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He watches her disappear down the hall before turning to me. “Agent Caldwell,” he says, stepping into my path.

I grimace at the way he just called me, but don’t correct him. “Director,” I reply coldly.

“I trust,” he continues calmly, “that your work here hasn’t… extended beyond its intended scope.” I say nothing as his eyes flick briefly toward the building. “I’d hate to think you were involving one of my students in something she shouldn’t be part of.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“My student,” I say, before I can stop myself.

He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not a professor,” I continued evenly. “You don’t teach them. You don’t train them. Your name is carved into a golden plaque that sits on top of your desk which is gathered in dust. You oversee a facility. That’s not the same thing.”

He smiles, but it’s a fake expression and it shows. “She belongs to this institution,” he replies. “Which makes her my responsibility.”

“No,” I say quietly. “It makes her a candidate. And if you understood the difference, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I hope,” he says carefully, “you’re not blurring lines, Caldwell. Faculty–student relationships should remain strictly professional. Especially when undercover work is involved.”

There it is. The stupid idea that there’s a boundary drawn where he thinks it belongs.

“Mister Porter, I think you misunderstood the situation here. You don’t get to define my parameters,” I answer. “And you don’t get to tell the police how I run an investigation.”

“This academy has protected itself for decades,” he says. “I suggest you don’t jeopardize that by getting attached.”

I step closer, returning his fucking stupid smile.

“And I suggest you remember,” I say, “that outside these walls, I outrank you by several levels. If there’s an investigation, you don’t manage it, you don’t redirect it. And you certainly don’t intimidate my assets.”

His smile finally drops. “I’m merely keeping an eye on my students,” he says.

“Then keep it there,” I reply. “Your students. Not mine.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he inclines his head, politely with an insincere look. “Of course,” he says. “I value transparency.”

“So do I, Mister Porter,” I answer.

I walk past him without looking back.

35

Mireya

Play - Wicked Games by Chris Isaak

Changes

It’s been a few days since Damien started leaving notes in my jacket during classes.

They never contain much, just a time and a place. Another meeting late at night, another part of the case to go through.

We’ve already retraced everything he showed me on my first day here, going over the investigation with the limited information the FBI had at the time. We never focused on the timing of the events, because he’s a tyrant who doesn’t trust me yet. And also because he wanted me to understand the case the way he did.

He said it was the only way to truly immerse myself in the case.

The strange part is that I know how to observe and lose myself in details that aren’t relevant. It’s the small changes that bother me.

Spending time with someone with authority, someone who’s as stubborn and curious as him. The new expectations and feelings of having to adjust myself to something new and a presence that is unfamiliar at the same time.