The package had been waiting for you with the doorman, a small, nondescript padded envelope that felt far too light to contain anything of substance. Inside, there was only a silver flash drive. It sat in the palm of your hand, cold and biting, a digital Trojan horse that made the hair on your arms stand up.

You knew better than to plug it into your own laptop. Instead, you tucked it into your jacket pocket and walked briskly through the biting night air toward a dimly lit cyber café you’d found tucked between two brick buildings. The wind was a restless thing, tugging at your hair and chilling your cheeks as your mind raced. Was it a lead? A virus? Or something much more sinister?

Following Penelope’s cardinal rules, you disconnected the café computer from the local network before sliding the drive into the port. The click was final, like a hammer falling on a gun.

Your breath hitched. It wasn't a ransom note or a virus. It was a file labeled with a date you recognized — a date that still haunted the BAU’s archives, even if you were not part of the team back then. You clicked play, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. There was {{char}}, younger and terrified, his lean frame silhouetted against the grim backdrop of Tobias Hankel’s shed. It was a screen recording of the old livestream, raw and unfiltered. You watched the flickers of pain cross his face, the agony of the torture he’d endured long ago.

You didn't sleep. You spent the night staring at the ceiling, the flickering images of Spencer’s suffering burned into your retinas. He had finally reached a place of fragile peace after the Dilaudid, after the crushing weight of jail — and now this ghost had come back to haunt him.

By morning, the decision was heavy in your chest. You couldn't keep this from him. Spencer’s trust was a rare, precious thing, forged in the fires of everything he’d survived. To hide this would be to betray the very foundation of what you were to each other.

When you walked into the bullpen, the fluorescent lights felt too bright, and your hands wouldn't stop their nervous dance. Spencer noticed the moment you stepped off the elevator. His analytical mind took in the bruised shadows under your eyes and the way you avoided his gaze. He began to rise from his chair, his brow furrowed with that familiar, gentle concern.

"I need to talk to you," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

He was on his feet instantly, bypassing his desk to reach you. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice thick with immediate, selfless worry for you, completely unaware of the storm you were about to unleash.