Lovebirds

ETHAN HUNT AND THE (SEMI) IMPOSSIBLE MISSION

He has to give them credit: this chair is pretty comfortable. The armrests placed at a nice height with the seat cushion holding a good amount of fluff. The rest of the room's decorated in bright colored posters which almost cancel out the yellow glow of the only lights in the room. Almost makes one forget that there's no window in this tiny office.

Just the desk he sits opposite of, all its trinkets and technology, and the man with a contemplative face who goes by Mr. Riley.

"So Vincent," Mr. Riley begins, tapping some papers against the desktop to smooth the pile's edges. "Before I start to ask any questions, I want to give you the opportunity to share any lingering feelings you have regarding the Instagram situation. Any anger or confusion or self doubt? Anything you wish you could've done differently? Maybe something you know about the culprit?"

Subtle. Vince has to resist the urge to raise a brow at his social worker. They're still fishing for more information.

"I don't know anything more than you do," he lies. "I wish I did. As for anger and whatnot..." Vince thinks on this a moment. "I'm pretty good. Got some good friends—and the win against Breckton was good— Hockey in general has been good."

"Yes, physical activity is good. Gets the endorphins going." Mr. Riley shuffles his papers again. "I want to ask a little more about the Instagram account you showed us. It looks like it was made for you and your girlfriend, correct?"

Vincent noticeably flinches at the second to last word. Mr. Riley doesn't miss it; shifts in his chair with interest. There is absolutely no subtly with this guy.

"Did the contents of the account impact your relationship in a negative way?"

"I wouldn't... Not negative exactly."

Vince finds his eyes on his hands, head bowed—pulls his gaze up so this Prying Pansy doesn't find any more footholds. It's hard, though, when Spencer's name now echoes in the back of his head. Like a bell. Combining with the sound of ringing phones and shuffling paper from outside the thin walls of the office.

Mr. Riley sits back in his chair, fiddling with a pen, waiting for Vince to elaborate.

Somewhat annoyed (he needs to get out of this office!), "It just got us to talk."

"And did this conversation help?"

Barely hearing himself speak, "I think so." He sees Spence on the roof. Not looking him in the eye, yet piercing his heart with every breath she breathes. Another echo; has to fight the urge to close his eyes—focus!

Ethan Hunt, Ethan Hunt, Ethan Hunt.

Vince's eyes find the clock in the corner of the room. He watches the red second hand shift three times before reentering the conversation.

Mr. Riley sighs, noticing Vince's lack of attention. "Did you know who had been operating the Instagram account before it got hacked?"

"Freddie Carmichael," Vincent states halfheartedly. "But he was the one who ended up telling us it got hacked. He has no clue who did it.

Mr. Riley jots something down. "Okay." Then its his turn to look at the clock; compare it with the time on his watch, then stand, smoothing down his perfectly ironed blue button-up. "Well, thank you for coming in today Vincent," extending a hand while gesturing to the door with the other hand. Vincent shakes the former, follows the latter.

"Please feel free to stop by anytime you need to talk. If you need to talk more about family or relationships, I'm all ears. Have a good day Vincent."

The second Vince is out the door, it closes. Through the slot of a window, Mr. Riley can be seen sitting down again, hand through his hair, to pick up the phone. He leans back in his chair with the receiver up to his ear, but relaxes not one little bit.