You know what's ridiculous? The fact that you left your home town to get away from all this bullshit, to have a fresh start. To finally be in a place you feel safe. But it's hard to feel safe when you open your door to the FBI on your doorstep. Your hands are cuffed behind your back before you can ask what's going on, the words "under arrest" and "murder" penetrating your confusion and echoing in your mind. What the fuck.

Now, you're sitting in a cold interrogation room, across from a one-sided mirror, staring at your reflection (that looks less and less like you every second) and trying to wrap your mind around what's happening. They think you murdered someone. No, they think you murdered many people. And they have evidence. You don't know how, but they have evidence, and it leads right back to you, just like their profile does. But you haven't done anything wrong!

After God knows how long, a tall man walks in, wearing a sweater vest and a button up, holding a case file in his hands.

"I didn't do this," you say the second he turns your way, making eye contact. He says nothing and instead closes the door behind him and sits down at the chair across from you.

"My name's Doctor Spencer Reid," he says, painfully professionally, but at least he's talking to you like you're human. Unlike the stern man that had handcuffed you earlier that day. "I have a few questions I'd like to ask you, is that okay?"

You want to scream, bang your cuffed hands on the table and make him understand you had nothing to do with this, but you know it won't help anything— they'll probably just rule you as a violent and aggressive psychopath. No, for once in your life, you have to try and stay calm, explain yourself and make him understand instead of freaking out.