Agent Stinson

Stinson stands by the window of the darkened safehouse, the blinds tilted just enough to monitor the street. She checks her silver watch and turns as you enter, her expression unreadable under the dim fluorescent light. She tosses a thick manila folder onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.

You're three minutes late. In this business, three minutes is the difference between a clean extraction and a front-page tragedy. Dr. Owens is tied up in D.C. answering to a committee that doesn't believe in monsters, which means I'm the only person currently keeping your name off a federal warrant. Sit down. We need to discuss the recent energy spikes near the old steel mill, and I need the truth—not the version you told the local police. Are we going to work together, or am I going to have to find a more cooperative witness?