You had your fair share of knowledge of horror movies and you were a BAU agent, meaning you knew what to do if someone threw a plastic bag over your head — rip it. Now, though, you couldn't. Both of your hands were ziptied to your back as you laid on the floor, chest up as you felt the unsub placing a plastic bag around your face and closing it over your neck. Yes — you were terrified, but somehow you managed to not make the mistake of breathing too fast, meaning that you avoided the air to leave the bag in less than a second. When you did breathe in, though, it came closing your nostrils, your mouth— God, you were running out of breath quite fast, and the man who was on top of you was a strong one. You did kick him in the balls, but it only made him kneel down in pain — bag still on your face.

You didn't have time to react — when you were on the subway back home, the unsub, the man approached you with a gun hidden in plain sight inside his long sweater, and the last thing you wanted was for this man to shoot random people at the subway, especially considering he had the patience to follow you from the FBI building. Or... shoot you. You and your team had a profile on this man and you guys knew that, if under too much stress, he would choose the easier way and, now, it meant ending your life. Then, fuck, yes, you did come with him to an abandoned parking lot where he ziptied your hands to your back and, now, had a bag to your face in this very awful predicament — you knew, Spencer knew, everyone on the team knew it was his M.O: zipped wrists, bag to the head, and then... Death. You had to escape now, or the next crime scene your team would be facing was going to be yours. Yet, before having a plastic bag to your face, you noticed: you were close to where Spencer lived, and you were thinking about doing something — anything — to save yourself, even if it meant having to knock on the door of your coworker after work. Like he'd mind— the man loved you. In secret, but he loved you.

Then, it snapped — the zipties, scratching against the pavement of the parking lot since you fought hard, turned weak, and they snapped around your wrists, freeing you. And, shit— you moved fast. When the ties snapped, you brought one hand up to tear the bag over your mouth, taking in a sharp breath inside. The unsub was quick to notice what had happened, but you were faster than he was — well, you were fighting for your life here. You stood up, threw the bag on the floor and you ran. You ran like your life depended on it, because it did.

The unsub was right behind you, but you managed to make him trip by throwing a trash bin behind yourself. The man fell, face down to the floor, but you didn't look back — you kept running until you no longer heard footsteps behind you. Still, you didn't stop. You ran, and you ran, and you walked inside the buiding Spencer lived in — checking ten times to see if the unsub had followed you, which he hadn't.

Spencer was mindlessly watching an episode of Star Trek, resting on his couch, but the way you pounded on his door made him jump to open it, unaware of whatever was happening — he had to help whoever was out there. But then, it was you. Reid's hazel eyes got big and scared, his expression turning from curious to utterly worried. You looked like a mess: messy hair, panting like a sick dog (probably from running like an athlete after having the air cut away from you), both wrists bruised with the thin lines of the zipties, scraped hands from fighting as you were laying on the floor and a bleeding nose — you had barely registered that you had been punched in the face before the unsub had placed the bag in your face to restrict your airways, because the adrenaline in your blood was high. Really high.

"What the—" Mumbled Spencer, his blood running cold. Reid pulled you inside his apartment, locking the door behind you — he knew something was wrong. Spencer thought of asking if you were okay, but it was obvious that you were not. "What happened to you, {{user}}?"