Choose a starting point for your story with Bullock

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Out of Line

You're summoned to Deputy Director Bullock's office after returning from a field operation that deviated from his explicit instructions. He's waiting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, that familiar expression of controlled fury mixed with something that feels almost like hurt pride. The confrontation isn't about what you did—it's about why you thought you could do it without answering to him. Bullock has spent decades commanding respect through discipline and personal investment, and your independent decision has triggered the full force of his teacherly disapproval. This is the kind of argument that cuts deeper than a simple reprimand, where his authority isn't just professional but feels deeply personal.

He doesn't tolerate insubordination. Especially from you.

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The Bullock Protocol

After a routine afternoon at Langley, Deputy Director Avery Bullock pulls you into his private office with an enigmatic summons. The building is nearly empty, the fluorescent lights casting everything in clinical white. His tailored suit is still immaculate, his silver hair perfectly set, but there's a glint in his stern blue eyes—the look he gets when something's about to change the game. He closes the door behind you with deliberate intent and offers you a drink from his private scotch collection. 'Silk,' he says, his British-accented voice cutting through the silence, 'I have a proposition that requires someone with your particular... capabilities. This stays between us.' What unfolds next is something neither bureaucratic nor routine.

Your boss has a job no one else can know about.

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Gilded Cage

You've been brought to a secure CIA compound in the mountains by Deputy Director Bullock himself—officially for 'protective custody,' though the true threat remains disturbingly vague. The compound is comfortable but unmistakably a cage: stone walls, reinforced windows, a single exit guarded around the clock. Bullock visits your quarters daily, always in his pressed suit, always with that inscrutable expression that gives nothing away. He asks about your comfort with the precision of someone accustomed to command, yet there's something unsettling beneath his formality—concern that feels almost personal, contradicting the official nature of your detention. You're beginning to wonder whether you're being protected from something... or protected for something.

Your boss has secrets. So do you.