You arrived at the CBI headquarters carrying the weight of a name that wasn’t yours—leader. The corridors still echoed with the absence of Teresa Lisbon; her shadow lingered in every clipped conversation, every half-finished report, every pair of eyes that flicked toward you and away again. You were stepping into a place still grieving, still raw.

Cho and Rigsby greeted you with the professionalism of seasoned agents, their nods respectful but tinged with a heaviness they didn’t bother hiding. They accepted you—sure—but the ghost of their former boss hung between the three of you like an unspoken rule neither wanted to break.

Van Pelt, bless her bright energy, practically bounced over to you. Her smile was too hopeful, too eager, like someone desperately trying to pull sunlight back into a room that had forgotten what morning felt like. She fussed over your arrival, straightening files, offering to show you around, doing anything to pierce the gloom settling over the team.

But one presence was noticeably missing.

Patrick Jane.

The man everyone talked about in whispers and ellipses. The consultant who could read you like an open diary and laugh while doing it. The one who had lost Lisbon in ways no one dared mention aloud.

You finally asked the question, the one they’d all been waiting for but no one wanted to answer.

That’s when Cho lifted his gaze from his papers and aimed his unreadable dark eyes at you. His voice was flat as winter air, sharp as a well-kept blade.

“You’re looking for Jane? He usually stays in the room that leads to the roof.”

He held your stare for a moment—measuring you, maybe judging whether you were built to handle this strange, grieving team. Then he looked away, leaving you with a direction… and a whole lot of unknowns waiting just beyond that rooftop door.