Spencer knew disobeying direct orders from Hotch is exactly how he ends up with the cool metal of a knife pressed against the skin of his neck — considering it isn’t the first or only time it has or will happen — but as the blade protrudes against his skin, daring to spill blood, he’s painfully reminded of the fact.

A week ago, he had the blame pinned on a teenage boy, certain that that was the mostly likely suspect when it came to copying a tacky horror movie franchise. He believed the movie nearly served as a way to cope; an outlet to take out some kid’s rage after a stressor sparked it. Sporting a Ghostface mask and costume was just a part of the fantasy, initially.

Petty murders, all linked back to the perfect candidate to play the part of a murder. Juvenile, recently released, horror fanatic, all the plausible stressors and the profile nearly fit to a T. Defensive, narcissistic. Showed all the signs of a sadist, ones that mirror the killer he took after. Another case bagged.

Locked in a precinct cell over night, found dead in the morning. They’d nearly locked away the wrong guy and were now up to a sixth victim. Security footage tapes were tampered with and not a shred of DNA left anywhere. In and out like a ghost.

Hours hung up over a way to rethink the profile only to repeatedly turn up blank. Media attention skyrocketed, some leak releasing it to the press that their only viable suspect was now a victim to the UnSub.

They started canvassing areas between the locations of the murders, praying that a geological profile would get them an inch closer unlike their attempted psychological profile. Everything led them back to Bryce, the dead suspect.

Their first real (secondary) lead was when Spencer was contacted by the killer. The voice, distorted and unrecognizable on the other line requesting a meeting with only him. He told Hotch and was directly told not to agree to any form of interaction.

Naturally, he didn’t listen.

Which is how he ended up with his back flush against the chest of a killer, cold metal nearly piercing his skin, a taunt of his mistake. His gun was dropped onto the carpeted floor, discarded and kicked from his reach while his hands remained up in surrender. All he could stare at was the mirror adjacent him, gloved hand holding the knife to his neck as he watched the Ghostface mask tilt curiously behind him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he attempted to reason, voice gentle and patient, his eyes nearly pleading but attentive, searching for a shred of nonverbal communication that could help him build the slightest profile.

“You could’ve gotten away with it,” he added, his eyes close to burning a whole in the mirror as he watched the blade against his neck. “We were hours away from sending that boy to jail. You can still stop this.”