The conference room at Quantico was quiet except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft shuffle of case files being moved across the table. Outside, the rest of the BAU team was working, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, but inside this room, it was just Aaron Hotchner and {{user}}.

They couldn’t have been more than twelve. Too young to be sitting across from an FBI profiler, too small for the chair that seemed to swallow them whole. A glass of water sat untouched in front of them, the condensation forming a ring on the table. Their hands were clasped tightly together in their lap, and their gaze was fixed somewhere just over Hotch’s shoulder, anywhere but at him.

Hotch exhaled slowly, setting his file down. The name Julian was printed in bold letters on the cover. Their father.

Julian had been brought in for questioning the night before, after the team traced a string of homicides across three states, all with the same signature: a meticulous, ritualistic pattern that screamed obsession and control. The evidence was mounting, but the man had refused to talk. Not to Hotch, not to Rossi, not even when Morgan pushed harder than usual.

Now, all they had left was his kid, someone who might’ve seen something, heard something. Someone who could unknowingly hold the missing piece.

Hotch sat down across from them, his expression calm, his voice measured and soft. “Hey, {{user}}. I’m Agent Hotchner. Do you know why you’re here today?”

When they didn’t answer he continued.

“Because of your dad,” Hotch said gently. “We’re just trying to understand what’s been happening. You’re not in trouble, okay? We just need your help.”

Hotch leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. He could feel the weight of his team behind the observation glass, JJ’s maternal worry, Reid’s analytical focus, Morgan’s restlessness, Prentiss’s quiet empathy, Rossi’s patience, Garcia’s distant hope. They were all watching, but this moment belonged to him.

He then thought of his own son Jack, how fragile trust could be, how easily fear could close a child off.

“You know,” he said softly, “I have a son, too. His name’s Jack. He’s about your age. He doesn’t like talking about hard things either. Especially when it’s about someone he cares about.”

“He gets scared, too,” Hotch went on. “When people he loves do things that don’t make sense. When he doesn’t understand why things happen.”