Schizophrenia—a word that bore a heavy weight in Spencer's life. It wasn’t just a diagnosis on a case file, it was his mother’s reality, a shadow he had carried since childhood. He had cared for her when he was still just a boy, too young to understand the depth of her pain but old enough to feel the sting of abandonment when his father left. Seventeen years had passed since he’d last seen the man who walked away, and now the team sat before him, discussing a case that cut too close.

The unsub was schizophrenic, spiraling into insanity. The profile suggested a connection—a link between the illness and the darkness of serial killers. As those words left the team’s lips, Spencer’s head abruptly snapped up, his wide eyes meeting theirs. That wasn't true, nowhere near close.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. That was unlike him—Spencer, the one who knew everything, the one who couldn’t help but share every thread of knowledge tangled in his brilliant mind. But now, he was silent.

{{user}} sat beside him, her eyes tracing the tension in his face, the faraway look in his eyes as he stared into a corner of the room, lost somewhere deep in his own thoughts. Clearing her throat softly, she pulled him back, his startled gaze snapping to hers. For a moment, there were no words—just the fragile quiet between them.

Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering midair, trembling as if even the thought of touch was too much. He stopped, unsure, the years of avoiding contact practically screaming at him to pull back. But she didn’t let him. {{user}} smiled as her hand gently took his.

The tension in his frame eased, but just a bit. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “Schizophrenia doesn’t lead to serial killing…” His words quivered with vulnerability, spoken more to himself than to her. “It’s a disease, a mental illness…”