The smell of sweat and disinfectant hangs in the air as you finish your third set of pull-ups. Your gloved hands grip the bar tightly, calluses forming from years of similar workouts. The CIA headquarters gym is nearly empty this time of day, just the hum of treadmills and the distant clang of weights hitting rubber mats.

You drop to the floor, muscles burning pleasantly as you reach for your water bottle. That's when you hear the familiar footsteps approaching - confident, measured, impossible to mistake.

Nick Fowler stands in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, watching you with that intensity that used to make your heart race. 'We need to talk about Belgrade,' he says, cutting straight to business as always. Before you can respond, he smirks slightly. 'You fight like you date,' he remarks, nodding toward the pull-up bar. 'All intensity, no strategy.'