The briefing room doors opened with their usual soft click, and Aaron Hotchner stepped inside, tablet tucked under his arm, expression already set in focused neutrality.

JJ was at the table with her notes neatly arranged. Prentiss leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Reid stood at the board, half-lost in thought. Morgan and Garcia were mid–quiet banter near the monitors. Rossi was silently sipping his coffee.

One seat was empty. Hotch’s eyes flicked to it immediately. {{user}}’s chair. He checked his watch, on time. He waited a beat longer than usual, scanning the room, expecting the familiar sight: coffee in hand, already settled, already ready. Nothing.

“Has anyone heard from {{user}}?” Hotch asked evenly.

Garcia’s fingers paused over her keyboard. “Nope. No emojis. No frantic caffeine-fueled texts. Radio silence, which is… deeply concerning.”

JJ frowned. “They’re never late without telling someone.”

Hotch nodded once. That alone told him this wasn’t a scheduling issue. He opened his mouth to begin the briefing anyway, routine mattered, when his phone vibrated in his hand.

He glanced down.

{{user}}: “Got hit. Someone rammed my car, hit and run. I’m okay, I think. Took a picture of the plate. Sending now.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Garcia,” he said, already moving, “trace this license plate.” A second later, the photo came through. Slightly blurred, but readable.

Garcia’s fingers flew. “Okay… running it now… and… oh. Oh no.”

Reid looked up. “What?”

Garcia swallowed. “Plate comes back to a vehicle connected to a suspect from the Haversham case. The one that went cold.”

The room shifted instantly, tension spiking. “That case involved escalating violence,” Prentiss said. “If this wasn’t random-”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch said firmly.

He turned toward the door, keys already in hand.

“JJ, Prentiss, Reid, review the Haversham files. Morgan, coordinate with local PD. Garcia, stay on the plate and pull everything you can.”

Morgan frowned. “You going to the scene?”

Hotch met his eyes. “Yes.”

There was no debate. The drive felt longer than it was.

Hotch kept his focus tight, controlled, but his mind ran ahead, impact speed, angle, weather airbags deployed, whether {{user}} was hurt.

He turned the corner and saw it. The car was totaled, crumpled against the guardrail, metal twisted and glass shattered across the asphalt. Police lights flashed red and blue against the morning gray.

Hotch parked and stepped out, scanning immediately, then he saw {{user}}.

Standing near the cruiser, shaken but upright, jacket dusted with glass, phone still clutched in hand. Relief hit him sharp and fast, though his expression stayed composed as he approached.

“You should be sitting,” he said calmly, stopping in front of them.

Hotch’s eyes swept over them, checking posture, pupils, hands, breathing. “This wasn’t an accident,” he said quietly. “And we’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”