in the quiet loop. (solid snake x reader)

02 - behind you.

"They're not trying to arrest you," Snake said. "They're tracking you to get to us."

You closed your eyes, throat tight. "How fast can you move?"

"If you can burn your ID trail inside six hours, we can disappear before they triangulate the bounce points."

You ground your teeth. "Understood."

"You sure you're ready to stop being a civilian for good?" Snake asked.

Your chest hollowed at the question. You stared at the photocopier's glowing interface, felt the chill of air conditioning prickle your arms. Everything you knew about your job, your safety, and the life you curated like a closed file was about to go up in smoke.

"Wait for it."

You frowned, dragging yourself away from your thoughts. "What?"

The line crackled as if the audio shifted. In the hallway outside the copy room, the wall-mounted TV was broadcasting the national news. You unlocked the door and stepped out, phone still pressed to your ear.

"The body, now confirmed by multiple federal sources, has been identified as that of Solid Snake - the alleged eco-terrorist linked to the recent oil tanker explosion off the coast of Manhattan. His death brings an end to what many consider one of the most controversial legacies in modern military history."

The photos flashed. It was blurred, but still official-looking, and you knew what you were looking at.

It was Liquid branded as Solid Snake. The lie had gone public. On your phone, Hal's voice returned to the call.

"Now you're clear. At least, officially. Your file just got buried under a dead man's shadow."

The news kept rolling, showing archive footage of Snake from his FOXHOUND days. You stood there, watching it.

"Welcome to the other side," Snake said over the line.

The call ended. You stood alone in the corridor, the copy room door swinging gently behind you.

----

You clocked out like it was any other Thursday. Your badge beeped over the scanner with a dry chirp. You stepped through the glass turnstile, nodded at the tired night-shift guard, and felt the automatic doors part for you like they always did.

The air outside hit sharply. It was cooler than you expected. The kind of evening that promised rain but never delivered. A dull wind pressed against your blazer. You tugged your bag higher on your shoulder and headed for the curb. You weren't thinking about the four dark SUVs idling on the side street.

Not until the first one surged forward and blocked the driveway exit.

"Federal agent! Hands where I can see them!"

The words cut through the air like a firecracker. You froze mid-step, blinked, and slowly turned your head.

They were everywhere.

Police officers emerged from cars, badge lanyards swinging in the wind. Tactical teams followed with black fatigues, visors down, and weapons low but visible. Even the ones not pointing their rifles at you wore that tight-lipped, clenched-jaw tension of people convinced they were doing the right thing.

One of them stepped forward, a man with sharp eyes and a clipboard, flanked by two agents in navy windbreakers.

"Y/N," he said crisply. "You are under arrest for violation of the Espionage Act, unauthorized access to classified materials, and conspiracy to commit treason against the United States government."