The safe house was compromised.
So Callen took them to a place not even the Director knew about—a basement studio beneath a shuttered print shop in Shoreditch.
It was a world of dust and exposed brick, old maps tacked to the walls, cables snaking across the floor. Morgana had the strange sense she'd stepped into someone else's life.
---
*The Debrief – Their Own Way*
"We're off-grid here," Callen said, kicking the door closed. "No cameras. No comms. No listening devices. Just you, me, and whatever Emil's playing at."
Morgana dropped into a chair. Her coat was still damp, her hands trembling slightly, though she'd never admit it.
"Let's start with what we know," he said, pulling a cracked whiteboard closer.
She nodded. "Three shooters. Clean, professional. No insignia."
"And they knew exactly where we were," Callen added, drawing a circle on the board. "Which means someone fed them our location."
---
The List
They worked for hours, piecing together a list of everyone who knew where they'd been assigned.
At the top:
Adrian Locke (Director)
Two senior analysts
Logistics handler
It was a short list—and it cut close to the bone.
---
Psychological Wounds
"Do you think he—?" Callen started, but stopped.
"You want me to say I think Adrian sold me out," Morgana said.
"I want you to say what you actually believe," Callen replied, watching her carefully.
For a moment, she just stared at the map.
"I've spent seven years building myself around the one man who pulled me out of hell," she said softly. "If that foundation cracks…"
Her voice trailed off.
---
The Discovery
On the table lay the photographs Emil had left for her in Prague.
One of them—of her father's gallery—had a faint watermark.
Callen held it to the light.
"Look at this," he said.
Under the lamplight, a tiny set of numbers emerged: coordinates.
Morgana's eyes widened. "This is London."
"Of course it is," Callen murmured. "He wanted us back here all along."
---
The Coordinates
The location led them to a disused postal depot near King's Cross, its brickwork cracked and overgrown.
It was midnight again when they slipped through the chain-link fence.
Inside, the air smelled of rust and mildew. They followed a trail of chalk arrows that led to a single locked office.
On the desk was a laptop already powered on.
---
Emil's Message
A video feed flickered to life.
Emil sat in a leather chair, calm as ever.
"Congratulations," he said, his voice rich and measured. "You've proven you can follow a breadcrumb. Now let's see if you can follow the truth."
Behind him, a blurred silhouette of someone familiar.
"I know there's a traitor among you," Emil continued. "The question is: are you ready to admit who it is?"
The feed cut to black.
---
The Ambush, Again
The sound of boots echoed through the depot.
Morgana and Callen ducked behind a stack of crates just as a security team stormed in—but these weren't Emil's people.
"These are our own," Callen whispered.
"Locke sent them," Morgana realized.
They had seconds to choose: surrender to their own agency, or run.
"Running makes us look guilty," Callen said.
"Staying makes us dead," she replied.
They ran.
Escape Through the Tracks
They bolted through a side door, down into the abandoned service tunnels beneath King's Cross.
The sound of boots and shouted orders chased them, but the maze of tunnels swallowed the noise.
Finally, they collapsed against a wall, lungs burning.
The Cliffhanger
Callen turned to her.
"Whoever Emil's silhouette was—that's someone you know. Isn't it?"
Morgana's face was pale in the dim light.
She didn't answer.
Because she already knew.
It had been someone from inside the agency… someone she had once trusted with her life.