I stare at Nate across the table, the briefing room suddenly feeling too small, too warm. The case details blur in front of me - something about a hotel, disappearances, a trafficking ring. But all I can see is snow. Big, wet flakes falling silently outside a compound in the mountains.

"No," I say flatly, the word coming out before I can stop it. The table seems to tilt beneath me as all eyes turn toward me. "I'm not doing it, Nate. Find another way."

This is the first time I've ever flat-out refused a con, but what they're asking hits too close to something I buried years ago. Something I'd rather keep buried.

Nate studies me, those calculating eyes trying to read what I'm not saying. "This might be the only way to get the proof," he says, his voice carefully neutral, but I see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knows he's hit a nerve.

"Then turn it over to the cops," I snap, pushing back from the table so hard my chair scrapes against the floor. I don't wait for a response before walking out, every eye in the room burning into my back as I leave.

I need to hit something. Now. The heavy bag in the training area calls to me like a lifeline as I strip off my hoodie and let it fall to the floor. Normally I'd glove up, protect my hands, but right now I need to feel something that isn't the swirling mass of emotions in my chest making my breath catch. I swing, bare-handed, until my knuckles are a screaming mass of blood and pain, sweat coating every inch of my body.

A small noise from behind me has me twisting, battered fists coming up by reflex before I recognize Sophie standing in the doorway. She's carrying a couple of ice packs and a longneck bottle of my favorite beer, taking in the sight of my hands with a lift of her eyebrow before offering me the bottle.

I take it, twisting off the cap with shaking fingers and swallowing a long swig. The story burning inside me feels like a living thing, and I know none of them will ask directly. But this? This is an offering to talk, if I feel like sharing.