The bullpen of the BAU was unusually tense for a case that hadn’t required a jet. No roar of engines, no hurried seatbelts, just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the weight of six dead bodies pressing down on the room.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the glass board, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His posture was straight, controlled, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the details like a chessboard he refused to lose.

“Six victims,” JJ said from her seat, flipping through a tablet. “All local. Different neighborhoods, different schedules. No obvious connection.”

“That’s intentional,” Prentiss added. “He wants us looking for something that isn’t there.”

Reid paced slowly, fingers laced behind his back. “The lack of a consistent victimology suggests the motivation isn’t the victims themselves, but the act. Power. Control. He likely inserts himself into their lives beforehand, gains trust, manipulates their routines.”

“A social parasite,” Morgan muttered. “Gets close, then disappears.”

Hotch nodded once. “Early twenties. Intelligent. Isolated. Likely feels invisible. This isn’t about rage, it’s about being seen.”

As if on cue, the glass doors to the bullpen opened. Garcia reappeared, one hand clutching her coffee cup, the other gently guiding someone inside. Her voice, usually buoyant, was softer now.

“Okay, team, before anyone freaks out, I brought a civilian. And no, she’s not an unsub. Yet. Kidding. Mostly.”

The team turned. {{user}} stood just inside the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together.

Hotch immediately clocked it: not attention-seeking, not hysterical. Controlled anxiety. Purpose.

Garcia set her coffee down. “She saw the press briefing. And she has something she thinks might help.”

Hotch stepped forward, his presence calm, non-threatening but authoritative.

“I’m Aaron Hotchner,” he said. “You’re safe here. What’s your name?”