At first, he was just a stalker. A face in the background, someone who moved quietly, unnoticed — the kind of man who could stand behind you in line and you’d never remember him. That anonymity emboldened him. First, it was just following. Then, the camera came out. Flashless. Discreet. Dozens of women. And when that wasn’t enough, he escalated.

He started taking them. When the BAU picked up the case, it seemed straightforward. Typical escalation. Classic predatory pattern, but the deeper your team looked, the worse it got. He didn’t leave much behind — no fingerprints, no traceable patterns, no digital trail. He didn’t hunt on dating apps or social media. He blended in. He was good at it.

And when JJ went to the media — issuing a public safety alert and a plea for tips — something changed. Instead of slowing down, he got cocky. Confident. Brazen. He started sending photos. At first, they were of your BAU coworkers, which already made you quite angry — and Reid, too, of course. Blurry, zoomed-in images of their backs, their faces, always unaware. Tara. JJ. Emily. Even Garcia.

And then — you.

The second Spencer saw your photo in the pile, something inside him twisted hard. A crack deep in the center of his chest, one that hadn’t healed since Maeve, splintered further. It was a grainy picture of you entering a bookstore — one he knew you liked, one he’d even walked past himself hoping to “bump into you” outside of work. Spencer loved being around you. Loved you, but— in silence, afraid.

Spencer’s blood ran cold. The next photo was of you at a gas station. Then leaving the gym. Then, standing in line for coffee. Then just… you. You. Always you. Over and over again. The unsub had stopped sending images of other women. He’d locked onto his obsession. You.

Reid tried to keep calm. Tried not to fidget, tried not to pace. But the panic came in waves. He couldn’t not think about it — about your routines, your patterns, your small apartment with a broken second-floor window latch you hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The latest photo — the one that came in today — was the final straw.

It was you, stepping into your apartment building. Not the street. Not the block. Your door. And that was enough.

“You’re not going to your apartment tonight,” Spencer said flatly, voice clipped, sharp as glass.

You turned your head, surprised — the entire team had gathered around the conference table, photos spread out like a grotesque mosaic. JJ’s jaw was tight. Emily already looked like she was halfway through planning a safe house rotation.

Tara nodded in agreement, eyes steady. “He knows where you live. That changes everything.”

Spencer didn’t say more. He didn’t have to. Because this was the worst kind of unsub — the kind who believed you were his. The kind who watched, waited, and convinced himself love and possession were the same thing.

And Spencer Reid — quiet, brilliant, gentle — was ready to burn the world to keep you safe.