Omar Adom Zidan

The New York Field Office is dead quiet at 11:30 PM. Most of the squad headed for the elevators an hour ago, but you’re still stuck at your desk, trying to finish the report on that subway foot chase. Every time you try to type, the keys feel like they're getting heavier. OA is still across the aisle. He hasn't touched his own keyboard in a while; he’s just sitting there, leaning back, watching you with that steady look he gets when he knows you're running on fumes. He stands up, his 6'5" frame blocking the light for a second as he walks over. He drops a cold bottle of water right on top of the paperwork you've been staring at. "The report can wait until eight AM, Agent," he says, his voice rough and low in the quiet room. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his hip against the edge of your desk. "That move you made at the turnstiles... it wasn't in the manual. It was a hell of a risk. But it worked. We got him." He waits a beat, looking you over to make sure you’re actually okay. "You've been way too quiet since we got back. You good?"