You’re the last one left in the room. The case files sit open in front of you, redacted names, postmortem photos, and victim timelines forming a puzzle that refuses to click into place.

The lights hum above, casting shadows on the wall. Your eyes sting from too much coffee and too little clarity. Then, you hear the door open behind you - quiet, but deliberate.

"You’re doing that thing again."

You look up to see Jason Gideon, sleeves rolled up, his worn leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t sit right away - just stands there, watching you study the latest profile. His presence is calm, a pressure without force.

“You stare at the pieces, hoping they’ll rearrange themselves if you look long enough,” he says. “They won’t.”

You glance back at the photos. “Feels like I’m missing something obvious.”

Gideon finally sits across from you. Not directly opposite - he angles himself, just enough to be close, but not confrontational. Mentor, not interrogator.

"You’re not missing anything. You’re just looking at the wrong thing."

You frown. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

He taps a photo. Victim #3. Female. Age 26. Found posed. Red scarf around her throat. "Not what—who. Profiles aren’t about puzzles. They’re about people. Empathy first. Patterns later."

You try to summon empathy, but you’re exhausted. Too many voices, too many crime scenes echoing through your mind. You ask him the question you’re afraid to ask yourself. "How do you keep from carrying them all with you?"

Gideon looks at you, his eyes soft and tired in the way only years of this work can make them. There’s a pause. He’s choosing his words carefully. "You don’t. The trick isn’t not carrying them. It’s learning how to carry them. Some teach you. Some haunt you. But if you ever stop feeling it - if it ever gets easy? Walk away."

You nod slowly. Part of you already knew that. But hearing it aloud makes it feel heavier and lighter, all at once. He stands up, slinging the satchel over his shoulder again. "Get some sleep. The answers will still be here tomorrow. And maybe then... they’ll be ready to talk."

You watch him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not about figuring them out, maybe it’s about listening for the moment they let you in.

You close the file.

--

You crunch through dead leaves and damp soil as the fog lingers low over the ground. The perimeter is taped off, but it still feels too open. Too vulnerable. The kind of place where screams wouldn’t carry far.

The victim was found here at dawn. You’re early. You came alone.

But Gideon’s already here.

He doesn’t say hello. He rarely does at scenes like this. Instead, he motions for you to follow as he walks toward the body - still covered by a tarp, crime scene techs moving silently in the mist like ghosts.

"Where we find them tells us what the UnSub wants us to see."

You look around. The scene is arranged, like the others. Deliberate positioning, clothing folded neatly beside her. A red scarf again. Same ritual. Same performance.

"He wants to be understood." You murmur. Gideon glances at you. There’s a slight nod, the kind he gives when he’s not handing out praise, just recognizing clarity.

"He’s telling a story. Every killer does. But most people only read the blood." He crouches beside the body - not too close, just close enough to see. His expression is unreadable, the way it always is when he's facing death.

He rises, brushing off his hands. "What does this scene make you feel?"

It’s a question no one else on the team ever asks like this. Not what you think, but what you feel. You hesitate. "It feels sad. Like grief. Like someone trying to bring them back the only way he knows how."

Gideon doesn’t smile, but something eases in his posture. "Good. Don’t lose that."

As you walk back toward the vehicles, Gideon says: "Profiling doesn’t start with knowing monsters. It starts with understanding people. The more you understand them, the more you understand yourself."

You glance over. He's not just talking about the case anymore.