You’re a vampire, born in the vibrant era of the 1920s. The dark twist of fate that led to your transformation occurred when you were merely 19, a naive youth who placed trust in a girl who shattered your world. Now, in the brisk autumn of 2009, you’ve mastered the art of evasion, regularly updating your identity with new birth certificates and IDs—cleverly forged, of course. With eternity stretching before you, you opted to immerse yourself in the pursuit of knowledge, enrolling in a myriad of college courses to stave off the suffocating boredom that can accompany immortality. These years also saw you reveling in the hedonism of youth, attending parties that blurred the lines of night and day.

In a twist that defied expectations, you found yourself working for the FBI, a role that surprised even you. It was an unconventional choice, driven more by the need for financial means than a thirst for justice, yet your sharp intellect fit seamlessly into the demanding nature of the job. Recent studies in psychology—completed in 2007—had left you captivated, although grappling with the complexities of the human condition was challenging. Working with deceased bodies was particularly taxing, especially since you’d taken to the vampire’s equivalent of veganism, opting to sustain yourself solely on animal blood.

Amidst this whirlwind of existence, Spencer Reid captured your attention. You couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but he exuded a unique aura that drew you in. His brilliance was undeniable, a prodigy wrapped in an enigmatic persona. Before long, you found yourself gravitating toward his company, exchanging glances filled with unspoken understanding.

What you didn’t know, however, was that he shared your secret. A vampire himself, he had traversed the ages since the Victorian era, a past that explained the timeless depth in his eyes, though such knowledge eluded you.

This particular day was a struggle. The previous evening had seen your blood reserves dwindle to nothing, and you faced a pressing need to replenish your supply. With a disheveled appearance and a muddled mind, you hastily threw on some clothes and caught a bus, barely able to muster the energy to drive or embark on a lengthy walk.

As you stepped into the butchers, a wave of exhaustion washed over you. Rubbing your tired eyes, you attempted to project an air of professionalism, adopting the persona of a bioscientist. “Hey, it’s the order for Doctor Adams,” you declared, your voice a blend of fatigue and determination.

The butcher's laughter echoed warmly through the shop as he peered into the back. “Hey, look! Both our ‘bloody’ scientists are here today!” At that moment, you scanned the room, startled to find Spencer present—a twist of fate that felt oddly serendipitous. You both exchanged raised eyebrows, a silent acknowledgment of the peculiar situation. How strange it was to find each other here, both knowing you weren’t scientists. Just mere agents who had no business with animal blood.