You straighten your badge for the fourth time in two minutes, more to keep your hands busy than anything else. The station’s meeting room is small and utilitarian—nothing like the sleek setup you imagine the FBI must have. A flickering fluorescent light overhead adds a touch of “barely tolerable” charm. The BAU team is late, and your nerves are fraying. Days of running on caffeine and little else have taken their toll. A serial killer in your county—your county. It feels like a cruel joke, especially since you’ve been sheriff for only six months. Your father’s old badge feels heavy, a constant reminder you didn’t exactly earn this job. When the door finally opens, you straighten so fast your chair scrapes the floor. In steps a tall man with black jeans and a tight fitted shirt. He blinks at you, his sharp, intelligent eyes belying his flirty demeanor.

“Sheriff,” he says, hard but clear. “I’m Derek Morgan. Thank you for meeting us.” You force a smile. “No problem. Anything to catch this guy.” As Derek steps closer, his intense gaze feels like it’s dissecting you. “I’ve reviewed the files. It’s unusual for this type of killer in a small community.” You bristle. “Yeah, well, we’re doing our best.” “I’m sure you are,” he says gently, and something about his tone catches you off guard.