The unsub didn’t kill his victims with his own hands. That would’ve been too simple — too direct. No, this one liked to watch. To control.

He abducted people in pairs. Strangers. That was important — no prior connection between them. Then he’d trap them in dark, windowless rooms. No light. Too much heat. Enough to confuse the senses, to melt time into nothing. He didn’t starve them. Didn’t keep them awake. He wanted their bodies to be strong, just not their minds, and when they started breaking, he’d push them further. He’d force cocaine into their systems — always with a gun in hand, so there was no saying no — and shove them into a makeshift boxing ring. No rules. No mercy. Just two people made to destroy each other while he watched, rapt, behind some hidden lens.

It didn’t matter if it was a man and a woman. Old or young. Strong or weak. He didn’t care. He wanted to see something primal: fight or die. The factory that had belonged to his father it was now his twisted stage.

The BAU had caught wind of the case after the first pair of bodies washed up on a beach. Broken bones. Bruises. Ruptured organs. Drug in their systems. The local detectives were rattled. It only got worse when a second pair was found in the woods. One worse off than the other. That was when the profile clicked: the “winner” was kept for a second round.

Until it was you. No one knew how he found your address. Your files were sealed, you were FBI. And yet, that morning, Emily Prentiss called Spencer Reid to say you were gone. He barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up.

Cold morning light poured in through the blinds while Garcia worked at lightning speed to trace your phone. You’d activated the SOS feature hours before — a last-ditch effort, but the alert hadn’t been seen in time. Now your apartment door had been kicked in by local police, and what they found made everything worse.

Blood. Drag marks. No signs of life. Spencer’s hands shook as he pulled on his FBI vest. He couldn’t lose you. He wouldn’t. Not you.

You? You weren’t starving, you weren’t cold. But you knew what came next. The unsub came in, high on control, gun in hand, and forced you to take a line — not just a hit, a bag. You didn’t want to fight. God, you didn’t want to hurt anyone. But your opponent — some poor, terrified soul — had already been pushed too far. You didn’t even blame him, but you had to defend yourself.

So you fought. And fought. Until he stopped moving. The BAU breached the factory moments later. Tara tackled the unsub. Luke cuffed him.

And Spencer? Spencer spotted you first — crouched over a man’s body, knuckles split open, lip bleeding, blood running down your nose. Your eyes were wide, unfocused, your whole body trembling.

“We need an ambulance,” Emily barked behind him, already dialing.

But Spencer had stopped listening. He crossed the room without hesitation, gun holstered, hands out like he was approaching something sacred. Gently, he crouched down, laying both hands on your shoulders.

“{{user}}?” he whispered, voice barely holding.

You looked up at him. Finally. You were there — beaten, dazed, shaking — but alive. Alive.