I felt like I was going to pass out, standing on that stage for so long.

The floodlights had long melted into a white splatter in my vision, and I had squinted for so long I swear my eyes would stay permanently scrunched up.

But, after what felt like eons standing on stage, my name was finally called out.

"Jason Howe." The announcer's voice was dry and emotionless, as he had been with all the prior graduates; still, a small smattering of applause went around as I turned away from the blinding floodlights and walked towards the podium.

The training center's director and the chief of staff were standing there, smiling blankly towards me as I approached and shook their hands, before they presented me with an envelope and a commemorative piece.

"Agent Jason Howe will be joining the Federal Bureau of Investigations," the announcer continued. "He will train at Quantico, Virginia for an additional 3 months, then begin work as a full-fledged Special Agent."

Special Agent. The words were still dancing around in my head as I made my way back to my spot, rejoining the ranks of dozens of other graduates.

Special Agent. I smiled to no one in particular, my eyes staring blankly ahead as I envisioned my future: tons of important cases, heart-pounding raids, getting to wear the fabled windbreaker and cap as I work with cops all over the country. But best of all, I'd get to wear and flash the badge, oh yes, the quintessential FBI ID badge that I've always seen on TV; without it, what kind of special agent would I be?

"Psst. Jason. Jason!"

I snapped out of my daydream, dragged back to the present reality on stage.

"Dude, you're doing it again," Omar hissed. "Not in front of the cameras, man. They're gonna post this online, you know."

Omar, one of my classmates and my best buddy during my time at FLETC, the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, was still looking ahead and smiling, but I could sense the stink-eye his aura was emanating towards me. "You look like Gump whenever you do that, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah." I sighed and maintained my smile; my cheeks were sore from so much forced smiling, and we still had a few dozen more graduates to go. "How many of us were graduating again?"

"Like two hundred or something, I think." Omar shrugged. "Most of them are TSA."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course."

"Hey, hey, cameras, man."

"Right."

We stood there in silence for a few minutes as the announcer continued to call out names and agencies, smiling like clowns long after our good spirits had left us.

"So, FBI, huh?" Omar asked through his smile. "Makes sense, a hotshot like you and all."

"Hey, beats the Secret Service," I retorted. My smile felt like it was wearing me rather than the other way around at this point. "You get to guard the ice machine all day."

"Yeah," he replied, sighing. "Hey, at least I'll get to stay close to home. My first posting is only a fifteen minute drive."

"Lucky." I gazed around the room; we weren't even halfway through the graduates yet. "I gotta move all the way to DC after I finish at Quantico."

We stood silently again for a few minutes.

"You know," he finally said, breaking the awkward silence between us, "I'm gonna miss you, man. Best roomie I ever had, and that includes college."

A twinge of sadness crept up on me as he said that; here we were, about to go our separate paths after spending the better part of the past year training and rooming together.

We had kept a tight ship and schedule, always sat next to each other in classes when allowed, and trained alongside one another during our physical tests; now, the diminutive 20-something-year-old Hispanic dude I called roomie and comrade was about to go to the other side of the country, probably to guard nothing but stairways and ice machines for the next 20 or so years.

"Me too," I replied, feeling myself choking up a bit. "I'll never forget those awful soap operas you put on."

"Bro, those were my family videos."

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna miss your chicken salad, man." I could see that his smile was genuine now, if only for a moment. "Ain't nobody makes chicken salad like you white boys."

The past seven months flashed by in my head; it had been less than a year, but the memories made it feel like it was a lifetime of experiences. Of course, I think things tend to stick when you have to do a hundred crunches or run for miles in the sweltering Georgia summer heat all day with someone; no stronger bond than shared trauma, right?

The announcer was still rattling off when, thankfully, some event staff appeared and began showing lines of graduates off the stage.

"Oh thank God," Omar said through gritted teeth, still smiling but looking like a sad Juggalo, "I think I pulled a muscle or something."

"From smiling?"

"Hey, if it's service-related, right?"

Our row finally turned and shuffled off-stage; as soon as we were backstage and in the adjoining hallways, I could hear countless sighs and mutters of relief from the other graduates.

I was about to go look for a water fountain or something when one of the security guards called for our attention. I was expecting for him to tell us to shut up and stay in file, but instead, he called for us to listen to someone further down the hallway. I looked around, confused as everyone else, but then whoever it was stepped up and immediately made it known he was going to speak.

It was an older guy in a slate-gray suit, black shirt, and red tie; he looked more like a college professor or an accountant, and I would have taken him for such were it not for the holstered Glock on his left hip.

"Everyone," he said, his hands up to get our attention. "Everyone! If I may please have a moment of your time."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The hallway died down to hushed murmurs and whispers, to the man's apparent satisfaction as he continued.

"Thank you all. My name is Paul, and I'm here today to offer you an opportunity." The man looked around at everyone, as if daring someone to look him in the eyes; almost everyone he looked at averted their gazes.

Omar leaned in and whispered. "He's a poacher. I've heard of these kind of guys back at FLETC."

"Poacher?" I asked.

"Yeah. Right after graduation, these guys swoop in and try to poach graduates to come to their agencies instead, offering tons of money and benefits. Some guys say they're fake, meant to test your loyalty to your agency before you start."

I eyed Paul, looking him up and down; he seemed to be in his late-forties, maybe early-fifties, with graying hair and eyeglasses to boot. A scruffy beard lined the lower half of his gaunt face, and his nose was as hooked as a hawk's beak.

But what struck me most were his eyes: they were stormy gray, matching his suit almost perfectly. I found it almost difficult to look at even from an angle; were he to fix his gaze on me, I'm sure I'd recoil like many of the others already have.

"... I'm from an agency called Department 13," he was saying. "Our agency works with a lot of other agencies I'm sure you're familiar with, such as Homeland Security, the FBI, CIA, DoD, and so on."

"What kind of agency are you?" someone called out.

Paul smiled faintly. "We're... a special affairs agency. We deal with special crisis situations that fall outside of the other agencies' missions."

A faint titter went around the room; I could hear whispers of doubt and uncertainty from many of the other graduates.

"What kind of crises?" someone else asked.

"Now that... is classified." Paul's smile widened. "I can assure you, our agency offers very generous benefits and leave. For example, starting out, you are entitled to one-and-a-half months' leave per year."

That got people talking now. I leaned in, my interest piqued; beside me, I could see Omar doing the same.

"How hazardous is your agency's work?" a guy beside me asked; he was a big dude, probably a head taller than my 6-foot frame, and had a bushy beard that jutted out from his bald head. "Benefits like that means the work must be dangerous."

Paul shook his head. "No more dangerous than work at any other special-agent focused agency. Mortality is a constant factor in our line of work, isn't it?"

"I don't trust this guy," Omar whispered. "He feels shady. More so than the average government goon."

Paul swung his gaze over to Omar, as if he had heard his comment. Omar seemed to instinctively flinch and turn away, whereupon Paul switched his view back to the crowd.

"In case that doesn't entice you," Paul continued, his voice low, "then perhaps this will. The vast majority of you are starting at the GS-7 and GS-8 pay ranks, are you not?"

Murmurs of assent went up, including from myself; the starting pay was laughably low, even for my posting at DC. For $43,000 to $57,000 per year, we were expected to work 12-hour days, 6 days a week, and remain on-call as needed during holidays and our day off, all while potentially staring death in the face for certain cases and call-outs. Even with overtime pay, our salaries wouldn't exceed $80,000, and likely wouldn't for the next few years or so; if we were lucky, we'd likely make six figures after a decade or so on the job.

Paul smiled again. "Well, I'll say that, for the first 10 graduates who sign up with our agency, you will receive triple your base General Schedule pay grade as your starting salary. And these salaries are eligible for continued advancement with service."

Now that got the entire hallway in an uproar. People started pushing against each other in the excitement, and it took a few security guards to get the crowd back under control.

As for myself, I was dazed from the thought of it alone: over $100,000 starting out as a rookie agent. It was comparable to a software developer or a computer engineer, but the work was much more interesting and engaging, at least to me.

Paul's smile was the same as he eyed everyone around him. "I will say, however, that our agency doesn't accept just about anyone. We require a very specific criteria, and even then, you may flunk out if you can't maintain our high standards." He turned towards me now; his eyes weren't fixed on me yet, but I could already feel myself wincing from his perceived gaze. "If you decide to try and sign with us and fail, you will be released back to your original agency. No harm, no foul, but it could delay your first posting."

I found myself genuinely mulling this over in my head as the hallway buzzed amongst themselves.

Sure, if I stayed on my path and continued with the FBI, I could try to work my way up, maybe distinguish myself in service to one of the premier agencies in the country; on the other hand, I'd likely remain a low-level agent for the bulk of my career, pining away as yet another cog in the machine for laughably low pay, especially in DC. Here, in front of me now, was an opportunity, as Paul had said; would it really be wise to pass up such a chance, especially one that offered such high pay?

Omar must have sensed what I was thinking. "You really thinking about it, man?"

I shrugged. "So what if I am? You gotta admit, it's good money."

"Yeah, and that must mean the work he does is probably ass." Omar frowned. "You really trust what he says? I still don't trust him at all."

"We're feds now, man. It comes with the job."

"Uh-huh. Me, I'm staying put." He crossed his arms. "I'm in it for the experience, not the money."

"Isn't it gonna be your job to take the bullet for some big-shot up in Washington?"

"Yeah. But at least that's what's on the job description." Omar gestured at Paul. "He didn't say anything about what the job is. You really wanna take his word for it?"

I paused. "Maybe?"

"Damn. You're a stripper." Omar grinned and playfully punched my shoulder. "Flash some cash and you'll drop your pants just like that, huh?"

"Shut up." I grinned as well. "I still don't know, though. Maybe-"

I was startled as Paul seemed to materialize beside us, almost like a ghost. Omar jumped as well; I swear I could see his soul leaping straight out of his body.

"Ah. Mr. Howe, was it?" Paul smiled broadly, revealing a perfect set of porcelain-white teeth. I was genuinely unnerved, seeing him smile so widely.

"Mr. Jason Howe?" Paul extended his hand, which I gingerly shook. "Good meeting you. I've reviewed your records and files from your time at FLETC."

I was face-to-face with Paul, but found myself still avoiding his gaze directly; it felt like his eyes were burning a hole in my face as he spoke mere inches from me.

"I'm... flattered, sir." I fixed my eyes on his blood-red tie. "Your offer certainly sounds tempting."

"I would hope so," he replied, still smiling. "You were among the candidates I had in mind when my agency started this initiative."

I raised a brow. "Why me, sir?"

"Why not? You'd make a model agent, more so here than at the FBI." Paul glanced briefly at Omar, before looking back to me. "Department 13 would appreciate a man of your caliber more than the FBI would. You certainly wouldn't be just a cog in the machine, that's for sure."

I started; how did he know? It was as if he had delved into my thoughts, ripping that exact phrase out of my head.

I looked up at him and finally met his eyes.

They were still stormy gray, but they held an allure to them; it felt like I was staring into the eye of a hurricane, with how turbulent yet tranquil the color seemed to convey.

Paul didn't blink at all, staring straight back into my gaze. The gray irises were brilliant, yes; but it was the piercing black pupils that seemed to pierce straight into my skull and directly into my soul.

My eyes felt as if they were burning, but I couldn't look away, not now; I held my gaze, as if I were in a trance.

My mind screamed for me to look away, but something compelled me to hold his gaze.

It could have been days; it could have been mere milliseconds. I wouldn't have known the difference had Paul not finally looked away.

"I mean it, Mr. Howe," he said. "You'd make a fine agent, but I won't force your hand. Think on it a bit first, then call me if you'd like."

He smiled and winked, before turning away and walking into the crowd.

I was frozen, still mentally trapped in his gaze; I was still trying to get the image of his eyes out of my head when Omar shoved me hard enough to make me stumble.

"Yo, you alright, man?" He looked me up and down. "Creepy little sucker, ain't he?"

I managed to nod, albeit shakily. "Yeah. His eyes, though..."

"You still gonna take him up on that offer?"

I raised a brow. "How? He didn't give me-"

I trailed off as I looked at my right hand. There, clenched tightly in my fingers, was a neat cream-colored business card with simple lettering and numbers.

PAUL WISSENHOFF. SUPERVISORY SPECIAL AGENT. Followed by his number.

"Well?" Omar asked. "You gonna do it?"

I said nothing, still holding the card tightly in my hand.

Omar shrugged and clapped my shoulder, taking the card and shoving it into my pocket. "Worry about it later. Pictures and dinner with the family now, creepy guy later, okay?"

I allowed myself to smile and nodded, letting him guide me into the crowd and the sweet bliss of post-graduation revelry.