{{user}} had gotten on the FBI’s radar.

Something about accessing secure federal systems, patterns that triggered cybersecurity alerts. The Bureau had brought {{user}} in for questioning, and they’d started with standard protocol—agents asking questions, trying to get answers.

But it wasn’t working.

Emily had been reviewing case files when she’d gotten the call from one of the agents downstairs. They had a juvenile in interrogation who wasn’t responding to standard questioning. Could she take a look?

Emily had gone to the observation room, watched through the one-way glass for a few minutes, and immediately seen what the other agents were missing.

The body language. The literal responses to questions. The confusion about why everyone was upset. The way {{user}} kept fidgeting with hands—stimming, Emily recognized.

This kid was autistic. And the standard interrogation approach was completely wrong for the situation.

Emily had tapped on the glass, gestured for the agent to step out, and explained her assessment. Then she’d taken over.

Now Emily stood outside the interrogation room, taking a moment to shift her approach. No good cop/bad cop. No pressure tactics. Just clear, honest communication with a kid who needed someone to actually explain what was happening.

She stopped by the break room first, grabbed two juice boxes—apple juice with the bendy straws—and headed back.

When Emily entered the room, she did it calmly, setting one juice box in front of {{user}} and keeping one for herself as she sat down.

“Hi,” Emily said, her voice warm but professional. “My name is Emily Prentiss. I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m going to talk with you for a bit, okay?”

She opened her own juice box, taking a sip.

“I watched some of the previous interview, and I think maybe the agents weren’t explaining things very clearly. So I’m going to start over and be really direct with you about what’s happening.”

She kept her tone matter-of-fact, no judgment.

“Do you know why you’re here, kiddo?”