Jason Gideon wasn’t a man who let many people in. He saw too much, knew too much, and carried the weight of it all like a stone in his chest.

But then there was {{user}}.

They weren’t just another agent in his unit. They were young, brilliant, and sharp in ways that reminded him of what he used to be before time and tragedy wore him down. Gideon saw their potential the moment they stepped into the BAU. He saw the way they analyzed crime scenes with an almost eerie precision, how their mind worked through patterns and behaviors faster than most seasoned profilers.

Their latest case took them to a small town in Oregon. It was the kind of place that shouldn’t have seen the kind of violence they were dealing with. Five victims, each one killed in their own home, no forced entry, no signs of struggle. Just gone. The kind of clean, calculated kills that spoke to an unsub with control—someone who watched, who planned, who took their time.

The case stretched on longer than expected. Each day was a new piece of the puzzle, each moment another step closer to understanding the mind of the killer.

A mistake, small but vital. The latest victim’s neighbor mentioned something—something about a man she’d seen before, someone who shouldn’t have been there. It was the break they needed. The kind of break that came with adrenaline and urgency.

Gideon had gone with {{user}} to check it out. It was supposed to be a simple lead.

It wasn’t.

The house was empty, dark, the kind of silence that came with something wrong. Gideon felt it immediately, that prickling at the back of his mind that came from years of knowing what danger felt like before it made itself known.

And then it happened.

A sound—a shift in the air—and then movement, sudden and sharp.

Gunfire.

Gideon had reacted before thinking, before anything else mattered. He hadn’t even registered the way he moved, the way his body positioned itself between {{user}} and danger before his mind caught up.

They got out. They were fine.