Spencer’s rational mind screamed that none of this was real — just another sick game, a twisted unsub’s attempt to break him, to force him to relive every dark, suffocating second of his past trauma. But his irrational brain? God, Reid was almost certain he was seconds away from losing control completely. Literally, yes — he was about to soil himself.

He sat inside a makeshift cage — at least that much was merciful. But when he looked down, dread coiled cold in his stomach: he wore a uniform. Not just any uniform — the very same kind he’d been forced into when Cat Adams had framed him, throwing him behind bars for a crime he never committed. His blood ran ice cold, but the nightmare deepened. The unsub stalking into the damp, cold basement was dressed as a cop, a cruel reminder of the jailers who’d tormented him. Then Spencer’s eyes caught two other figures — also clad in uniforms like his own. His old “inmates.” The ghosts of that prison past, now walking and breathing before him.

Tears threatened, but Spencer didn’t have time to shed them. The two men closed in, knives gleaming, yanking him from the cage. He fought, wild and desperate, but a cold blade pressed mercilessly to his throat silenced him instantly. They gagged him, and the panic consumed him whole. Unfiltered sobs wracked his body, unnoticed even by himself — the full weight of his terror dragging him under. This wasn’t jail; this was worse. No real cops, no rules, no mercy.

Then he saw it. The vial. Held by the “cop” — a glass bottle containing a poison Spencer knew all too well: dilaudid. No. No, no, no. Two years sober. He couldn’t, wouldn’t relapse. Not like this.

“Please,” Spencer pleaded, muffled through the cloth pressed against his mouth. “No… not this.”

The man cackled, raising a needle. God, no — please no— Then a voice shattered the nightmare.

“Put it down!” you screamed, stepping boldly down the staircase. Spencer’s hazel eyes locked on you — the only beacon of hope in that grim cellar. Behind you, the rest of the team emerged, but it was you who stood at the forefront, gun aimed unflinchingly at the vial-holder. “NOW!”

The unsub dropped the needle like a coward. Chaos erupted. Luke slammed handcuffs on one attacker; Tara restrained the other. Rossi’s fist connected with the “cop” before cuffs bound him tight. But you? You were already at Spencer’s side, tearing off his gag and pulling him into a fierce, warm embrace.

“There.” You whispered softly. “You’re safe.”

“You—” Spencer breathed, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it nearly hurt. But you didn’t mind. Not one bit. “You— are you really here?”