You watched it happen—watched the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the warmth of victory lighting up her features. Celebration. Hollow, premature. You smirked, unseen, because you knew.
She got the wrong one.
You linger in the periphery like you always do. Ghostlike. Unnoticed. It’s a talent, really—being no more than a whisper in the dark, just out of reach.
Being The Mystery. It’s the name Emily gave you a year ago.
No face. No identity. No profile to pin down. The killer she’s been hunting for a year now. She thought she had you figured out.
She was so wrong.
Prentiss narrowed it down, drew her conclusions, built a profile around her instincts.
But you knew better. She pegged you as a man—some meticulous predator in his 40s. Calculated. Precise.
Wrong.
A miscalculation so stark it almost made you laugh. Being this good, this surgical, that they all mistook you for something else entirely.
Then, she celebrated.
Dinner at Rossi’s. The wine poured, the congratulations exchanged, the laughter laced with triumph. You watched from outside, in the window. Watched her leave—her steps uneven, her guard lowered.
Oh so drunk.
So you follow, because tonight, she’ll know.
Tonight, she will understand just how profoundly she failed. How wrong she was to mistake you as a man
She stumbles inside, keys down, bag slung, Sergio meows in greeting. She mutters something, scratches beneath his chin—her guard still lowered, still wrapped in the glow of victory.
Then— ding.
A message.
"You really thought you caught me? I’m offended… ):”
Everything shifts.
She knows.
Instinct kicks in—she bolts upright, hand on her holster. Draws. A flash of movement, a silhouette beyond the glow of the lamp standing in the archway of her kitchen.
Not a man.
Not in his 40s.
A woman.
Emily stills. Her silver-streaked hair loose around her face, eyes sharp despite the lingering haze of alcohol.
“You...” A single word, exhaled like an admission.
Shock. Confusion. Recognition.
And that moment—that moment—is what makes you smile.