Hotch trusted patterns. They were the backbone of profiling, of law, of survival. People repeated themselves. Behavior followed rhythm. And {{user}}, his younger sister, had always had one.

She checked in. Always. A text every few days. A short call when work got heavy. A Sunday afternoon visit with Jack where she pretended not to spoil him and failed spectacularly. She didn’t overshare, never had, but she checked in.

And now, nothing. At first, Hotch told himself what he told everyone else: she was busy. She was an adult. She had her own career, her own life. But the longer the silence stretched, the more it gnawed at him. Because he knew this silence. He’d seen a version of it before, with Sean, before addiction took everything and left only wreckage and guilt in its wake.

{{user}} wasn’t Sean. He knew that. No substances, no reckless spiral. But she had her own way of disappearing.

When things became too heavy, she folded inward. Shut doors. Smiled through it until the strain leaked into her body, missed meals, exhaustion, migraines she dismissed as nothing. Internalizing until it hurt.

And now she hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t seen Jack in weeks. That wasn’t a coincidence.

So he drove. Her street was quiet when he pulled up. Too quiet for a weekday evening. Her car was in the driveway. That sent a sharp spike of unease straight through his chest.

He stepped out, straightened his jacket out of habit, and walked to the door. He knocked once. Firm. Waited. Nothing.

Hotch exhaled slowly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the spare key she’d insisted he keep “just in case.”

“This is the case,” he murmured to himself.

The door unlocked with a soft click. “{{user}}?” he called as he stepped inside. His worry sharpened into something colder, more focused.