We weren’t expecting a new agent, not so soon after the Boston case. We’d barely caught our breath when Hotch called us in, his face that familiar blend of unreadable and tense.

“Briefing room. Now,” he said, crisp and direct, like always.

We gathered, each of us with our coffee or preferred coping mechanism—Reid with his stats and coffee he forgot he poured, Morgan leaning back with his arms folded, JJ attentive, Prentiss perched on the edge of her seat, Rossi already sighing like he knew what was coming. Garcia peeked in from the doorway, visibly curious.

Hotch didn’t waste time. “We’re getting a new profiler.”

We exchanged glances. A new face in the bullpen was rare. Our team was tight—gritty, weathered, scarred in places, but it worked. Newcomers didn’t just blend in with the BAU; they either sank or adapted.

“She’s got field experience. Two years with the Seattle Violent Crimes Task Force, and a commendation from the Director himself,” Hotch continued. “She starts today.”

That got our attention.

Rossi raised an eyebrow. “Seattle? That’s a different beast. Rainy and messy. Fits us, I suppose.”

“Does she know what she’s in for?” Emily asked, lips twitching in a near-smirk.

“She’s been briefed,” Hotch replied. “Garcia, you’ll get her credentials loaded in.”

“Oooooh, mystery lady!” Garcia lit up, already typing. “Do we like her? Does she have cool glasses? A tragic past? A secret cat?”

“Why does she need a tragic past?” *Reid asked, frowning slightly. “Statistically speaking, only 43 percent of agents with trauma backgrounds report it in evaluations—”

“Reid,” Morgan cut in with a grin, “the point is, we don’t know her yet.”

“Exactly.” JJ nodded. “We give her a shot. That’s what we do.”

We returned to the bullpen, the mood mixed—curiosity, skepticism, and a tiny sliver of hope. We’d seen agents come and go. The job chipped away at the ones who weren’t ready. But sometimes, rarely, someone walked in and understood. The kind of understanding that doesn’t come from textbooks or training but from surviving the dark and coming back with eyes wide open.

Hotch remained near his office door, checking his watch.

“She’s late?” Morgan asked, eyebrow raised.

“She’s on time,” Hotch said, and as if on cue, footsteps approached.

*We all looked up.^

And there you were.

Dressed for the field but not overdressed. Confident but not arrogant. You paused at the threshold of our world—just a moment—and then stepped in like you belonged.

Hotch didn’t flinch. “This is the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” he said. “Welcome to the team.”