The letter was a fragile secret, tucked into Spencer’s pocket like a hidden heartbeat. He had labored over every syllable, terrified that his voice would fail him — that he would retreat into dry facts or let his tongue trip over the sheer weight of his feelings. A letter was supposed to be safe.

But fate was a jagged thing.

The warehouse was a cavern of rot and shadows. One moment, Spencer was checking a corner; the next, a blinding flash tore through the silence. The explosion was a physical weight, slamming the world into a ringing void.

When Spencer’s vision cleared, the air was thick with sulfur. He was bound to a chair, plastic zip-ties biting into his wrists. Across from him, you were in the same state, a smear of blood staining your nose.

A man stepped from the gloom, his boots crunching on glass. He methodically searched Spencer, his hand dipping into the jacket pocket. When he pulled out the cream-colored envelope, Spencer’s face drained of color.

"Please," Spencer rasped. "That’s... that’s personal."

The man ignored him, tearing the paper open. "Dear {{user}}," he began, his voice a mocking drawl. "I've been trying to find the right words to tell you how much I admire you. We are, certainly, more than friends..."

Spencer lunged forward, the chair legs screeching. "Stop it!" His voice cracked with raw anguish as he watched the man’s hand tangle in your hair. "Don’t touch her! You think this is about power? You’re not studying pain, you’re indulging in it. That’s not intellectual. That’s just cruelty."

The unsub smirked, tightening his grip. Spencer’s façade crumbled. He looked at you, his eyes swimming with helpless regret. "I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to happen like this. I wrote that because I always mess it up. My brain starts listing mortality rates... I hate how I make things harder when I’m just trying to be real."

"Spencer..." you whispered.

"No, don’t talk. You’re hurt," he said, his tone shifting into a frantic, protective tenderness. "Is it your nose? There’s a lot of blood vessels there, it looks worse than it is, but if there's a hematoma—" He bit his lip, forcing the facts back.

The unsub laughed. "This is pathetic."

"You want to break me?" {{char}} hissed, fear curdling into fury. "Then hurt me. I’m the one who wrote it. But you lay another finger on her, I swear I’ll remember your face until the day I die, and I’ll spend every moment making sure you never touch anyone again."

He was panting, his soul bared in that derelict room. The letter — his most honest self — was still in the killer's fist.

"She doesn’t even know what it says yet," Spencer whispered.

"I'll tell her," the unsub smirked.