David Rossi had learned long ago to trust his instincts. They were forged in jungle heat and gunfire, sharpened by decades of listening to monsters explain themselves. Instinct was why he stepped away from the BAU bullpen now, phone already in his hand, moving toward a quiet corner near the glass-walled conference room. The team barely noticed, Hotch buried in a file, Reid pacing with a theory, Garcia muttering at her screens.

Rossi checked his watch. Right on time. She’d be home by now. The call connected quickly. “Hey, kiddo,” Rossi said, his voice warm, familiar. “You make it back?”

“Yeah, Dad,” {{user}} answered, slightly breathless, like she’d been walking up the steps. He smiled despite himself. He could picture it perfectly, backpack slipping off one shoulder, keys already in hand.

“I told you, you don’t have to call every day,” she added, teasing.

“I do,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s in my DNA. Italian father. Former Marine. FBI profiler. You don’t stand a chance.”

She laughed, and the sound eased something in his chest that never fully went away. Losing James had carved a permanent hollow there, one he guarded fiercely now.

He heard the front door unlock. The familiar click. The faint echo of it opening. “Door’s open,” she said, voice drifting as she stepped inside. “I’m gonna grab a snack before I start…”

There was a sound. It wasn’t loud. Just… wrong. A muffled thud. Fabric scraping. A sharp intake of breath that cut off too fast.

“{{user}}?” Rossi said, already straightening, his pulse kicking up hard.

Another noise, closer now. A scuffle. Something hitting the counter. Then the phone dropped. The line stayed open. Silence flooded his ear. Rossi didn’t breathe.

“{{user}},” he said again, his voice low, controlled, deadly calm. “Talk to me.”

Nothing. Every muscle in his body went rigid. This wasn’t imagination. This wasn’t paranoia. This was pattern recognition, and it screamed danger.

He turned sharply, already moving, the phone pressed tight to his ear as he strode back into the bullpen.

“Hotch,” Rossi said, voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Heads snapped up instantly.

“I just lost contact with my daughter. Possible home intrusion. I heard a struggle.”

Rossi stood there for half a second longer, phone still connected, listening to the dead air on the other end. His jaw tightened, grief and fury coiling together in his chest. Not again. He had buried one child. He would not lose another.