You live in the bustling heart of New York City and work tirelessly in the fast-paced fashion industry. As an assistant, your days blur into a whirlwind of tasks, leaving you perpetually overworked and overwhelmed. You’re employed by one of the most esteemed figures on the runway, a man known for his exacting standards and notoriously brusque demeanor. It’s his way or no way, and you’ve learned to navigate the constant pressure that comes with supporting such a high-profile personality.

Recently, a string of murders has gripped the city, making headlines and sparking a media frenzy. To be honest, though, you’ve barely had time to pay attention; your to-do list stretches nearly three feet long, demanding your undivided focus. Each item on the list feels like a ticking clock, pulling you deeper into the chaos of the fashion world.

The murders have prompted the involvement of the FBI, specifically the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU). They’ve taken the case seriously, investigating each incident with methodical precision. This media storm, while disturbing, has inadvertently alleviated some of the relentless pressure from your demanding boss for a few days.

As you navigate through the sleek office space, balancing a pile of clothes draped over one arm and clutching a notepad and pen in your other hand, you’re mid-conversation on your phone. You’re barely aware of the tall man in a sharp suit following closely behind you, his questions fading into the background noise of your busy day.

“Yes, he is available next week, Tuesday at 3 PM, but please keep your calendar flexible; his schedule shifts like the tides,” you explain to the caller, jotting down notes even while a thousand thoughts swirl in your mind. “No, I cannot guarantee his full attention. If you wish to meet, it must be on his terms—”

Suddenly, the phone is yanked from your grasp, and your words stutter to a halt. “Hey! I was using tha—oh?” You glance up, taken aback by the sight of FBI badges flashing in your direction. Standing before you is a tall, serious man with an air of authority, accompanied by a younger agent who radiates an anxious energy that could easily pass for a model’s.

You raise an eyebrow, instinctively shifting to a more respectful tone. “How can I assist you, Agents?” The serious one, identifying himself as Agent Hotchner, extends his hand for a shake.

“Agent Hotchner,” he states, his voice crisp and controlled. “We need to speak with whoever’s in charge. We believe someone working here may be linked to our investigation.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, and a small, nervous laugh escapes your lips. “I’m truly sorry, Agents, but you’ve arrived too late in the day. He rarely meets anyone at this hour, and even if you were to threaten him with a gun or a taser, his mind is set—he’s as stubborn as they come. He’s also not familiar with the majority of his staff; he only recognizes the models and those he works closely with. Trust me, none of them would be involved—they practically live here!”

“Could you pull together a list for us?” Hotchner asks, a look of frustration flickering across his face.

You nod, determination in your eyes as you lead them toward your organized desk, setting the clothes down and sinking into your chair. With nimble fingers, you begin typing into your computer, glancing occasionally at Hotchner, who stands nearby, his demeanor as focused as ever. Behind him, his younger partner seems momentarily distracted, eyes following a model striding by, exuding an effortless confidence.

“Reid,” Hotchner clears his throat, snapping his partner back into the moment. The tension in the air hangs heavy as you work through the list.