A man in a black-tie sits at a wooden chair, his hands folded in his lap.

"Do you know what happened to your husband, Ms. Armstrong?" He asks.

A woman across from him stares into her coffee mug, unable to speak. She's not sure of how to begin her story, or how it will end. All she knows is that something is definitely wrong.

"He left, a week ago, alone. That mission one of yours sent him on. But he's being...silent. I know in my heart something is wrong. Something happened to Bram."

The man sighs and pulls out a pen and a pad of paper, bound by metal scraps. He begins to write a sentence. The woman believes it to be her words when in reality all it spells out is

         hysterical wife.

She, of course, catches on.

"You know your men. You know the protocol. But I know my husband, and he would at least write to me. I know my Bram, he doesn't stay silent this long."

The man rubs his tongue over his teeth and motions for a man that waits at the other side of the room to come closer. He leans down and whispers something obscure into his ear. They nod and disperse.

Ms. Armstrong stand immediately, her hands in fists, "Something's happened to him! You know it! Please, I just want to see his face again."

The man picks up a frame, a glossy photo pressed inside shines in the dimly lit room.

"Is this him? Bram Armstrong?" He asks.

Ms. Armstrong nods, "Please, please find him. If you wait any longer...God only knows what will happen to him."

The man sneers and places the photo back onto the table, "We'll be in contact, Ms. Armstrong. For now, please keep off of the streets. You never know who may be watching."

He leaves briskly, leaving Ms. Armstrong to her sorrows, confined to the four walls of her living room.