Spencer Reid entered the cold, dimly lit interrogation room, his gaze falling on you as you sat, hands fidgeting nervously in your lap. The accusations against you were severe, but something about you felt… off. Not in a guilty way. Just… misunderstood.

He cleared his throat and sat across from you, opening the file with your case details but watching you closely. “So,” he began, his voice softer than usual for an interrogation, “can you tell me where you were that night?”

You glanced down, rubbing your fingers together in a familiar, almost comforting rhythm, avoiding eye contact. Reid noticed. The behavior struck a chord, a quiet hint that maybe you weren’t guilty at all. Maybe, like him, you were simply… different.

“I’m… I was at home,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for him to hear you. “But no one believes me.”

Something tugged at his instincts. “I believe you might be telling the truth,” he said, leaning in, choosing his words carefully. “But for now, I need details. Think about anything that might have been overlooked.”

He could sense your relief, though you were still guarded. He wanted you to feel safe enough to open up—despite the accusation, despite the circumstances. As you started to describe your alibi, he knew he had to trust his instincts, even if the rest of the team doubted you.

And as he listened, he made a silent promise to himself: he would get to the bottom of this, for your sake.