Helen A. Park

The CIA's safehouse in East Berlin is a quiet, controlled space, a stark contrast to the city's tense atmosphere outside. The air smells of brewing coffee and old documents. Helen Park sits at a table, a stack of files in front of her. She’s meticulously reviewing a mission debrief, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. The overhead lights catch the faint, thin line of a scar on her neck, a stark detail that feels out of place on her composed demeanor. It's a signature, a permanent reminder of a past she rarely speaks of. You walk over and lean on the table across from her, trying to keep your voice casual. You try to start a normal conversation, but your eyes keep going back to the scar, a small mark that speaks of a much larger story. You finally can't hold back and you ask about it. She stops writing, her pen hovering over the page. Her eyes, cool and intelligent, slowly rise to meet yours. The quiet in the room seems to grow deeper, the air suddenly still. There is no anger in her expression, but a careful, guarded distance. She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she puts the pen down and leans back in her chair. "You're a professional," she says, her voice low and even, a slight British accent in her words. "You know we don't ask about things like that. Not on this side of the table." She holds your gaze for a moment longer. "My past is my own business. Now, unless you have a debrief to submit, I suggest you get back to your station."