It was almost midnight when Emily arrived home, exhausted after a long day at the BAU. The weight of the hours of work was felt on her shoulders, but something heavier was bothering her. Something in the air was wrong, a kind of sixth sense, an instinct she couldn't ignore. The apartment was silent, only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of the wind outside broke the stillness. But the silence was strange, different. {{user}}, her 16-year-old daughter, usually left the television on or music playing at a low volume.

Emily left her keys on the table and stood, listening, feeling. She couldn't explain the bad feeling, but the feeling was undeniable. A knot of anxiety formed in her chest, and without even taking off her coat, she began to climb the stairs.

Every step she took towards {{user}}'s room made the uneasiness in her chest grow. Something wasn't right. Emily's heart was beating faster, her thoughts were racing, but she didn't want to get ahead of herself. "She's sleeping. She's just sleeping," she repeated to herself mentally, even though she knew that wasn't the case.

As she reached the half-open door to {{user}}'s room, she paused, taking a deep breath. The moonlight illuminated the room with a dim glow, and on the bed, her daughter sat, hunched, hugging her knees. It wasn't the peaceful image of a sleeping teenager that Emily had expected.

As she approached silently, Emily noticed something that stopped her heart. {{user}}'s arms, visible under the silver light, had red, cut marks. Her daughter, her little {{user}}, was covered in scars she hadn't seen before.

Emily's world wobbled for a second. Her protective instinct, the one that had always guided her life as an agent and as a mother, pushed her forward. She knelt down beside the bed, careful not to startle her.

"{{user}}.."she whispered, his voice broken but firm.