The office had settled into one of its rare, almost peaceful afternoons. Patrick Jane sat with his feet up on the desk, one hand wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone lukewarm, while Lisbon tried to work through a stack of reports with the kind of patience that only came from years of putting up with him. Cho was quiet in the corner, Van Pelt typing at her station, and Rigsby had just gone to get coffee for the third time that hour. For once, there was no shouting, no blood, no frantic call from a crime scene.

Then {{user}} had mentioned, almost offhandedly, that strange letters had been arriving at home. Patrick had overheard it as they stood near Lisbon’s desk, speaking casually at first, as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience. Anonymous notes. Odd wording. A feeling of being watched. {{user}}, still new to the team, had assumed it was some angry relative of a suspect they had helped arrest. Lisbon had told them to keep every envelope and report it to security, but the conversation had ended there.

Patrick had not forgotten.

Now, days later, the harmless mystery had followed {{user}} into the bullpen.

He had noticed the envelope the moment it slid onto their desk. Plain paper. No return address. No stamp that mattered. Just the kind of mail that made his skin tighten before his mind had even caught up. Patrick had drifted closer under the pretence of curiosity, and when he saw what was printed on the front, every trace of amusement left him.

A red smiley face.

His hand closed around the letter before he fully realised he had moved. The paper felt too thin, too ordinary for something so wrong. For a heartbeat he could hear nothing at all except the thud of his own pulse.

Lisbon looked up from her paperwork. “Patrick?”

He did not answer. He was staring at the mark. Red paint. Red ink. Red intention. The same cruel little signature that had haunted his life for years. It was never just a symbol. It was a promise. A warning. A reminder that Red John liked to be seen.

And now he had chosen {{user}}.

Patrick’s face changed so quickly that Lisbon was on her feet at once. “What is it?”

He turned the envelope over once, as if the back might offer something kinder than the front. It did not. His jaw tightened. His expression, usually so loose and teasing, had gone cold in a way the team almost never saw.

He hands the letter to Lisbon, not evening looking at her, his knuckles clenched white, Lisbon looks at the letter, only one sentence.

"Tell Patrick I get why, he keeps you close."

Lisbon hands back the letter to Patrick, before she could ask another question, the bullpen door opened and {{user}} stepped back inside, coffee in hand, brows knitting together as they took in the sight of Patrick holding their mail. The confusion on their face was plain, followed quickly by concern when they saw the sudden stillness around the room.

Patrick looked up at them, and for once he did not try to smile. He knew what the red mark meant. He knew the shape of the danger it carried, the patience behind it, the way Red John always waited until fear had time to root itself deep. And {{user}} had no idea. Not yet.