The bass thrummed through the floor—low, dirty, meant to drown out conscience and sharpen greed.

The underground club hid itself well behind a condemned warehouse façade, but once inside, it was all smoke-hazed lights, illegal betting tables, and armed men with quick eyes. A perfect nest for the gambling-and-gun ring the BAU had been tracking for months.

And tonight, you were the bait.

You stepped through the beaded curtain first, dressed in a deep, sultry red that caught every shifting light. The role of singer-slash-call-girl fit you like it was stitched from the shadows themselves. Every pair of eyes you needed found you immediately.

Behind you, your three “bodyguards” fanned out in a subtle protective arc.

Derek Morgan walked with that easy predatory swagger—shoulders broad, chin up, gaze sharp. His black shirt strained just enough to sell the look of a hired enforcer.

Aaron Hotchner was the opposite—controlled, cool, every step precise. Dressed in tailored black with a discreet earpiece, he looked like the man you hired when you wanted someone alive through the night.

And then there was Spencer Reid.

Hair tucked back. Black suit jacket. Eyes trying very, very hard to look intimidating—though the tension in his jaw wasn’t acting. Not when it came to you. His hand hovered close to your lower back, careful to appear professional but close enough to reach you in half a heartbeat.

Someone whistled low from the bar.

Someone else muttered, “That must be the new girl.”

Spencer stiffened.

Derek smirked sideways. “Easy, pretty boy. Remember the cover.”

Hotch didn’t turn his head, but there was a soft warning in his voice. “Focus. Eyes on the exits, both of you.”

You turned back slightly, catching Spencer’s gaze beneath the club’s velvet lighting. For the mission you wore confidence like perfume—but for him, you softened for just a second.

“You okay?” you murmured, barely moving your lips.

He swallowed, trying to look like a deadly-for-hire protector instead of your boyfriend who absolutely hated this part of the job.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just… stay close.”

But he was already sliding one step closer, as if pulled by gravity.

A man with a silver ring on every finger waved you toward the small stage.

“You’re up, sweetheart,” he called.

Spencer’s hand twitched.

Hotch leaned in to your ear, quiet and authoritative. “This is our window. We need eyes on the back rooms. Stick to the plan.”

Derek adjusted his jacket, scanning the crowd. “We got you.”

You exhaled, stepped toward the stage lights—

And Spencer, unable to help himself, murmured just loud enough for you to hear

“Don’t let anyone touch you.”

His jealousy, his worry, his heart—barely contained under the mask of your hired guard.

Then the curtain parted, and the mission began.