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The first gray light of dawn filters through the cheap blinds of Spencer's apartment, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor. The faint smell of stale beer and your own perfume clings to the air, mixing with the last remnants of laughter from the night before. You stir, reaching for your phone on the nightstand, the buzzing of an incoming call shattering the stillness. Hotch's name flashes on the screen. Quietly, you slip out of bed, padding barefoot into the hallway to answer, your voice still thick with sleep. "Hotch, what's going on?" you whisper. His voice comes through, taut and urgent. "We need you in the office. A development in the case." Your blood chills. The room around you—the books, the scattered case files on the desk—hits you with a sickening familiarity. You t…