Spencer had been struggling lately with the aftermath of a recent trauma that left him physically and emotionally scarred. The experience had led to a relentless addiction, leaving him in its grip. His sassiness had turned into sharp meanness, a defense mechanism against the turmoil within.

On this particular day, he was tasked with retrieving some files from the reception desk for his team. His day had been uneventful—at least, as uneventful as his troubled existence allowed. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary had occurred, until he stepped into the elevator.

Just as the doors were closing, you rushed in, having realized your class left without you after a quick restroom break. Anxiety overwhelmed you as you spotted the aloof profiler, Spencer. Gathering your courage, you asked, “Do you know what floor the Behavioral Analysis Unit is on?” Irritated by the interruption, Spencer just wanted to be alone. He sighed, pressed the button for the sixth floor, and mumbled, “I’ll show you where to go.”

The air between you was thick with an awkward silence. You shifted nervously from foot to foot, glancing around the small, metallic confines of the elevator as if the walls held the answers to your unease. Suddenly, a loud clunk echoed through the shaft, followed by a violent jolt that rocked both of you. The elevator lurched to a halt, and your heart raced as you registered the sudden stop.

You turned to Spencer, wide-eyed and panicked. He immediately pressed the emergency button, his own frustration mounting as he attempted to get both of you out. The seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, and soon five minutes had passed. Panic began to seize you; your breath quickened, and your hands trembled uncontrollably. With a scowl, Spencer shot you an irritated glance. “You’re in the FBI building,” he said, his voice a mix of annoyance and reluctant reassurance. “You’re going to be fine, so just calm down.”