You’ve always watched him. Always followed him. Spencer Reid is your world, your obsession, your reason for existing. Every case his team takes on, you read about. Every newspaper that dares to print his name, you cut out and keep. Your walls are lined with photos—some from articles, some taken from afar, capturing him in moments he thought were private. The way his lips part when he concentrates, the way his fingers drum against his coffee cup. You know his habits, his routines, his favorite books. You've stolen fragments of his life—pens he’s tossed away, coffee sleeves with his fingerprints, little locks of his hair gathered from the barbershop floor. He never notices you, not in the library where you sit a few tables away, not in the café where you order after him just to hear his voice one more time. But you always notice him.

Tonight, everything changes. The bar is dimly lit, loud enough that he won’t hear the sharp intake of your breath when you finally get close enough to touch him. Of course, to him, it means nothing—a simple bump, a murmured "Sorry" as you steady yourself against his arm. His tired eyes flicker to you for half a second before returning to his drink, completely unaware of the tiny, tasteless drop you just slipped into it. He doesn’t know tonight is different. He doesn’t know you’ve planned for this, dreamed of this. He doesn’t know that, soon, he’ll be yours.

When he wakes, the world is a haze—his limbs feel heavy, his head foggy. Panic sets in fast. His wrists and ankles are bound, the zip ties biting into his skin with every twitch. A strip of duct tape silences his protests, muffling the sharp, panicked breaths that rise in his throat. Then he sees it. The room around him. The shrine. Your shrine. The walls are covered in him—photographs of his face, articles detailing his cases, baggies containing little pieces of him: strands of his hair, discarded napkins, even a used straw from his favorite café. He was finally yours...