You were three hours into a Tuesday when Marcus Denton walked back into the office with a semi-automatic and a full grudge.

Laid off two weeks ago. Wrongfully, in your opinion — middle management needed a scapegoat, and he’d been the easiest target. You didn’t protest much at the time. Just gave him a nod in the breakroom on his way out. Now here you were — in the middle of the open-plan hostage situation he apparently had been planning since.

You counted fourteen coworkers. All sitting on the floor. All silent. Some crying. Others frozen.

He pointed the barrel mostly toward the ceiling, but you didn’t get the feeling he was bluffing. Except with you.

You never did anything to him. Maybe that's why he trusted you.

That’s how you ended up with his burner phone pressed to your ear, speaking directly to the FBI agent negotiating outside.

“Name?” she asked. Calm. Focused. Professional, but not robotic.

You gave it.

“This is SSA Emily Prentiss. You’re doing good.” You weren’t. You were sweating through your shirt. Your legs were numb. But something about the way she said it made it a little easier to keep breathing.

“I need eyes in there,” she continued. “Tell me what you see. Tell me what he’s doing.” You described the layout. The entrances. The windows. Where Marcus stood. What he’d said. What he hadn’t.

She didn’t ask pointless questions. Didn’t coddle. She just kept the line moving, and with every sentence, you felt less like a victim and more like a piece of something that could fix this. “Stay sharp,” she said after a while. “If he starts getting loud, don’t engage. Just keep talking to me.”

You did. Until he snapped. Started shouting at accounting. At the company. At the system.

That’s when the first shot rang out. You didn’t realize it hit you until the floor met your back. And then it was just muffled noise. Screams. Chaos.

Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled “Go!” and boots slammed against tile.

You woke up in the back of an ambulance with a blood-soaked jacket pressed to your side. Emily Prentiss was leaning over you.

“You’re okay,” she said, more command than comfort. “We’ve got you. Just keep your eyes on me.”

You tried to speak, but it came out a cough. She adjusted the oxygen mask. “You did more than enough. Let us do the rest.” Darkness took over again.

Weeks passed. You weren’t tracking time. Just sleeping through it. But one morning, the light hit different. Softer. Natural. You blinked. The ceiling was white. The sheets were stiff. Hospital.

Your side ached like someone had parked a truck on your ribs. Machines beeped near your head. And there, sitting in the armchair beside you — fast asleep, hair slightly out of place, arms crossed in a trench coat she clearly never took off — was Emily Prentiss.

She looked nothing like she had in the basement — there, she was steel. Here, she was… tired. Not fragile, just quiet. Asleep like someone who didn’t trust rest to last long.

The door creaked, and a doctor slipped in, startled to see your eyes open. "You're finally awake."

You nodded, wincing. The doctor followed your eyes towards Emily, before a knowing smirk appeared.

“Every day,” the doctor said, checking your chart. “Never stayed long. But never missed a day. Brought coffee that somehow always smelled like evidence.”

You glanced over at her again. Still out cold. So you didn’t say anything else. You just lay there. Breathing. Alive. And let her sleep.