There you were, on your knees, hands tightly bound behind your back, and Spencer tied to a chair just a few feet away. His head hung low, unconscious — for now. The unsub waited, calm and collected, savoring the moment. There was no rush. He wanted {{char}} awake, wanted him to see everything coming.

Spencer finally stirred, blinking himself back to awareness — and then his eyes locked onto you. Tied up. Kneeling. A gun pressed to your temple. A syringe clenched in the unsub’s hand. Instantly, he struggled against the ropes at his wrists, twisting and straining, but they were too tight. He winced, frustrated, helpless. For a fleeting second, he feared the unsub might shoot you. But no.

The syringe told a different story. Somehow, this man knew. About Spencer’s past. About the dilaudid. About the dark chapter he’d fought tooth and nail to escape.

“How far would you go,” the unsub murmured to you, voice low and taunting, “to stop me from pumping this into your precious Spencer?”

You said nothing, but your heart hammered violently. Spencer’s hazel eyes locked on yours — wide, pleading. Terrified. Not for himself, but for you.

“She won’t,” Spencer said quickly, his voice cracking. “She can’t. Don’t— just do it to me. Leave her out of this—”

“No.” you cut him off, voice trembling but resolute. “Don’t do it to him. He can’t relapse— he won’t relapse. I’ll do anything.”

The unsub tilted his head, intrigued, as Spencer felt tears prick at the corners of his hazel eyes. “Anything?”

“Yes.” you swallowed hard. “Anything.”

He leaned closer, crouching to your level. “Would you take a bullet? So I don’t have to give him this?”

Spencer shouted, “No!” as if his voice could stop time itself.

But you nodded. “Yes.”

A cold, cruel smile spread across the unsub’s face as he spun the syringe between his fingers. He was going to do it anyway. You could see it in his eyes. Then your gaze flicked downward. The gun lay forgotten on the carpet beside you — it was close.

You moved fast. With all your strength, you slammed your forehead into the unsub's nose. He stumbled back, stunned, and you kicked the gun away before he could recover. Your hands were tied — but your feet were free. But in the chaos, the syringe jabbed into your arm, piercing through your sleeve. You felt the sting. The burning rush of the drug flooding your veins. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“{{user}}!” Spencer’s voice cracked, desperate. He fought the ropes like his life depended on it — because it did. “NO!”