’d like to introduce you to the team… properly.”
Caitlyn stood in the doorway, holding a heavy black photo album.
Violet blinked in mild surprise but nodded. “Of course.”
Caitlyn sat beside her and began flipping through the pages—introducing each member in detail.
Violet watched her, noticing the way Caitlyn’s voice softened almost imperceptibly when talking about her people. This wasn’t just protocol.
It was an act of preservation.
An attempt to show Violet the team as it once was—before tragedy carved it open.
Finally, Caitlyn pushed the album toward her.
“You should take this. Get to know them. They’re good agents. Unit Three needs someone to help them stand again.”
“I will.”
Violet paused.
“And what about you?”
Caitlyn looked at her, puzzled.
“You introduced everyone, Chief Kiramann. What about yourself?”
“Me? There’s nothing to introduce. The news reports, the internal investigation, the rumors on this floor—those should be enough. A woman who made a fatal mistake, dropped her weapon in a critical operation, got her teammates killed, and still stayed. Even took over their unit.”
“If someone were truly that useless, they’d never rise to your position—and they certainly wouldn’t be the person management trusted to stabilize two units after Frank’s death.
Cold as they are, they’re not blind.”
A faint crack appeared beneath Caitlyn’s icy composure—gone in a second, but Violet saw it. The words had struck somewhere deep, somewhere she’d buried.
“Knowing the ‘ugly parts’ is enough. Enough for you to form your own judgment.”
She didn’t allow further questions. She turned and left swiftly.
The more she pushed others away, the more certain Violet became that those stories didn’t tell the whole truth.
A full-scale screening for the mysterious “Landa” began.
The database overflowed with similar names, phonetic variants, false matches. Hours of cross-checking led nowhere.
During lunch, Violet approached a few senior Unit Two agents—the ones who had worked under Caitlyn the longest. Unit Three was too emotional now; their bias could obscure facts.
She asked casually, “What kind of person is Agent Kiramann?”
“You mean the boss? Why not ask her? She hates people talking behind her back—especially now.”
“I’m new. She outranks me. I want to avoid stepping on landmines… She introduced everyone except herself.”
One younger agent shrugged. “I transferred after the Eve Case. No idea what happened before.”
Another added, “What I know is what you’d find online. High case-clearance rate, tough, and… well, you know, that incident.”
Violet persisted and finally found Unit Two’s deputy chief.
“I know what you’re really asking,” he sighed. “The boss is… mysterious.
She’s good—better than most. But her past? Before the FBI? Almost blank. She never talks about family. Or her life before. One day she just appeared—already a high-performing agent.”
“Blank?”
“Pretty much. We were curious. But no one dares dig. The boss keeps work and personal life… extremely separate.”
That night at home, Violet searched on her laptop.
The deputy was right—information was scarce. What little existed revolved around the Eve Case.
She opened a months-old press conference.
Caitlyn stood behind the podium in a perfectly tailored suit, half her face hidden behind sunglasses. Flashbulbs erupted like lightning. Reporters hurled aggressive questions.
But Caitlyn’s expression never changed. No anger, no defensiveness—just a mechanical recitation of the statement. Every question was met with “The investigation has concluded” or “No comment.”
Violet closed the video, leaning back as the room hummed quietly with the laptop fan.
Days of tracing leads felt like rowing through fog.
Finally, Vi’s instinct locked on a specific Landa—a woman with minor financial offenses, suspicious gaps in her timeline, and access to the right networks.
She tracked Landa to an outdoor fusion restaurant.
Violet chose a corner seat with a wide view and ordered soda water, keeping an eye on the target.
Then a voice spoke directly behind her ear:
“Any progress?”
Violet jerked, almost knocking over her glass. She spun around—
Caitlyn sat at the table behind her, back to back.
Violet had been so focused she hadn’t noticed her arrival.
“Chief?” Vi’s voice faltered from surprise. “Nothing yet. She went in ten minutes ago, no movement.”
Caitlyn rose and sat across from her, placing a small black purse on the table.
“Same here.”
As if to ease the wait—or simply out of habit—she took out a slim cigarette case and a silver engraved lighter. She lit one, inhaled, then seemed to remember Vi, pushing the cigarette box toward her with a subtle gesture, sliding the lighter over as well.
“Thanks.” Violet hesitated but took one.
“You don’t need to call me Chief.”
“You’re the unit leader. It’s protocol.” Violet was cautious—especially around someone with Caitlyn’s complex aura.
“We’re both unit leads. Calling me that feels strange.
How did you track her here?”
The shift to work eased the tension. Violet explained her reasoning. Caitlyn listened quietly, flicking ash from her cigarette. When Vi’s deductions aligned with her own, Caitlyn’s lips curved with faint approval.
By the time Landa finished dinner and drove off, nothing unusual had happened.
“Seems like tonight was a bust.”
“At least we confirmed she had no contact tonight. Ruling out a possibility is still progress.”
Caitlyn extinguished her cigarette and stood. She nodded slightly—a gesture of parting.
Violet remained seated, the lingering scent of Caitlyn’s smoke and perfume hanging in the air.
Their brief joint surveillance had yielded no breakthroughs.
They had barely spoken.
But Violet felt it—
a crack in the ice.
Caitlyn had chosen to sit with her.
Had offered her a cigarette.
And in Caitlyn’s mind, this new agent named Violet was no longer just a stranger.
She was capable. Intuitive.
And—for however small a step—now someone Caitlyn could allow closer than the rest.