A/N: Probably the chapter most of you have been waiting for.

I should also mention that, despite the dialogue, relationships here are still completely platonic, and there is a reason to their actions (which is somewhat explained in my behind-the-scenes commentary for this chapter, but will eventually be explained in future chapters). Point is, don't read too deeply into the dialogue in terms of relationships.

"What's going on?" Bishop asked the person in front of her as soon as she reached the end of the hallway, tapping his shoulder, turning him around and realizing it was her desk neighbor, Torres—an well-renowned detective, at least in New Haven, in his own right, just a couple of years her senior both in terms of age and experience.

He was already drawing his Glock from its holster as he addressed her with a frown. "We got an officer down," he growled underneath his breath, though she knew it wasn't directed at her. "Another one tried to shoot the bastard, but it didn't do jack-shit to 'im. You didn't hear the gunshot?"

"No." Bishop's frown deepened. "We were interrogating a suspect."

"Suspect?" Torres threw a glance over his shoulder. "Oh—for that mass homicide case you were working on with that fed, right?"

"Yeah." Behind her, she could hear Gilliam's footsteps as he caught up to them, and resisted the urge to say anything else.

"Well." Torres clicked the safety of his Glock as he moved to join the others crowding by the entrance, guiding Bishop along with him. "Looks like that case and that fed coming in here sure stirred things up around here, huh?"

Almost all of the officers on duty and on site were gathered by the front entrance—some were just arriving, others were standing by the staircase, most with their guns drawn out and pointing it towards something, guarding the entrance as the first line of defense against someone.

That someone—Bishop soon realized the moment she burst out into the daylight—was a figure, dressed head to toe in nothing but black, standing in the margins of the parking lot, with what she could confirm was another one of their officers—her colleagues—lying in a growing pool of blood at the figure's feet.

She gasped, hand flying to cover her mouth as Gilliam appeared beside her and froze.

It was Clarke—Bishop could instantly recognize the downed officer by his larger build and balding ginger-haired scalp exposed to the air as he lied by the mysterious figure's feet face down. He was moving, just barely, but enough to indicate that he was still alive, as long as he was given medical attention very soon, if not immediately.

Bishop's eyes trailed up from her fallen colleague to the black-clad figure who she could rightfully assume did this to him. She could not tell if it was a man or a woman—her gaze was immediately drawn to the person's face, which was entirely covered with blue. It was a mask, she decided and later realized, completely lacking in facial features with the exception of two holes for eyes and the vague outline of a nose, except that, staring into said eyeholes, Bishop could see nothing—literally nothing, but two bottomless abyssal pits that ran shivers down her spine the second she looked at them.

The figure was quite tall—taller than Bishop was, if she wasn't standing above the staircase leading up to the entrance of the police station—and quite lean, perhaps quite fit even, if the body wasn't entirely clad in its loose black clothing. The hood of the jacket was flipped up to cover most of the person's head aside from the mask and a few strands of dark hair peeking out from the small exposed area. The cargo pants and sneakers were generic, chosen for functionality more than aesthetics.

It took her another second to realize his clothes were not perfectly seamless, nor spotless—a small but glaring hole was embedded in his right shoulder, just below the blade, staining the jacket in a darker, wet shade than it already was.

A gunshot wound.

As if to make a point to all the officers on the scene, Bishop saw the slightest twitch coming from the figure's right hand—gloved in black—as the sunlight glinted off something that was just peeking out from the sleeve of the hooded jacket and caught everybody's eye.

A blade, covered in fresh blood, crimson droplets falling to the concrete below.

Bishop yanked her own sidearm from its holster and raised it to point it at the figure.

"Put the knife on the ground, now!" she yelled out without a second thought, moving to walk down the staircase one step at a time. Beside her, Gilliam mimicked her actions, but did not utter a single word.

Another slight movement, as the figure's head seemed to be tilting up to meet Bishop's gaze. There was still nothing through the eyeholes, even in the clear view of the sunlight above them.

"Where are they?" It was a male's voice—deep, but loud and clear and smooth, muffled only due to the mask. It wasn't a voice of someone who was above the age of forty—that's for sure. What caught her off-guard, however, was the slight, deeper reverb she could've sworn was echoing a millisecond from the end of each syllable he spoke, ringing in her ears even seconds later.

"Who are 'they'?" she retorted back, trying to be louder and clearer than the intruder. "Who are you talking about?"

The figure tilted his head almost imperceptibly, as if he were surprised that she didn't know who he was talking about. "Skyler Martin," he growled back, "and Tobias Rogers. Where are they?"

Skyler Martin? Tobias Rogers?

Skye and Toby.

"They're inside, Jack."

Bishop snapped her head to the side, eyes glaring questioningly at her partner for speaking for her when she didn't expect him to. He wasn't quite yelling as much as she was, but it was a much louder volume than she ever heard him spoke, with the notable exception of what transpired in the interrogation room just a couple of minutes ago.

His voice turned the mysterious man's attention towards the federal agent, undaunted by the pistol the latter pointed straight at the former with unwavering confidence.

"Both of them—they're inside," Gilliam continued. "They're all right. They're safe."

There was a beat of pause as the black-clad man seemed to consider Gilliam's words for a moment. "Not from the likes of you, they are," he retorted back. To her surprise, some of the previous hostility laced in his voice seemed to be lifted, though replaced with something else she couldn't put her finger on. "Agent Joel Gilliam, is it?"

The corner of his lips twitched at the mysterious man's words. "So," he called back in mock curiosity. "You remember me."

"Can't quite forget a bastard like you," the stranger retorted back, briefly tilting his head at an angle. "Not after what you've done to us."

Bishop frowned at his words, resisting the urge to turn her glare at Gilliam. When she spared him a glance from the edge of her peripherals, what she could see of his face was stone cold, almost completely lacking in expression, but noticed his hand tightening even further around the handle of his gun.

"What do you want, Jack?" he called back out again, disregarding the eyes occasionally glancing at him in question. "What are you doing here?"

Another pause—the mysterious figure was tilting his head around again, but instead of at an angle, it was as if he was sweeping his gaze across the entire front entrance of the police station, surveying the situation and taking note of the dozen of guns, all pointed straight at him and ready to shoot, should he make another threatening move.

She assumed the first gunshot was a retaliation, for what he had done to Clarke, who had gone still on the ground beneath his feet. Of course, it would be difficult to even retrieve him from the scene with his assailant still standing above him.

"I'm turning myself in," he said. Bishop almost let her shoulders fall. "Under one condition."

"Which is?" At the sound of her voice, the man's gaze turned and locked onto Bishop. She tried not to swallow too hard.

"You bring me in," he said, nodding towards the building, "and the other two walk free."

Bishop's eyes grew wide in bewilderment. A trade, she thought, but not a fair one—at least, she didn't think it was. She had no idea who this person was, as dangerous as they seemed to be, though she could take an educated guess on who it might be, considering what Gilliam had been calling him thus far.

Without loosening the grip on her sidearm, she once again turned to her partner, eyes searching his expression, her own lost in desperation. He offered her a brief look, lips slightly stretched in contemplation before he turned back to the mysterious man standing before them.

"You know we can't do that," Gilliam stated decisively.

"You can't," the stranger asked, "or you won't?" When Gilliam gave no response—to Bishop's alarm—the man cocked his chin up, barely exposing the skin of his neck. Bishop held her breath as soon as she noticed the inhuman, dark greyish tint that was once hidden behind the mask and underneath the hood. "Look, I'm giving you a choice: either you arrest me right here, right now, and let those two walk free, or—"

His fingers twitched, and the blade he held in between them slid down into clear view, the silver reflecting and glinting underneath the sunlight. At least half of the officers on the scene flinched at this single action.

"—I'm bringing them back home with me." Bishop frowned as soon as she caught his words. Home? "And all three of us walk out of here alive." She could almost feel his gaze sweeping across them all, and yet, his head made barely a single movement. "Not the same would be said with your fellow officers, however. Of course, that's entirely up to you—" The blue mask turned to face Gilliam. "—Agent Gilliam."

Her breath caught stuck in her throat. None of the rest of them had a say in this—it was clear that these two newcomers were more than well acquainted with each other beforehand, but she didn't appreciate the new stranger's threat. Even more so, she was perturbed at his confidence more than anything—never once did she see him flinch, even with a dozen loaded barrels pointed straight towards him.

He can't actually take on all of us all by himself, right? she thought grimly, though she almost winced when she reminded herself of the gunshot wound on the man's shoulder, and how he seemed to be carrying himself as though the still-bleeding wound was never there at all.

"Gilliam," she called out in hesitation, her voice soft enough that the stranger shouldn't be able to hear the weakness behind it.

His pupils briefly darted to the corner of his eyes. "Detective—"

"Remember what I did to your men back at that containment facility, Agent Gilliam," the black-clothed stranger called out once again. His posture remained stiff as a statue, but there was something sinister behind his voice—something absolutely filled with malice—that sent shivers crawling down Bishop's spine. "How many of them were there again? How many guards did you send after us? Was it ten? Twenty?" She couldn't miss the pride in his sneer. "You've seen what I did to them, yeah? Those were armed guards—the equivalent of an entire SWAT team, if I remember correctly. Do you really want to see what I can do to just a mere handful of police officers barely in protective gear, agent?"

An entire SWAT team? Bishop tried to swallow the lump in her throat. He can't be serious, can he?

Much to her immediate dismay, he raised a single foot and placed it right upon Clarke's right side, then applied enough force onto his leg to roll the injured officer a few inches towards the rest of them, until Clarke was lying down with his back against the concrete. The officer's hand was barely resting above his abdomen, where a large dark red stain continued to spread throughout the fabric of his shirt.

He desperately needed medical attention if he was going to live—and fast.

Bishop watched in horror as the stranger began rolling his right shoulder around, tilting his head to the side as if he were feeling the bullet still lodged in his shoulder digging further into his flesh with each movement his muscle made. With the mask, she couldn't tell if he had winced from the pain at all—or if he could even feel such pain, with how nonchalant he seemed to be with that awful gunshot wound.

"Time's ticking, Agent Gilliam," he called out, voice unwavering as always. "This poor man right here needs help real soon, doesn't he? Wouldn't want to make his suffering last any much longer than it needs to be, now would we?"

He was a sadist, Bishop decided. He was taking great pleasure from this. What kind of monster was he, she wondered.

"Sir?" One of the officers who stood beside Gilliam looked toward him with fear very much evident in his eyes. "Should we open fire?"

The FBI agent took his time in deliberating his decision—thankfully, it wasn't too long before he finally blew out a harsh sigh through his mouth, and swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing behind the collar of his shirt.

"No," he said quietly at first, then, slowly, lowered the weapon in his hands until the barrel was pointed towards the ground, before loosening the tension of his grip on its handle. "All right, fine," he called back out to the stranger, tilting his head up a small angle. "You have yourself a deal. You turn yourself in, and both Martin and Rogers walk out of here as free people—but only after we finish interrogating them."

The stranger tilted his head. "Interrogating?"

"They won't be charged with anything," Gilliam continued, perhaps reassuring the stranger, but his face displayed nothing but begrudging regret. "We just need to ask them questions for our case—that is all."

The stranger continued staring him in silence for several more seconds before he finally tilted his head back, seemingly pleased with the agent's words. "Fine. As long as they walk free."

Before anybody could say anything else, Bishop watched with wide eyes as Gilliam produced a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and started striding down the steps, navigating past the officers in his path, and straight towards the stranger in black before she could even move to stop him.

"Drop the weapon," Gilliam said as he approached the stranger, a few steps away from reaching where the latter stood. "And hands where I can see them."

Much to perhaps everyone's surprise, the stranger seemingly co-operated with the federal agent—he released his clutch on the silver blade in an instant, allowing it to fall and clatter against the concrete, before raising his hands up to the back of his head in stereotypical fashion. Gilliam made sure not to avert his glare from the stranger as he walked behind him, grabbed the stranger's hands and pinned them to the base of his spine, presumably securing the handcuffs around the man's wrists.

She could hear the echo of the final clicks from the handcuffs, still doubting whether such restraints could even deter him from doing anything that could result in Gilliam's injury, before the agent started shoving the stranger forward, pushing him in the direction of the station.

Her partner's eyes only briefly fluttered over to hers before his gaze returned to his straightforward path. Around her, all the other officers watched in a mix of shock, amazement, worry and fear as Gilliam led the stranger into the station.

Seconds later, her feet spurned into action, marching after where Gilliam and the stranger had gone, tailing them just a few steps behind.

She couldn't bring herself to call out to her partner—not yet. She simply moved at the same pace as they were, as Gilliam appeared to be leading him towards another one of the few interrogation rooms they had—the one immediately adjacent to where they were detaining Skye in.

She almost stopped when the door to the room in question flew open, and Skye's now-familiar brunette head peeked out from the open doorway, just as Gilliam and the stranger moved past it.

The look in the brunette's eyes was an unmistakable blend of realization, recognition, and horror.

"Jack?" she called out, lips hanging open as her eyes followed them.

Gilliam stopped only briefly at the sound of her voice, turning both himself and the stranger around, freezing them on the spot as the brunette's gaze met the black-clothed stranger's.

"Sorry, doll," the stranger murmured in a surprisingly softer tone, but could say nothing further as Gilliam threw the adjacent room's door open and promptly shoved the mysterious man—Jack—inside.

"Jack?" Skye's entire body appeared in the hallway, but Bishop was quick to catch her shoulder, forcing the younger woman to turn her head around at the detective.

"Skye—"

"Why is he here?" The brunette's eyes searched Bishop's pleadingly, and the detective stared back at her in confusion. "Wh—Why is he here, detective? Where are you taking him?"

So, she does know him, Bishop thought curiously to herself, but she was even more curious to find the lack of fear in her features—instead, her eyebrows were furrowed together in concern, not for herself, but for whoever this Jack is.

"Detective?"

Bishop barely registered the second interrogation room door closing shut in front of her—she didn't even realize when Skye was beginning to struggle against her grip, and she forced herself to step in front of the younger woman to hinder her and guide her back inside the first interrogation room. Skye herself showed little resistance in her own confusion, however, seeming more distraught than ever when Bishop entered the room after her and closed the door behind her as well, trapping the two alone in the room—in the deafening silence falling between them.

When Bishop finally snapped back to her senses, she raised her head to find Skye pacing across the other side of the room, hands holding her face in silent frustration.

"Skye." Her voice was low at first, but when the brunette paid no attention to her, she raised it just a little bit louder. "Skye. Sit down, please."

"Why is he here?" She stopped, hands sliding down her face and wrapping around herself as she marched right up to the detective. "Detective Bishop, why is he here?"

"Skye." Bishop raised both her hands and placed them below the younger woman's shoulders. "Sit down."

Skye stared up at her for several more seconds before realizing her pleading questions were meeting a brick wall—an awfully apologetic brick wall, but a brick wall nonetheless.

With a heavy sigh, she forced herself to turn around and dragged herself back to the chair, letting herself fall against the seat with her arms folded across her chest.

Bishop herself walked over, pulled out the chair she was sitting on before, and calmly took her own seat across from her witness.

"All right." The detective leaned back against her seat, eyes staring intently at the brunette sitting before her, avoiding her eye contact. "Let's start from the beginning. You know who that man is, yeah?"

"I…" Skye licked her lips as her gaze fluttered onto the table. "Yeah. Yeah, I know who he is." One of her hands went to her forehead to brush away the bangs falling on her face, lingering only to hide her facial expressions from the watchful detective. Her hand went up to her mouth as she coughed into her sleeve. "He's, uh—He's a friend of mine."

"A friend of yours?" Bishop leaned forward, pulling her chair closer towards the table. "Skye, he injured one of our officers, suffered a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and threatened the rest of our police force without so much of a flinch."

The detective's words immediately registered without much delay, and it struck a nerve within the girl; her eyes grew wide and her pupils contracted, as she stared back at the detective with furrowed eyebrows. "He what?"

"Skye—"

"He's injured?"

Bishop's expression fell the moment she realized what the younger woman had said. "Skye—"

"Let me see him." The words came up as a soft murmur, but was blurted out without second thoughts nonetheless. Her breaths were growing unsteady, almost feverish. "I—I need to see him."

"Skye, you're not allowed to—"

"Please." She lurched forward, standing up from the chair, but Bishop stood from her seat just as forcefully, if not more, reaching over to catch her by her shoulders if she moved another inch. "Please, detective. I need to see him."

"No, Skye." The detective tried to put some finality into her tone of voice, hearing the distress in Skye's quite clearly despite not loudly. "Skye, you're not allowed to go in there."

"B-But—"

"He is an extremely dangerous individual, Skye." The girl didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed at what she was trying to say."He might have just killed one of my boys out there." Bishop would need to ask for updates about Clarke's condition, but that could come later. She hoped that at least, by now, the paramedics were already on their way here. "He said something about having dealt with an entire SWAT team before, and he seemed awfully confident about it, Skye."

The young woman seemed to be processing Bishop's words when she fell back down against the chair. "What? He—He said that? Why would he say that—why would he do that?"

Bishop gave a fleeting shrug. "I don't know."

"How did—" She groaned, then buried her face in her hands once more. "Why is he here? How did he even get here?"

"He came here—I think." Bishop was here, with Gilliam and Skye, right in this room when the man presumably first appeared. "He just appeared out in the parking lot. By the time I got there, one of our best men was lying on the ground, bleeding from his stomach."

Her head shot up from her hands, eyes staring wide at Bishop. "What? Wait—he came here?"

"He was asking for a trade." The detective deflated her shoulders, scoffing as her eyes wandered around the room. "His arrest, for your freedom—both you and Toby's."

She didn't think the girl's eyes could grow wider, but she watched as Skye's face dropped in a single instant, her expression turning from bewilderment to absolute disbelief. "He did what?"

"Skye—"

"That fucking idiot!" Skye suddenly shot up from her seat again, but the chair's legs scraped horribly loud against the floor, completely startling the detective. "I can't believe he would—"

"Skye, sit down." Bishop tilted her gaze up at the woman, legs ready to push herself up in case things went from shit to worse. "Please."

"He's turning himself in!" The younger woman scoffed, lips stretching to a grimacing smile as she gave a feeble laugh. "Doesn't he know what this means? This is just like the fucking containment facility all over again—"

She was only stopped when all of her sudden her chest lurched forward and her stomach retracted inward, and a harsher series of coughs burst out of her throat before she could even stop herself. Her hands went up to her face just a split second too late, and the next thing either women knew, Skye was bending over the table, covering her mouth with both her hands cupped around her face, knees wobbling as she struggled to force everything out of her throat.

"Skye!" Bishop immediately stood up, circling around the table and placing a hand around the younger woman's shoulder. "Skye, are you okay?"

She had yet to stop coughing—it was a wet cough, at least by the sounds of it, but fortunately, it soon faded in severity as Skye seemed to be expelling the last of what was caught in her throat, if there was anything at all. Eventually, the brunette weakly nodded.

"Yeah," she choked out. "Yeah, I'm fine." Another cough. "Can I have some tissue?" she stuttered out. "Please?"

"Yeah, of course." Without giving a second look at the poor girl, Bishop exited the interrogation room and headed out to the coffee counter—the nearest place where she knew had tissues—grabbed, the tissue box, and promptly headed back to the interrogation room.

She stopped only when she went past the adjacent room, where Gilliam and Jack presumably still were, and tried to listen in to any voices coming from inside the room.

Nothing. No sounds, no voices, no noises. Absolutely nothing but deathly silence coming from inside that room.

Sighing, she headed back to the room she was in before and closed the door behind her.

Skye was still there, sitting down but hunched over, eyes closed and hands still covering her mouth. Bishop walked over and placed the tissue box in between them as she took her place back on her own seat, and the noise seemed to catch the younger woman's attention as her eyelids fluttered open, revealing glazed eyes and slightly reddened sclera.

"Thanks," she sniffled as one of her hands quickly snatched a sheet of tissue from the box and started wiping her mouth with it.

All Bishop could do was nod and watch in pity as the woman before her began gathering herself together again.

"Skye," the detective spoke slowly, cautiously, when all that remained of Skye's earlier coughing outburst were just a few sniffles, and her hands started peeling themselves off her face, adding another crumpled tissue to the now-growing cluster off to the side of the table. She could've sworn, however, that she saw a brief flash of red somewhere in that cluster. "What do you mean, 'containment facility'?"

Her words took a moment to pull Skye out of daze she had fallen into, glassy brown eyes staring up at the detective in confusion. "What?"

"Earlier, you were saying something about this being like the containment facility all over again," Bishop stated calmly. It was a specific term, she realized—containment. Not detainment—not like a detention center, or a prison. Containment. "Jack mentioned something about that, too—out there at the parking lot."

The younger woman blinked, then tried to scatter her gaze, though was unable to do so with Bishop staring so closely and directly at her. "Oh. He did?"

"Yeah." Bishop placed both her arms on the table and leaned just slightly forward to stare at the brunette more intently. "Skye, what kind of containment facility are we talking about here?"

"I…" Her gaze had yet to meet Bishop's. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Skye." Bishop allowed her shoulders to fall. "This isn't your first run-in with the law, is it?"

"What?" She sounded bewildered, but it didn't sound genuine. "No—no, it's not like that."

"Then, what containment facility are we talking about here?"

Another sniffle. "I—It must've just slipped out of my mouth."

"Stop lying to me, Skye."

"I'm not," the younger woman choked out—it must've meant to sound more forceful, more convincing and persistent, but her voice was too weak to muster that much energy, and all it did was make those words sound strained, losing volume towards the end. "We're here to talk about the case, right? This has nothing to do with the case."

"It does when someone comes barging in here, threaten my boys, and all in exchange for yours and Toby's freedom," Bishop reminded. "And all because we brought you both in here for questioning. That means that the two of you, and Jack, have something to hide from us, for Jack to be so willing to turn himself in." Bishop pursed her lips, then clicked her tongue. "Your friend—he's Eyeless Jack, isn't he?"

She had been mulling it over this entire time, near the recesses of her mind. Jack—that was the name from the second report that Gilliam gave her. Jack Nichols, the college student who was involved with the demonic cult—the one who had his eyes gouged out. The killer who disemboweled his victims and removed their kidneys. The one who became the so-called urban legend Eyeless Jack.

"Wh—" When Bishop turned her attention back to Skye, the latter was chuckling weakly under her breath. "What makes you think that?"

"Gilliam showed me his file," the detective admitted. "It had everything about him. The cult ritual, the massacre at the college, and the murders—that's why he wants to turn himself in. It's why he can turn himself in, and Gilliam knows that." She took a deep breath before continuing, "That's him, isn't it? Eyeless Jack?"

She didn't think she would have to state it out loud—it sure sounded weird when she said it loud. Like she was telling fairytales or campfire stories, because that was what the report still sounded like to her. And she was still denying it this whole time, regardless of what Gilliam's suspicions were. But, considering what she had just seen out there—the skin, the bullet wound, and those outlandish claims that Gilliam did not even call bullshit on, despite everyone else thinking otherwise.

"He—" Skye's voice was shaking as she spoke, then she pressed her lips shut, its corners almost twitching upwards as she tilted her head down, bangs once more casting shadows on her face in another attempt to hide herself from the detective. "It's just 'Jack'—he hates it when people call him that."

Bishop's own mouth fell open, though only slightly. "So." She blew out a harsh breath. "He really is real."

"As real as he can get." Bishop could hear the pain in her voice, even more so in the next feeble chuckle she made and let out. "I don't know if I should even be telling you this—"

"Skye." The words came out of Bishop's mouth on their own volition, until she stopped herself, took a deep breath, threw a quick glance at the still-closed door and looked back down on the girl sitting before her. "If everything in that report is, in fact, real and true—" She shook her head. "That means he is an extremely dangerous individual—and quite possibly our number one suspect for this case."

"What?"

Was she parroting Gilliam's words now? Perhaps so. It was insane before, but now, after seeing that man with her own eyes, and Skye sitting right in front of her almost completely confirming that what just happened was all real, Bishop wondered how much longer she could deny this.

"The evidence fits his M.O." One of them did, anyway. "The killer struck at night. The victims' kidneys were removed during the murder process, and the wounds were stitched back shut." Albeit poorly, she noted to herself. "We also found traces of an unknown black fluid substance all over the crime scene—exactly as it is with all of Jack's other cases."

That was the consensus as determined from the police report, anyway. It was all Bishop could extract information from, all that pertained to Eyeless Jack, and though the puzzle pieces didn't quite fit together, Bishop had to do something to pull more information out of Skye, and hoped to the heavens this was enough to do the trick.

"All of that—" Skye took a deep intake of breath. "That's from Gilliam's… file?"

"Yes."

"Your partner," she spoke softly now. "Special Agent Gilliam, is it?"

"Yeah." She paused and frowned. "Why? Is there something wrong?"

"I've seen him before," the girl replied. Slowly, she turned her gaze up to meet Bishop's. "I remember it now. I wasn't sure earlier, but I can tell you now, for sure, that I've seen him before."

"What do you mean?" The detective stiffened her posture. "Where have you seen him?"

This time, Skye showed some hesitation in voicing her thoughts, pressing her lips together as her gaze briefly fleeted over towards the door behind the detective. "He's not working for the FBI," she murmured, almost whispered. "He's a Foundation agent, isn't he?"

Bishop blinked and stared at the younger woman. "What?"

"The SCP Foundation." Skye's shoulders fell, and she took another moment to pause before continuing. "It's a secret government agency—I think. It says it dedicates itself to containing and securing anomalies found all over the world. Very few people know about it. If you do, then you either work for them, or you're one of the people who got the short end of the stick, like me." Another pause, and one corner of her lip twitched. "Like us."

"I don't—" Wait—containing? "Skye, what do you mean, 'short end of the stick'?"

"The containment facility," she said simply, her expression relaxing the more she talked. "Your partner, Gilliam—he's not tracking us down because of your homicide case. He's tracking us down so he can—"

"I think it's about time we're done telling bedtime stories, yeah?"

Bishop almost jump straight out of her seat at the sound of the voice coming from right behind her; she snapped her head around and, to her shock, immediately saw a figure standing in the now-open doorway to the interrogation room—it was Special Agent Joel Gilliam himself, face stone-cold as ever, even despite the small smile stretching across his face as his eyes landed on the two women in the room.

"Gilliam—"

"You."

Bishop heard the scraping of the chair before she could turn her attention back to Skye; the brunette was standing up again now, hands balled into fists against the table as her eyes darted straight for the intruder, scrunching her face into a mix of anger and disgust.

"I remember you," she choked out as her bottom lip quivered. "You work for the Foundation, right?"

"Ms. Sullivan—"

"Don't you dare, you bastard!" Bishop was quick to react when Skye began launching herself in the direction of the door, stopped only when the detective sidestepped and caught the girl by her shoulders. Unlike before, the younger woman was putting up a struggle now, though her thinner frame was still no match to Bishop's own strength. "You're not doing this for those murder victims! You're doing this to lock us back up in that fucking facility, aren't you?"

Lock them back up. Containment facility. Even while restraining Skye, the detective found herself frowning at her words as the dots slowly began to connect in her mind.

"Detective." Bishop almost gasped when she heard Gilliam's voice calling out for her again—something in his voice, and the realization that just now occurred to her, caused her muscles to tense at the word, but she forced herself to turn back to her 'partner'—he was staring at her now, expression grave, but giving little else away. "I think time for you to leave."

"No." Skye's voice was pleading—Bishop turned her attention back to Skye, whose still-glazed eyes stared back up to hers now. She had seen that look in her eyes many times before, and could identify it within a fraction of a heartbeat—it was fear, clear as day and the single tear now sliding down the younger woman's face. "Detective Bishop, please—"

Her breath caught stuck in her throat, as she turned to face the agent again. "Gilliam—"

"I'll explain everything to you later." When their eyes finally meet once more, Bishop eventually noticed the lack of hardened features across his face now—his eyes weren't pleading like Skye's, but they weren't cold, either. "I need to talk to you first. In private, if possible."

That was never a comforting statement, even much less in this sort of situation. It was going to be a confrontation, not a discussion—that much was certain, at least, though which side was confronting which had yet to be determined, considering what Skye had told her thus far, and what Gilliam was trying to hide from her up until this point.

There was also the question of whose words she should trust—Gilliam's, or Skye's. There was but less than a day difference between how long she had known the two of them, and either of them was just as translucent to her as the other.

She took a deep breath before staring back at Gilliam, then turning back to Skye. "I'll be back later." She had to hear him out. She had to hear them both out. "All right, Skye?"

It almost hurt her to see the look of bewilderment overtaking Skye's face, followed with sheer panic and fear. "No." Her fingers were reaching for Bishop, but the latter forced herself to put some distance between them and follow Gilliam out the door. "Detective—"

"I'll come back soon," was all Bishop said before moving past Gilliam, who held the door open for her to walk through, and perhaps to close it behind them, so Bishop didn't have to.

When she did turn around for a brief glance at the distraught young woman she left in that room, Skye was just standing there, frozen, eyes blown wide before a flash of rage crossed over her.

"Agent Gilliam!"

The door was closed shut before she could even launch herself towards it, and all that was left was just Bishop and Gilliam, standing in the now-empty corridor, amidst a deafening silence and the suffocating tension between them that only came as a result of what had just transpired within the past half an hour.

After what seemed like forever, Gilliam let out a heavy sigh, ran a hand through his forehead and hairline, and finally turned to Bishop.

"Anywhere we can talk privately?" he asked, in an oddly neutral tone that she wasn't sure what to make of.

She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and forced a weak smile on her face. "Lunch break?"