The unsub was secured.

Handcuffed behind the back. Ankles shackled to the chair legs. One arm swollen from where the bone cracked mid-swing—caught by the edge of a brick wall during the fight. He hadn’t spoken since he was dragged in. Just sat there in restraints, blood drying along his jaw, eyes fixed on the floor like the defeat was still sinking in.

The room was cold. Observation lights dimmed. And still, the figure at the glass didn’t move. {{user}}.

One hour. No words. No shift in posture. Just a stiff arm hugged against bruised ribs, a black eye, and dried blood flaking from a busted lip. The unsub had gone down eventually, but not before fists landed hard. Not before someone walked away rattled and aching from bone to skin.

The door to the observation room opened with a soft click. Emily stepped inside. She didn’t speak at first. Just moved to stand beside the still form at the glass, arms loosely crossed. Her gaze followed the same line of sight—straight to the man in the interrogation room.

Her voice came quiet. Low and even.

“Wrists cuffed behind the chair. Shackles locked to the floor. Second set of cuffs through a bolt. Guard stationed six feet away.”

Silence. No reaction from the figure beside her. Emily’s eyes remained steady on the glass.

“He’s not getting up. Not getting near you. Not ever again.”

The observation lights buzzed faintly overhead. Still, no movement. Emily let a pause hang. Not awkward. Just… waiting.

“You fought like hell,” she said finally. “It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t fair—but you ended it. He’s in a box now, and you’re safe.”