Chapter Text
The alarm went off at six.
It wasn’t jarring. Just a soft chime that faded almost as soon as it began. He reached over and turned it off before the second note could sound. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house settling around him.
Morning light filtered through the blinds in narrow bands. Everything was in its place.
He made the bed before leaving the room.
In the kitchen, he washed his hands carefully, methodically, drying them on a clean towel. The routine mattered. Structure mattered. He set a pan on the stove and cracked two eggs into a bowl, whisking them with small, even motions. The fork tapped lightly against ceramic.
He hummed while he cooked.
It was an old tune. Cheerful. The kind that clung to memory without effort.
Bread went into the toaster. He watched the numbers on the dial as he adjusted it, ensuring it was set exactly where it should be.
From the cabinet, he took down two plates.
One was plain white ceramic.
The other was smaller, plastic, bright blue with worn cartoon animals circling the rim. He set it gently on the counter and retrieved a soft green spoon from the drawer. The handle was thick, designed for unsteady hands.
The eggs were divided with care. A larger portion onto the ceramic plate. A smaller one onto the blue. He cut the toast into neat squares for the smaller serving, arranging them so they didn’t overlap. After a brief pause, he added a small spoonful of jam to the edge of the plate.
A reward.
He carried everything to the table. Napkins folded. Glasses filled with water. The chair at the head of the table pulled back slightly, ready.
The humming continued as he surveyed the setting. Satisfied, he wiped an invisible crumb from the surface and turned off the stove.
The hallway was dimmer than the kitchen, the air cooler. His footsteps were unhurried. Outside the last door on the right sat a wheelchair, positioned neatly against the wall.
He opened the door.
"Good morning," he said warmly.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic beneath it.
The curtains were drawn halfway, letting thin stripes of light stretch across the bed. A man lay there, restrained at the wrists with padded cuffs secured to the frame. An IV line ran from a pole beside him, clear fluid dripping at a steady rhythm into the vein at his arm.
His breathing shifted at the sound of the voice. Eyes opened slowly. There was awareness there, dulled at the edges, moving through haze.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He simply looked.
"You slept well," the man at the door continued, stepping inside. His tone was patient, reassuring. "That’s important."
He moved first to the IV, checking the line with practiced hands. He pressed lightly near the insertion point, watched the drip chamber, adjusted the flow with careful precision.
"There we are," he murmured.
He approached the bed and brushed a stray lock of hair back from the man’s forehead. The gesture was almost tender.
"Breakfast is ready," he said softly. "We’ll sit you up today. You can eat at the table."
He smiled.
"Like a big boy."
The older I grow, the more earnestly I feel that the few joys of childhood are the best that life has to give. — Ellen Glasgow
The bullpen was already loud by the time JJ stepped out of the elevator, the kind of layered noise that came from too many sharp minds waking up at once. Phones rang. Keyboards clicked in uneven bursts. Someone laughed too loudly near the filing cabinets. The overhead lights hummed faintly, fighting the gray of early morning that still clung to the windows.
JJ adjusted the files in her arms and paused just long enough to take it in. Morgan was leaning back in his chair, boots hooked carelessly around the legs of his desk, arms folded like he had nowhere better to be.
"I’m just saying," Morgan said, shaking his head, "statistically speaking, kid, you had to have done something reckless in college."
Reid didn’t look up from the stack of papers in front of him. "Define reckless."
Prentiss, perched on the edge of her desk, raised a brow. "That’s already concerning."
"I once stayed awake for eighty-two consecutive hours to complete a paper on geographic profiling methodologies," Reid said matter-of-factly.
Morgan stared at him.
"That’s not reckless," Morgan said slowly. "That’s tragic."
"It received the highest grade in the department," Reid replied. "And I was sixteen."
"Reid," Prentiss said gently, "most sixteen-year-olds experiment with alcohol. You experimented with circadian rhythm destruction."
Rossi sat a few desks away, reading a thick hardcover. He didn’t bother looking up. "He still does."
Reid opened his mouth, then shut it again, apparently deciding this wasn’t a battle he would win.
JJ smiled faintly and kept walking. As she passed Hotch’s office, she slowed. Through the blinds, she saw him standing beside his desk, phone pressed to his ear. His posture was straight as ever, but there was a softness in his expression that didn’t often make appearances in the bullpen.
"Yes," he said, voice lower than usual. "That sounds good."
A pause.
"No, buddy, you still have to brush your teeth."
The smallest smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
JJ knocked lightly and pushed the door open just enough to catch his attention. He glanced at her, nodding once.
"Briefing room will be ready in five minutes," she said quietly.
He gave another nod and turned slightly away, his voice softening again. "I have to go. I’ll call tonight."
Another pause.
"I know. I love you too."
He ended the call and set the phone down with care, the softness settling back into something neutral. By the time he stepped into the bullpen, he was composed, all edges in place.
JJ headed into the briefing room. The round table gleamed under bright lights, empty and waiting. She set the files at each seat, straightened the notepads, aligned the pens. Habit. Order.
She connected her laptop to the monitor on the wall, and the screen flickered to life. The first slide loaded, but she didn’t look at it yet.
One by one, the others came in.
Morgan took his seat with a quiet thud. Prentiss followed, expression sharpening the second she noticed JJ’s face. Reid slipped into his chair, already flipping open the file. Rossi entered last, closing his book as he sat.
The large monitor on the far wall shifted, and Garcia’s face filled half the screen in a burst of color and brightness.
"Good morning, my crime-fighting cherubs," she said, adjusting her headset. "Please tell me we are not dealing with clowns. I’ve had enough clowns this year."
"No clowns," Morgan said. "Probably worse."
Garcia sighed dramatically. "Of course it is."
Hotch entered and took his place at the table. The room quieted automatically.
"What do we have?" he asked.
JJ clicked to the first slide.
Six faces appeared in a grid. Different ages. Different backgrounds. Different lives abruptly ended.
"Six victims," JJ began. "Found in separate motel rooms across three states over the last eight months."
She advanced the slide.
Crime scene photos replaced the portraits. Each victim lay in a bed, covers pulled neatly to their chins. The rooms were tidy. Unremarkable. Almost peaceful.
"They were held for approximately four to five weeks prior to death," JJ continued. "Toxicology reports show prolonged exposure to low-dose sedatives."
Reid leaned forward. "Benzodiazepines, most likely. Possibly administered intravenously to maintain consistent blood concentration."
Garcia made a small distressed noise through the speakers. "I hate everything about that sentence."
JJ clicked again.
Each victim wore pajamas. Bright colors. Cartoon prints. Childlike patterns that clashed against adult faces.
"They were dressed like this when found," JJ said quietly. "Tucked in."
Morgan’s jaw tightened. "He’s putting them to bed."
"Or staging innocence," Prentiss murmured.
Rossi studied the screen carefully. "It’s ritual."
JJ brought up the next slide.
"No shared employment. No direct connections between victims. Geographic spread suggests mobility."
Garcia’s face shifted slightly as she read something on her own screen. "But there is something else."
Hotch looked up at the monitor. "Go ahead."
"They were all only children," Garcia said. "No siblings. No half-siblings. No adoptions. Just them."
The room went still.
"All six?" Morgan asked.
"All six," Garcia confirmed.
Reid frowned, already thinking three steps ahead. "Only children lack sibling attachment dynamics. No early development of protective or competitive roles within the family unit."
"In normal terms?" Prentiss asked.
"They grow up without peer-level familial bonds," Reid clarified. "No one to shield. No one to rival."
Rossi leaned back slightly. "So he’s choosing people who grew up alone."
JJ nodded and clicked to the next slide.
Medical reports filled the screen.
"Each victim had multiple emergency room visits between ages five and twelve," she said.
Reid’s eyes sharpened. "Pattern injuries."
"Broken bones," JJ confirmed. "Bruised ribs. Concussions. Repeated contusions."
Morgan’s expression hardened. "Abuse."
"Documented as accidents," JJ said. "Sports injuries. Rough play. Falls."
Garcia’s voice softened through the speakers. "Someone’s pulling archived pediatric records. These aren’t easy to access."
Reid spoke again, quieter. "He’s selecting adults who were abused as children. Only children. Isolating them. Sedating them."
"Trying to send them back," Prentiss said.
"Regression," Reid replied. "Environmental manipulation over weeks can induce childlike behavioral states under prolonged stress."
Garcia shook her head on-screen. "That’s twisted."
"He’s not disorganized," Rossi said. "He’s methodical."
Hotch had been silent, gaze fixed on the screen. When he spoke, his voice was even.
"He holds them long enough to establish routine," he said. "Long enough to condition compliance."
Morgan glanced at him. "To what end?"
Hotch’s jaw tightened slightly. "Control."
JJ watched him carefully, but his expression didn’t shift.
Reid continued, "He may believe he’s preserving something. Childhood. Innocence. In his cognitive framework, adulthood represents corruption or harm."
"Mercy," Prentiss said flatly.
"In his mind," Reid agreed.
JJ glanced at the image of the carefully tucked blankets.
"He thinks he’s protecting them," she said.
The word lingered.
Garcia cleared her throat softly. "I’ll start pulling lists of anyone with access to archived pediatric medical data in the victims’ home states. IT specialists. Compliance officers. Insurance auditors. Anyone with backend clearance."
"Cross-reference with motel bookings and recent travel," Hotch added.
"You got it," Garcia said. "Give me a little time and a lot of caffeine."
The screen flickered back to the crime scene images.
Six beds. Six carefully arranged bodies.
Rossi closed his file slowly. "He’s not killing out of rage."
"No," Hotch said.
He looked around the table, steady and composed.
"He believes he’s saving them."
Silence settled heavily across the room.
"Wheels up in thirty," Hotch said.
The jet touched down in Denver under a low ceiling of gray clouds, the kind that flattened the mountains into distant shadows and made the air feel thinner than it already was. JJ felt the subtle shift in cabin pressure as the wheels hit the runway, the quiet jolt traveling up through her spine. Across from her, Reid was already rereading his notes, lips moving faintly as he recalculated distances in his head. Morgan sat angled toward the aisle, jaw tight, staring at nothing in particular.
Hotch had received the call twenty minutes before landing.
Another body.
Found that morning.
Female. Twenty-eight. Motel off the interstate, fifteen miles from the previous scene.
The timing was wrong. Too fast.
By the time they exited the plane, the local police liaison was waiting on the tarmac, wind cutting sharp across the open space. Introductions were quick. No one wasted words.
They split up in the parking lot without ceremony.
Morgan and Prentiss headed for the motel. JJ and Reid climbed into a cruiser bound for the precinct. Hotch and Rossi drove separately toward the county morgue, neither of them speaking for the first several minutes.
Denver passed by in muted colors through the windshield. Rows of buildings. Bare trees clawing at the sky. People walking briskly along sidewalks, unaware.
Rossi broke the silence first. "Six victims in eight months," he said, staring straight ahead. "Then seventh one in around a week."
Hotch’s hands rested steady on the steering wheel. "Something changed."
Rossi glanced at him. "Or something went wrong."
Hotch didn’t respond.
At the motel, Morgan stepped out of the car and surveyed the building. Two stories. Faded paint. The kind of place where people came and went without questions. Yellow tape fluttered lazily across the door of room 214.
Prentiss ducked under it first.
The room smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and something else beneath it. Not decay. That had already been handled. Just a lingering heaviness.
Morgan closed the door behind them.
The bed sat against the far wall, covers pulled neatly up. Fresh sheets. The body had already been removed, but the outline of where she’d been was still visible in the subtle indentation of the mattress.
Prentiss moved closer, studying it. "He placed her here."
"After," Morgan agreed. "No disturbance in the room."
The dresser was untouched. The carpet vacuumed. Trash can empty. Bathroom pristine.
Morgan checked the window. Locked from the inside.
"He’s not keeping them here," Prentiss said. "This is a drop site."
Morgan nodded slowly. "He holds them somewhere else. Controlled environment. Then stages the body."
Prentiss crouched near the bed, examining the nightstand. No glass rings. No fingerprints visible without dusting. "It’s careful. Almost respectful. Intentional."
Morgan exhaled through his nose, scanning the room again. "No signs of struggle. Same as the others."
"Which means she was compliant," Prentiss said.
"Or too sedated to resist."
Prentiss straightened, crossing her arms. "If he accelerated the timeline, that changes something."
Morgan looked at her. "You think she fought?"
"Maybe," Prentiss said. "Maybe she didn’t start regressing the way he expected."
Morgan glanced back at the bed, at the carefully smoothed blankets. "Or maybe he didn’t have time."
At the precinct, JJ and Reid stood over a whiteboard already crowded with maps and timelines. Red pins marked recovery sites. Blue circles marked the victims’ childhood homes.
Reid drew a line between two clusters, then another, his handwriting precise and small.
"If we assume the primary holding location is central to the majority of childhood residences rather than body disposal sites," he said, stepping back, "we’re looking at a midpoint somewhere here."
JJ studied the map. "That’s suburban. Mostly residential."
"Which would allow for long-term captivity without attracting attention," Reid replied. "Low foot traffic. Detached homes. Minimal oversight."
JJ glanced at the timeline taped beside the board. "The new victim compresses the pattern."
Reid nodded. "The previous victims were held between twenty-eight and thirty-five days. This one was held for six."
"Six," JJ repeated.
"That suggests deviation," Reid said. "Either he felt pressured or she disrupted the fantasy."
JJ thought of the crime scene photos. The neatness. The order. "If his delusion centers on preservation of innocence, regression would be essential."
"And regression takes time," Reid added.
JJ turned toward him. "What if she didn’t give it to him?"
Reid paused, considering. "Resistance would threaten his constructed narrative."
"Which could accelerate the end," JJ said quietly.
At the morgue, fluorescent lights cast everything in stark relief. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed under the hum of ventilation. The medical examiner, a woman in her late forties with tired but sharp eyes, greeted them without preamble.
"You’re here about number six and seven," she said, pulling off her gloves.
"Yes," Rossi said. "We just received word of the latest."
She nodded. "I’ve examined both."
She led them to a workstation, flipping open a file. Photographs lay clipped inside.
"The second-to-last victim," she began, tapping the image, "male, thirty-four. Held approximately thirty days based on muscle atrophy patterns and nutritional markers. Well fed. Hydrated. No significant weight loss."
She turned a page.
"Toxicology consistent with low-dose benzodiazepines. Repeated administration. No signs of restraint-related trauma beyond minor wrist irritation."
Hotch’s gaze remained fixed on the photos. "Cause of death?"
"Suffocation. Soft object. No defensive wounds."
She shifted to the next file.
"The most recent victim," she said. "Female. Twenty-eight."
Rossi leaned slightly forward.
"She was in relatively good shape," the examiner continued. "Fed. Hydrated. Similar sedation levels in toxicology. No evidence of prolonged malnutrition."
"Duration of captivity?" Hotch asked.
The examiner hesitated slightly. "Approximately six to eight days."
Rossi exchanged a glance with Hotch.
"That’s significantly shorter," Rossi said.
"Yes," she agreed. "Muscle tone intact. Minimal atrophy. Stress markers elevated, but not consistent with a month-long confinement."
Hotch’s voice remained even. "Cause of death?"
"Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Single impact."
"Not suffocation," Rossi observed.
"No."
"Defensive wounds?" Hotch asked.
The examiner shook her head. "None visible. But there is something."
She turned a page and slid the photograph forward.
Small crescent-shaped abrasions lined the inside of the victim’s forearms.
"Pressure marks," she said. "Like she strained against restraints."
Rossi studied the image. "The others didn’t have this."
"No," she confirmed. "The prior victims showed minimal resistance."
Hotch’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"She fought," he said.
"Or she panicked," Rossi added.
The examiner nodded. "Additionally, the sedative concentration in her system was slightly lower than the others at time of death."
"Lower how?" Hotch asked.
"Within therapeutic range, but not as consistently maintained. There were fluctuations."
Rossi folded his arms. "He lost control."
Hotch stared at the photograph, at the faint marks on her skin. "Or she didn’t give him what he wanted."
At the motel, Morgan leaned against the wall near the window, watching as forensics dusted surfaces.
Prentiss stepped beside him. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"
"Depends," he said.
"She disrupted the timeline."
Morgan nodded once. "He rushed."
Prentiss glanced at the neatly made bed again. "If his pattern depends on psychological regression, he needs time. Routine. Conditioning."
"And she didn’t comply," Morgan said.
"Or he couldn’t break her," Prentiss replied.
Morgan’s mouth curved slightly, humorless. "Maybe she reminded him of someone else."
Prentiss looked at him. "Sibling?"
"Could be," Morgan said. "If his trauma centers on losing a sibling, someone who fought back might trigger something."
Prentiss exhaled. "Or maybe she saw through him."
Morgan pushed off the wall. "Either way, he escalated."
Back at the morgue, the examiner closed the file.
"Nothing else stands out," she said. "Physiologically, she matches the others. Well cared for. Sedated. Then dead."
Rossi thanked her quietly.
As they stepped into the hallway, the sterile air giving way to something less clinical, Rossi spoke first.
"She wasn’t like the others," he said.
"No," Hotch agreed.
"She disrupted him."
Hotch stared straight ahead, eyes distant but focused. "Or he saw something in her he didn’t expect."
Rossi glanced sideways at him. "Like what?"
Hotch didn’t answer immediately.
"Defiance," he said at last.
The word hung between them.
Outside, the sky had darkened slightly, clouds thickening over the city.
Steam curled softly against the ceiling, gathering in pale clouds that blurred the edges of the small bathroom. The light above the mirror flickered once before settling, casting everything in a muted yellow glow. Water dripped steadily from the faucet into the half-filled tub, a quiet, rhythmic sound beneath the low hum of a nursery rhyme.
He knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled carefully to his elbows.
The man sat inside the bath, wrists loosely secured to metal loops bolted discreetly into the tiled wall. The restraints were padded. Thoughtful. The IV line had been removed earlier for the bath, a small square of gauze taped neatly over the puncture site. His hair was damp, darker than usual, clinging to his forehead. His eyes were unfocused but not entirely empty. They tracked movement slowly, like someone surfacing through layers of fog.
He dipped the sponge into the warm water and squeezed it gently over the man’s shoulder. The water slid down his skin in thin rivulets.
"There we go," he murmured, voice light, almost pleased. "All clean."
The nursery rhyme continued under his breath, soft and steady. The kind meant to soothe.
He ran the sponge down the man’s arm with careful strokes, lifting each wrist to wash beneath it, mindful of the restraints. There was no rush in his movements. He worked methodically, as though tending to something fragile.
The man’s gaze dropped to the water, watching the ripples spread and disappear.
He noticed.
A small smile curved his mouth.
"Oh," he said gently, tilting his head. "Are you feeling shy?"
He wrung out the sponge again and reached for the other arm.
"It’s alright," he cooed. "You don’t have to be embarrassed."
The man’s shoulders tensed faintly at the word embarrassed. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
He hummed louder for a moment, then softened again.
"I had to send her away," he said after a pause, as if continuing a conversation already in progress. "She wasn’t good for you."
The sponge moved to the man’s chest, slow circles, gentle pressure.
"She made things harder," he went on, voice tinged with faint regret. "You were getting confused."
The man blinked slowly. His breathing remained steady, shallow but controlled.
"She didn’t understand how important it is to listen," he added, almost sadly. "That’s why she couldn’t stay."
He reached up and brushed damp hair away from the man’s eyes with the back of his fingers.
"But you’re doing so well," he whispered.
For a moment, the only sound was the drip of water and the soft melody under his breath.
He leaned back slightly, studying the man’s face as though evaluating progress. The lowered gaze. The stillness. The compliance.
"Yes," he murmured to himself. "You just need the right influence."
He dipped the sponge again, squeezing water over narrow shoulders.
"I’ll find you someone better," he promised. "Someone gentle."
His smile widened, pleased with the thought.
"A brother this time," he decided quietly. "Boys understand each other."
The bullpen at the Denver precinct had thinned by the time they regrouped, the hum of the building lowering into that late-evening lull where exhaustion dulled even the sharpest edges. A whiteboard stood crowded with timelines and arrows that looped back into themselves, every theory leading somewhere and nowhere at the same time. JJ leaned against the table with her arms crossed, staring at the map as though it might rearrange itself if she glared long enough. Morgan paced. Prentiss sat on the edge of a desk, boot heel tapping absently against the metal drawer. Reid stood near the board, marker in hand, though he hadn’t written anything in the last five minutes.
"It doesn’t fit," Morgan said for what felt like the tenth time.
Rossi rubbed his temple. "We keep assuming male because of physical control."
"Because statistically it is male," Reid corrected automatically, though without heat. "Abduction, prolonged captivity, interstate mobility—"
"But the caretaking," JJ cut in quietly. "Bathing. Feeding. Clean scenes. No sexual assault."
"Men don’t usually nurture their victims," Prentiss said. "That pattern skews female."
"Not always," Rossi replied. "But it’s rare."
Morgan stopped pacing. "He’s not just controlling them. He’s tending to them."
"Which implies attachment," Reid said.
"Or projection," JJ added.
Hotch had been silent for most of the exchange, hands resting on the edge of the table, gaze fixed on the spread of photographs and timelines. The new victim’s compressed timeline lingered like a splinter beneath the skin.
"He sees himself as a protector," Hotch said at last. "Gender may not align with typical expectations. He isn’t acting out sexual dominance. He’s acting out preservation."
Morgan exhaled sharply. "Still doesn’t make sense."
"Psychopathology rarely does," Rossi muttered.
They circled the same points again. Access to medical records. Only children. Regression. The seventh victim who hadn’t lasted the month. Every angle bent back toward motive, and motive bent back toward delusion.
By the time the precinct lights dimmed overhead, they were running on fumes.
"We’re not getting anything else tonight," JJ said quietly.
No one argued.
The motel they chose was clean but bland, beige walls and industrial carpet that smelled faintly of detergent. The irony wasn’t lost on any of them. Morgan muttered something under his breath about cursed hospitality. Prentiss rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree.
Rooms were assigned in pairs without much discussion. Morgan and Reid. Prentiss and JJ. Rossi volunteered to take the pullout couch in Morgan and Reid’s room if needed.
Hotch automatically reached for a double.
"I’ll take the couch," he said.
"No," Prentiss said immediately.
He looked at her.
"It’s your turn," Morgan added. "You never take a room alone."
"That’s not necessary," Hotch began.
"It is," JJ cut in gently.
Reid nodded. "Statistically, your cognitive efficiency declines without adequate REM cycles."
Morgan blinked at him, then looked back at Hotch. "That was his cue to say yes, man."
Hotch hesitated for a fraction of a second, then inclined his head. "Fine."
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, scanning automatically before letting it close behind him. The room was standard. Bed. Desk. Lamp. Curtains drawn.
He set his go-bag on the chair and loosened his tie, the fabric sliding free from his collar. For a moment, he simply stood there in the quiet, jacket draped over the back of the chair, listening to the steady hum of the air conditioner. The room smelled faintly of detergent and something overly floral. It wasn’t home. It never was. He loosened his tie, rolled his shoulders once, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He stared at the screen for half a second longer than necessary before pressing call.
Jack answered on the third ring.
"Dad!"
The sheer brightness in his son’s voice loosened something tight in his chest.
"Hey, buddy," Hotch said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "How was your day?"
"It was awesome," Jack rushed out. "We did a science experiment, and Aunt Jess said I had to tell you exactly what happened because it was technically my fault but also not my fault."
Hotch huffed a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh. "All right. Start at the beginning."
"So we were making a volcano," Jack said, words tumbling over each other. "With baking soda and vinegar. And I put in extra baking soda because I wanted it to be bigger. Like really big. Like Mount St. Helens big."
"Ambitious," Hotch murmured.
"And then it exploded out of the cup and it got on the counter and on the floor and on Aunt Jess’s sweater, and she said it was fine but she made that face."
"What face?"
"The tight smile face."
Hotch could picture it perfectly. "That’s usually a warning sign."
"I said I was sorry," Jack added quickly. "And I cleaned it up. Mostly."
"I’m glad you cleaned it up," Hotch said. "Next time, maybe warn Aunt Jess before you try to recreate a natural disaster."
Jack giggled. "Okay. But it was really cool."
"I don’t doubt it."
There was a pause, then Jack said, "I got my spelling test back."
"And?"
"I got a hundred."
"That’s great, Jack."
"And Mrs. Rodriguez put a star on it. A gold one. Not a sticker. She drew it."
"That’s even better," Hotch said, pride threading quietly through his voice. "What words were on the test?"
"Neighborhood. Because. Enough. And ‘responsibility,’ but I practiced that one with Aunt Jess."
"That’s a hard word."
"I know. I spelled it right."
"I’m proud of you."
Jack was quiet for a second, absorbing that.
"And soccer?" Hotch asked.
"I scored a goal," Jack said immediately. "But it kind of bounced off my knee first."
"It still counts."
"Coach said I need to keep my eye on the ball. And I am keeping my eye on the ball. I just blinked."
Hotch smiled faintly. "Blinking is allowed."
Another small pause. Jack lowered his voice slightly. "My tooth is still loose."
"Which one?"
"The bottom one. It wiggles a lot now."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not really. Just feels weird."
"That’s normal. Don’t force it."
"I won’t," Jack promised.
Silence lingered for a beat longer than usual.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
The words were softer now.
Hotch’s fingers tightened slightly around the phone. "I know, buddy."
"When are you coming home?"
"Soon," he said gently. "We’re working on something important, but I’ll be home before you know it."
"Okay."
"Be good for Aunt Jess."
"I am."
"I know you are."
Another small breath on the other end.
"I love you," Jack said.
Hotch closed his eyes briefly. "I love you too."
When the call ended, the room felt much quieter than before.
He set the phone down and unholstered his gun, placing it on the nightstand within reach. Habit. He washed his face in the small bathroom sink, staring at his reflection for a long moment. The fluorescent light caught the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint shadow beneath them.
He lay down fully clothed, promising himself he'd close his eyes just for a moment, one hand resting loosely near the edge of the mattress.
The knock came just past midnight.
Three quick raps. Not frantic. Controlled.
Hotch’s eyes opened instantly.
He didn’t move at first. He listened.
Silence stretched thin, then another knock followed, firmer this time.
He rolled off the bed without turning on the light, already reaching for his gun. The weight of it grounded him. He moved to the side of the door, back flat against the wall, and leaned just enough to look through the peephole.
A man stood in the hallway, one hand braced against the opposite wall as if to keep himself upright. Blood ran from his hairline down the side of his face, dark and wet, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His breathing looked uneven. His shoulders rose and fell too quickly.
Hotch’s instincts sharpened, but not in alarm. In assessment.
He disengaged the safety and cracked the door open just a few inches, chain still latched.
"Can I help you?" he asked, voice low, steady.
The man lifted his head. His eyes were glassy, unfocused in a way that suggested shock.
"Please," he rasped. "I—I need help. Someone—"
Hotch studied him. The blood. The stance. The way his weight favored one side.
Too controlled.
He slid the chain free but kept the door mostly closed, opening it only enough to step partially into the frame, gun still low and angled out of sight from the hallway.
"Who did this to you?" Hotch asked.
The man’s gaze flicked—not at Hotch’s face—but slightly past him, into the room.
Then he moved.
It wasn’t frantic. It was precise.
The door slammed fully open with sudden force, knocking Hotch’s shoulder back just enough to disrupt his balance. Before he could bring the gun up, a hand clamped down hard around his wrist, driving it sideways into the doorframe. Pain shot up his arm. His grip loosened for half a second.
It was enough.
The weapon was wrenched free before he could recover.
A sharp pressure struck the side of his neck.
A puncture.
A brief, biting sting followed by the unmistakable rush of liquid forced into muscle.
Hotch drove forward on instinct, slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest, but his limbs already felt wrong—sluggish, disconnected from command.
He tried to shout.
A hand covered his mouth, firm and unyielding. A cloth forced between his teeth, muffling the sound before it could form. He bit down hard, but his jaw responded slower than it should have. The strength drained almost immediately.
"What—" he tried, but the word dissolved into fabric.
His vision wavered.
The hallway seemed to tilt sideways, lights stretching into pale streaks. He reached again for control, for leverage, for anything—but his arm didn’t rise the way it should have. It trembled instead, fingers brushing uselessly against the man’s sleeve.
The gun was gone.
His knees buckled without warning.
Strong arms caught him before he hit the carpet.
"Easy," the man murmured, voice no longer strained or panicked. Calm now. Measured. "It’s all right."
Hotch fought to focus. He forced his eyes to stay open, to lock onto the man’s face. Memorize.
Brown eyes. Steady. Not frantic. Not injured.
The blood.
Too dark. Too thick.
Stage blood.
His heart slammed against his ribs as understanding cut through the fog.
He had walked into it.
He tried to move his left hand.
Nothing.
Tried his right.
Nothing.
His legs might as well have been someone else’s.
The paralysis crept upward, heavy and cold, swallowing muscle and will alike. He could still feel his pulse hammering. Still feel the rush of air into his lungs. But everything else was slipping beyond reach.
The man adjusted his grip, lowering him carefully to the floor.
"You did very well," he said softly, almost kindly. "You opened the door."
Hotch tried to speak around the cloth, to force sound past it, but his tongue felt thick, foreign in his own mouth.
His body no longer belonged to him.
Only his eyes moved, darting, frantic, tracking every detail he could as the man hauled him upright again.
The hallway lights burned too bright. The carpet scratched faintly against his cheek as he was shifted.
He couldn’t stop it.
He couldn’t stop any of it.
Fear rose sharp and metallic at the back of his throat, bitter against his tongue, filling his mouth as his vision blurred at the edges.
The last thing he registered was the man’s voice again, low and soothing.
"Shh."