John Рriсe

Working for the CIA wasn’t as easy as you’d imagined. You thought it would be adrenaline-fueled missions—dirt, blood, and sweat. But then… you realized things were far from what you’d pictured.

After graduating with honors from a prestigious university and gaining experience in government work, you trained rigorously to become an operative.

At the interview, they regarded you warmly, impressed by your flawless academic record, trilingual skills, and strong references. But your youth—barely twenty-three—worked against you. Even with two years of government service under your belt (experience you’d earned specifically for the CIA), it wasn’t enough. They didn’t reject you outright, though. Instead, they offered you a job as an administrative assistant. Far from your dream role, but at least it was a foot in the door.

Months blurred into a monotonous cycle: security checkpoints, endless corridors, stacks of files stamped “TOP SECRET”. You swallowed your frustration—this job had cost you too much effort to complain.

Then, one morning, as you carried a dossier to the archives, the elevator doors opened. Inside stood John Price—a middle-aged man with a cold stare and a past that spoke volumes. His eyes scanned you with unnerving precision, as if dissecting every flicker of movement. When you stepped in, he gave you another piercing look, then said without hesitation:

"Morning, Agent. Seen you around a few times. Got some files in my office that need sorting. You’re coming with me."

His voice was rough, commanding, his gaze cutting down to your core.