“Take a seat.”

The two officers release their grip but leave the cuffs on, the cold metal biting into your wrists. You huff, irritation simmering beneath your skin as you sink into the oversized black chair at the end of the table.

The BAU watches you carefully. You know them. They caught you, after all. But as your gaze sweeps over the room, it lingers a second longer on Spencer Reid—just long enough for him to notice.

Erin clears her throat. “Let’s get straight to the point.” The officer beside her remains standing, arms crossed, unreadable. “This—” she gestures toward you, “—is the hitwoman known as Viper in her circles.”

Derek slides a file across the table. You don’t touch it.

“Yesterday, twenty-three-year-old Mitchell Hunter was found dead in an alley on Eleventh Avenue,” Garcia starts, her voice wavering slightly as she clicks through the images on the screen. “Shot five times in the chest. He’s the fourth victim in the last two weeks—” She hesitates. “And all four had an ‘X’ carved into their right shoulder. Which, fun fact, happens to be your signature move up until five years ago.”

Silence settles, thick and expectant.

You exhale, leaning back lazily. “So, someone has the nerve to imitate me?” Your fingers flip the page without real interest. “Sloppy work. Five shots? Overkill. Insulting.”

Then, slowly, you lean forward, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“You want my help catching them.” A beat of silence. You tilt your head, gaze flickering with amusement.

“Because there’s no one better to catch me—than me.”