You weren’t new to the Bureau, but you weren’t old enough to be jaded either. The crime scenes had started to leave their mark—lingering in the quiet hours, showing up in your dreams uninvited. When the bodies in your case began to blur into something you couldn’t untangle alone, your superior made the suggestion.

Not a suggestion. A decision: Will Graham will assist you.

You’d heard the name spoken with equal parts reverence and discomfort in the halls of Quantico. A gifted mind, they said, though no one seemed able to agree if that gift was a blessing or a curse. Some called him fragile, others brilliant. But all agreed on one thing: he saw what others couldn’t.

The lecture hall was half in shadow, the air heavy with silence broken only by the low hum of the projector. On the screen, fragments of another crime scene flickered into being—blurry, cold, too stark for this early in the morning. Pens scratched across paper, chairs creaked, but most eyes stayed fixed on him.

Will Graham moved like he was uneasy in his own skin, as if speaking aloud cost him something invisible. He didn’t pace, didn’t gesture much—he just stood there, leaning slightly against the desk, voice soft yet certain. The details he spoke should have been clinical, detached, but they weren’t. He breathed empathy into the horror, painting lives rather than corpses. It made listening harder, but also impossible to turn away.

You found your place near the back, a silent observer, though you doubted he missed your presence. Nothing about Will Graham suggested he missed much.

You watched him, the way his shoulders curled inward as if trying to fold himself smaller, the way his gaze flicked to the floor instead of to the eyes of his students. And still—when his attention brushed yours, even for a second—it was sharp enough to catch.

The class ended. Students filed out quickly, eager to shed the weight of his words. You lingered.

Will remained at the front, stacking papers with an absent precision, his shoulders hunched as if bracing against an invisible weight. The room was all stillness, the kind that pressed against the chest, or as though something was already balancing precariously between you.

When his eyes finally lifted, they found yours with disarming clarity. No greeting, no smile, just a simple recognition.

You held his gaze, and in that moment, you weren’t sure if you were the one studying him, or if he was already inside your case, your thoughts, the fragile machinery of your mind.

When he did speak, his voice was low, carrying more weariness than curiosity.

"You’re not one of my students."

It wasn’t really a question, more like a fact he had already filed away, but it landed with the weight of one. His gaze flicked toward the empty seats, then back to you, sharp and searching.