Rysa stands alone at the edge of the press room, her slim figure wrapped in a dark blazer, sleeves pushed up as if she’s bracing for an invisible onslaught. Her eyes are rimmed in exhaustion, but her posture is razor-straight, fingers gripping a folder so tightly the paper curls. She stays there, just out of the fluorescent glare, watching Callen dart around the bustling floor with frenetic energy, his shirt rumpled and hair untamed. He can barely meet her gaze. The bruise of last night’s argument sits between them, purple and aching and unspeakable.

She turns away, feeling his jealousy pulse after her like a wound that won’t close. All day, Rysa sifts through crises and strategy memos, but she’s haunted by the way Callen looked at her—hungry, but edged with something wild and desperate. She pushes it down, hardening herself behind task lists and clipped commands. The campaign must come first. At least, that’s what she repeats until she almost believes it.

Odessa enters mid-afternoon and the temperature seems to drop. Her hair is coiled in a loose, careless bun, lips bright, tailored dress unapologetically provocative. She surveys the chaos with an amused tilt of her head, then zeroes in on Callen, sidling close enough that he stiffens, spine taut beneath her scrutiny. She’s all feline grace and sly smirks, her gaze lingering a second too long on Callen’s mouth, before she veers toward Rysa instead, scent trailing like a dare.

Without warning, she corners Rysa in the low-lit hallway outside the war room. They’re so close Rysa can feel Odessa’s breath, warm and sugar-sweet, against her cheek. Odessa leans in, voice barely above a purr—“Funny how power makes people lonely, isn’t it?” Rysa tries to sidestep, but Odessa blocks her, one hand pressed to the wall, her nails blood-red. “Do you ever wonder if anyone actually sees you, or just wants what you can give?” Her words are a slow, bruising caress.

Rysa’s fists clench, anger threatening to spill, but Odessa touches her wrist, pulse thrumming. The contact sends a shock through Rysa’s rigid frame. “Don’t,” she warns, but it’s barely a whisper. Odessa just smiles, something wounded and wild in it, and slips her hand behind Rysa’s neck, drawing her forward in a kiss that tastes like defiance. Rysa resists, but the heat, the danger—the ache—undoes her. They fuse in a rush of friction and breath, mouths clashing, hands greedy and unsure. It’s a battle and a surrender, Rysa’s stoicism shattering as Odessa’s body aligns with hers, pinning her hard to the wall, leaving bruises that linger like kisses.

Neither notices the slim shadow in the doorway—Soren, gaze sharp and unreadable, blending into the dark, phone clenched white-knuckle in his hand. His eyes flick from Odessa’s tangled fingers to Rysa’s trembling jaw, a silent witness to secrets he isn’t sure he wants.

Back in the chaos of the main office, Callen’s restlessness boils over. He catches Odessa’s eye, her lipstick smudged, hair askew. “Problems, Lysford?” Her voice is lazy, teasing. He answers her with a look—a flicker of something reckless, all teeth and unspoken challenge. She tips her chin, accepting. They disappear into a cramped supply room. The light is harsh, unflattering, but neither cares.

Callen’s emotions crack his composure—jealousy and spite, yes, but also a desperate need to feel anything but powerless. Odessa meets him in kind, nails scraping his back as he presses her to the door, their bodies locked in a fevered, explicit collision. She laughs in a low, dangerous way, arching into him, but even at the height of it, Odessa angles her phone just so, recording without him seeing—her lips gasping curses, his name, promises he’ll regret.

After, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, straightens her dress, and holds out her phone, the screen lit with evidence. “Everyone has a price, Callen,” she murmurs, eyes glittering with triumph and something like sorrow. He blanches, breath short, shame and fear warring in his gaze. “What do you want?” he asks, voice barely steady. Odessa only smiles, enigmatic and cold.

Elsewhere, Soren finds Mirelle in the silent press room, both of them small and worn under the relentless overhead lights. Mirelle’s cardigan is wrapped tight around her frame, anxiety in the tight set of her lips. Soren sits across from her, silent for a moment, hands folded so tightly his knuckles shine. “You don’t have to be scared,” he says, quietly. She looks up, eyes wide, searching his face for lies. They’re two people hiding from storms they can’t control.

Slowly, Mirelle lets herself lean into him. The warmth of his arm around her shoulders is awkward, tentative—then she tilts her face up and their kiss is soft, sad, a fragile thing made fierce by need. Soren’s hand shakes against her back. For a moment, the world hushes. He almost tells her everything, confesses what he is—traitor, liar, more—but the words dissolve in her mouth as she kisses him again, desperate for comfort, for a future that feels out of reach.

Outside, Odessa watches the rain streak the window, holding her phone like a weapon and a curse. Behind her, Rysa’s face is unreadable, but there’s a trembling in her jaw, a question in her eyes that refuses to fade.

The episode ends with Odessa pressing send on an anonymous email—the video attached, subject line: “For leverage.” On the screen, Callen’s face flashes, raw and exposed.

To be continued...