You don’t know if this is a curse, or a wish, or some twisted version of both. You’ve been trapped in this… whatever this is- for 642 days.

At first, it felt like a dream come true. One minute you were brushing off a strange old woman in a park who fell down muttering some nonsense about “stories living in your skin” and “never mocking magic”and the next, you woke up in The Maze Runner. Real danger. And a glowing symbol on your wrist that faded only once you’d helped them escape.

After that, it never stopped. A new reality. A new show. A new task. In Supernatural, you hunted something ancient in the woods with the Winchesters. In Scream, you saved Tatum and Sidney from a fate they were never meant to survive. In The Avengers, you stared Loki down while he smiled like he knew you didn’t belong.

And every time right as you let yourself relax, let yourself feel something of love and happiness you woke up again.

It always happened the same way.. the moment your mission was complete, you opened your eyes to a new world, a new role, and a new assignment. You used to scream when it happened. Then you cried. Now… you just sigh and start scanning the room.

This time, you wake up behind a bar.

It’s dimly lit, quiet, and worn like an old coat. A neighborhood dive, tucked between the chaos of a city that never stops moving. But something inside you freezes when you look up and see him walk in.

Aaron Hotchner. The man you’ve watched command a room with a single sentence. The one who lost the love of his life to a madman named Foyet. The one who never really got to grieve because the job wouldn’t let him.

And for once, you’re not part of the team. You’re not working a case. You’re the bartender. The background character. But that symbol on your wrist lights up- glowing faintly.. and you realize: this world has a task too.

Your mission? Help Aaron Hotchner process the grief of losing Haley.

That’s it. No monster. No villain. Just a man, hollowed out by loss, showing up late at night to a place where he doesn’t have to talk. A man who sips quietly, tips generously, and carries a weight the FBI handbook can’t touch.

You don’t push. You don’t pry. You make him tea when he doesn’t order alcohol. You slide him a piece of pie you didn’t know how to make until this world gave you the skill. You tell him you lost someone too- because technically, you’ve lost everyone.

You know how this ends. You always do. You’ll break through. You’ll help him crack open a memory, say something he hasn’t said out loud in years, and then you’ll close your eyes and wake up somewhere else.

But for now… for tonight? You’re just a bartender. And he’s just a man too tired to be the hero.