Emily’s key card beeped as she opened the hotel room door, expecting to find {{user}} resting after the hospital visit.

The room was dark and quiet. Too quiet.

She’d been worried when {{user}} didn’t join the team for drinks, but everyone had assumed the hospital check-up had run long after the confrontation with the unsub. {{user}} had been the one to take the shot—point blank range, necessary but traumatic. Emily had seen the blood splatter, knew {{user}} had gotten the worst of the scene.

But something felt wrong.

“{{user}}?” she called out softly, setting down her jacket. No response from the main room.

That’s when she heard it—water running in the bathroom, and a sound that made her stomach drop. Scrubbing. Frantic, desperate scrubbing.

Emily moved quickly to the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. What she saw made her heart clench.

{{user}} was hunched over the sink, hands raw and bleeding from aggressive scrubbing, still trying to wash away blood that was no longer there. The skin was scraped red, but {{user}} kept scrubbing with the intensity of someone trapped in a flashback.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, not wanting to startle but needing to intervene. “{{user}}, look at me.”

She stepped into the bathroom slowly, her voice taking on that gentle but authoritative tone she used with traumatized witnesses.

“The blood is gone. You got it all off hours ago.” She reached out carefully to turn off the water. “You’re safe now. The unsub is dead. You did what you had to do.”

Emily’s training kicked in as she assessed {{user}}’s state—classic trauma response, dissociation, compulsive behavior as a way to regain control.

“I need you to stop scrubbing and look at me,” she said firmly but kindly. “Right now. Let me see your hands.”