Spencer had always been the team's genius, the "little brother" they coddled. He appreciated their care at first, trusting his intellect despite teasing his awkwardness. But over time, their protectiveness wore on him. They’d pat him on the back with, “Good job, kid,” never quite seeing him as an equal. When things got tough, they acted like he needed shielding, as if he couldn’t handle himself. The constant reminders of his youth and innocence started feeling less like praise and more like patronization. He was sick of it.

What they didn’t realize was that Spencer had changed. He wasn’t the naive genius who joined the FBI with facts and social anxiety. He had survived torture, addiction, and imprisonment—he knew more darkness than all of them combined, yet they still saw him as the “little brother.” Frustration simmered every time someone called him “kid” or made a joke at his expense.

Soon, this resentment transformed him. He stopped smiling at their jokes and carried himself with more authority, speaking with conviction.

And you? You noticed the shift before anyone else. His posture changed, his tone sharpened—he wasn’t asking anymore, he was demanding. The dynamic between you two shifted too. What started as admiration for his brilliance became something more intense, more magnetic. Spencer stopped hesitating, taking control without second-guessing.

It started with small tasks—handling his files, getting coffee—but soon, Spencer expected more: your attention, your time, your obedience. He smirked when you complied, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. His growing superiority complex pulled you in, and you couldn’t resist the power he now held.

You found yourself eager to please him, craving his approval and acknowledgment. There was a thrill in being at his beck and call. He was no longer the team’s “kid genius”; he had become something greater. Spencer thrived on control, and you were more than willing to worship him, captivated by his god complex.