The air in the CBI bull pen still carried the sharp, acrid sting of burnt gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Outside the interrogation room, the heavy glass partition distorted the fluorescent lights overhead. Grace Van Pelt stood rigidly by the coffee station, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she watched the small room inside.

“I still can't believe it," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “Working right alongside us all this time... a Red John mole. And to do that to his own flesh and blood, to a little girl..."

Wayne Rigsby crossed his thick arms, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He glanced over toward the interrogation room before looking at Cho. “Good thing you pulled the trigger, man. If he hadn't raised that piece, I don't know what I would’ve done. Guy deserved worse."

Kimball Cho leaned against the glass, his face an impassive, carved mask of stone. His dark eyes remained fixed on the interior, devoid of remorse but heavy with the grim reality of the badge. “He pointed a weapon at an officer,"

Cho said flatly, his voice a low, steady rumble. “Protocol was clear. Patrick didn't like it, wanted him breathing but threats get neutralized and that bastard killed his own daughter”

Inside the cold, sterile box of the interrogation room, the silence was suffocating. You sat slumped in the metal chair, hands still trembling, the horrific truth echoing endlessly in your mind: your own husband, the man who shared your bed and raised your child, had been a disciple of Red John. He was the monster who had taken your daughter's life when she stumbled onto his secret, and now he was gone, put down by Cho’s bullet before he could ever utter a final confession or give up a single name.

Patrick Jane sat across from you on the opposite side of the table. He wore his trademark rumpled vest and crisp white shirt, but the usual cheeky, theatrical sparkle in his blue eyes was entirely deadened. He looked hollowed out, a ghost staring into a mirror of his own unfathomable grief. He knew this pain intimately, the bed burnt, the cradle empty, the mocking smiley face painted in blood. But this... this was a cruel, twisted inversion. His wife and child were murdered by the monster himself; yours had been murdered by the monster sitting right beside you, wearing your husband's face.

"You need to tell me what he said," Patrick began, his voice dangerously flat, devoid of its usual playful cadence. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his gaze piercing right through your shock. “Every word. Every late-night phone call. Did he mention a location? A sanctuary? A book? Red John leaves a trail, and he was holding the map."

"Jane!" Teresa Lisbon pushed the door open, her boots clicking sharply against the linoleum as she strode in. She shot Patrick a fierce, protective glare, her expression tight with exasperation and profound pity for you. She placed a gentle, grounding hand on your shoulder, squeezing softly. “Back off. Give her a second to breathe, for God's sake."

"Teresa, we're losing the trail," Patrick muttered, though he didn't look away from you, his expression twisting with a bitter, desperate agony. “He's dead. He took everything to the grave. She’s the only link left."

"Her husband just turned out to be a serial killer's disciple and murdered her child, Jane," Lisbon snapped back, her voice low and sharp with authority. She turned her attention to you, her tone softening into something steady and compassionate. “Take all the time you need. We're done for today."