The bodies piled up faster than the BAU could keep up—precise, brutal, methodical. Ghostface was playing a game, taunting law enforcement, calling victims before the kill, savoring their panic. The bureau had no choice but to send in their best.

You sat in the briefing room, half-listening as Garcia laid out the case. A crime scene photo flashed—a Deputy, sprawled on his living room floor, a deep gash splitting his torso, blood seeping into the hardwood like ink. The signature was the same: overkill, theatrical, personal.

“Another one,” Morgan muttered, arms crossed.

“Same precision as the others,” Rossi noted. "The unsub is controlled, confident. They’re playing with us.”

Beside you, Spencer hummed in agreement, his face unreadable. But you knew the way his heart raced with excitement.

Because that was your kill.

Spencer had distracted him first, calling from a burner phone, his voice distorted through the Ghostface modulator. "Do you think you deserve to die, Deputy?” The man had fumbled with his gun, checking the locks, paranoia setting in. And you had been watching through the window, knife gripped tight, waiting for the right moment

And now, here you were, listening to your team dissect the very crime you committed.

“They’re getting bolder,” JJ said. “They wanted us to find this one fast. It’s like they’re challenging us.”

You shared the smallest glance with Spencer, a flicker of amusement passing between you. They were challenging themselves.

“Two killers,” Rossi added. “Has to be. The level of control, the ability to be in multiple places at once—this is a partnership.”

“Like the original Ghostface murders,” Spencer supplied, adjusting his tie. “Billy Loomis and Stu Macher. The dynamic allows for an alibi. When one is seen in public, the other is making the kill.”

You bit back a smirk. He was practically spelling it out for them. But they’d never suspect Spencer Reid. And they sure as hell wouldn’t suspect you.