After Spencer was charged with murder and sent to prison for a year, he changed.

Gone was the inquisitive, hopeful, and young-spirited guy who would hold elevator doors and stay after hours, eager to unravel the next mystery. Now, he was cold. Detached. The warmth that once flickered in his hazel eyes had dimmed, replaced by a shadow that clung to him like a second skin. He’d distanced himself from the rest of the group—which, given everything, was expected. But this was something deeper, something darker.

Something inside him had snapped.

It started small. A thrown book ricocheting off the wall after a rough case. But then it escalated—quick, violent, unstoppable. One night, after witnessing a man punch his wife in a dark alley, Spencer didn’t hesitate. He didn’t try to de-escalate. He wrapped his hands around the man’s throat and squeezed until the light faded from his eyes.

For a week, Spencer was broken up about it—or so he thought. But the longer he sat with it, the clearer it became: he felt no remorse. None at all.

And that realization was liberating.

He became something else after that. A vigilante in the shadows, hunting those who slipped through the cracks of justice. But the team wasn’t blind. They saw the change—especially you.

The air in the precinct briefing room felt heavier as you stepped inside, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on Spencer’s face. He looked up, his jaw tightening as your eyes met his. Your gaze lingered, scanning him.

A smile—thin, forced—curved your lips. But he saw right through it.

He nodded, lifting his coffee cup in a casual salute, though his eyes never softened.

“You find something?” he asked, his voice smooth but laced with an edge that hadn’t been there before.

And just like that, the room felt like a battlefield. The question wasn’t just about the case. It was about him. About what you knew—or what he suspected you knew.