Chapter Text
BAU Technical Center, two hours later.
Garcia's rapidly typing fingers suddenly halted. She stared at the screen, her expression shifting from concentration to confusion, and finally to complete shock.
"Sir," she called Hotch on the intercom, her voice filled with evident uncertainty, "I think I may have found something... unexpected."
A few minutes later, the entire team gathered in the technical center. Garcia's multiple monitors displayed complex network tracking path diagrams, with layers of encrypted proxy servers forming an intricate maze.
"The forum discussing 'iconic trauma survivors' used military-grade encryption," Garcia gestured in the air as she explained, "but I eventually traced the main poster's actual IP address."
She took a deep breath and clicked the mouse.
A photo of a young man appeared on screen—a gaunt face with a sickly pallor, deeply sunken eye sockets suggesting chronic insomnia, disheveled dark brown hair falling across his forehead. Most striking were his eyes, hollow yet containing a certain fanaticism.
"Samuel Crane, 28 years old," Garcia's voice turned serious.
"He's not Vance," Morgan was the first to vocalize everyone's confusion, his tone mixing disappointment with deeper concern.
"But he is Vance's student," Garcia quickly pulled up more information as student records expanded on screen. "Or rather, former student. A psychology graduate student at Washington University who was dismissed a year ago for 'excessively radical academic views and inappropriate behavior.'"
Hotch approached the screen, carefully examining Crane's photo. Those hollow eyes sent a chill through him, but what disturbed him more was an inexplicable sense of familiarity—
Where had he seen that look before?
"His research focus?" he asked, maintaining his customary calm.
"This is where it gets interesting," Garcia pulled up an academic file. "His research topic was—wait, let me read this exactly—'Symbolic Interpretations of Post-Traumatic Growth and Ritualistic Transformation: Using Serial Crime Victims as Examples.'"
The conference room fell into a brief, deathly silence.
"Who was his advisor?" Reid asked, though the answer was already obvious.
"Elias Vance," Garcia confirmed. "And not just an ordinary student-teacher relationship. According to school records, Crane was Vance's most valued research assistant, practically inseparable. Until..."
"Until what?" Rossi pressed.
"Until after some symposium a year ago," Garcia pulled up more records. "Crane became emotionally unstable and aggressive during that period. Several classmates complained his behavior was disturbing, and eventually the school made the decision to dismiss him."
"What about his timeline? Social media activity?" Hotch continued asking, his brain rapidly working to piece together the complete picture.
"This is where things get truly bizarre," Garcia switched to another screen showing Crane's social media timeline. "About a year ago, shortly before his dismissal, his posting style suddenly changed."
The screen scrolled through numerous texts, transforming from normal academic discussions to content filled with fanatical speculation.
Reid stepped forward, quickly scanning the posts: "'Pain is the gateway to divinity,' 'Only those who have experienced true darkness can become vessels of light,' 'False trauma desecrates true transformation'..."
"Sounds very much like our unsub," Morgan commented, though his tone contained doubt.
"And it feels like a misinterpretation of certain theories," Prentiss observed.
"There's more," Garcia pulled up another set of data. "Crane purchased large quantities of medical equipment over the past six months. Surgical knives, sutures, special fixation devices..."
"Through legal channels?" Hotch asked, his professional instinct immediately focusing on the details.
"Semi-legal. He used an expired medical school student ID," Garcia continued scrolling. "At the same time, his obsession with Norse mythology reached disturbing levels. Look here, he analyzed every symbol of the World Tree in detail, and also..."
She paused, as the screen displayed a hand-drawn illustration—a detailed diagram of the World Tree, each part labeled with human organs and cutting methods.
"Jesus," Prentiss whispered.
"There are too many coincidences in the timing," Reid's fingers rapidly tapped the table, his trademark anxious gesture. "Where was he during each case?"
"Near each scene," Garcia quickly answered, pulling up cell phone location records. "First case, he was at a coffee shop two blocks from the scene. Second case, at the convenience store next door. Third case..."
"Also nearby?" Hotch's voice remained calm.
"Yes, less than a mile away at a bus stop," Garcia nodded. "And each time during the estimated window when the crimes occurred."
For a moment no one spoke; the evidence was so clear it almost seemed deliberate.
"Too coincidental," Prentiss was the first to voice everyone's thoughts. "Recorded near the scene all three times? Either he's the world's dumbest serial killer, or..."
"Or he was observing," Reid suddenly picked up the thread, his voice containing a realization. "What if he's not the killer, but... an observer? A student?"
"Or a scapegoat," Rossi stated bluntly, his gaze lingering on Hotch for a moment. "Put in the spotlight by someone smarter."
Hotch didn't immediately respond. His thoughts were racing, trying to untangle this fog.
Crane's appearance was too perfect, unsettlingly fitting. Every detail pointed to him, like breadcrumbs carefully scattered to lure prey toward the next trap.
And if this were true, then the real predator...
"Garcia," he suddenly spoke, "check Vance's whereabouts during these timeframes."
"I already—" Garcia began, then stopped. "I mean, I can check, but I would need your formal authorization, since this involves—"
"Check," Hotch's tone was unquestionable.
Everyone noticed the sharpness in his tone. Hotch always strictly followed procedure, but now he was breaking the rules.
"Checking now," Garcia's fingers flew again. "Professor Vance has alibis for all three incidents. For the first, he was at a faculty meeting at the school, with over twenty people who can testify. For the second, he was hosting an online seminar from home, with video records. For the third..."
"Another alibi?" Morgan asked.
"At the university library," Garcia frowned. "There are borrowing records and surveillance footage."
"Perfect alibis," Hotch said softly, almost to himself.
"Or maybe he really is innocent," JJ suggested another possibility. "Perhaps our intuition is wrong this time."
"No," Rossi shook his head, his gaze fixed on Hotch. "My intuition is rarely wrong. Especially regarding people who show... special interest in Aaron."
Just then, the phone rang. Hotch glanced at the caller ID, his expression becoming complex.
"It's Dr. Vance."
The atmosphere in the conference room instantly froze, all eyes turning to Hotch. He took a deep breath and pressed the speakerphone button.
"Hotchner."
"Agent Hotchner, I hope I'm not disturbing your busy work."
Vance's voice came through the speaker with his characteristic refinement, but the team members could all detect the hidden excitement within it, conveying a carefully calculated sense of concern.
"What can I do for you, Professor?" Hotch's voice was almost professionally cold.
"Yes, important news. I apologize for disturbing your work hours, but I thought... this information might be helpful to you." Vance spoke slowly, the background noise revealing the sound of turning pages.
"Regarding Samuel Crane, a... student of mine."
Crane's name dropped like a bombshell, capturing everyone's attention. Hotch looked up and exchanged a glance with Rossi, both seeing the gravity in each other's eyes.
"Go on."
"I've been reviewing all his assignments from my class." The rustling of papers came from the other end of the phone. "Surprisingly, I discovered some... concerning content."
A pause. The team members could all sense this pause was deliberate, as if savoring something, or waiting for something, perhaps for Hotch to inquire further, but Hotch simply waited silently for him to continue.
Vance seemed to give a slight chuckle, ending the pause before his tone turned somber.
"He appears to have developed a pathological misunderstanding of certain theories I taught."
Hotch calmly asked: "What kind of misunderstanding?"
"He literalized academic concepts." Vance's voice carried just the right amount of concern. "For example, when I discussed 'the body as text,' he interpreted it as creating on an actual body. I should have recognized the danger then."
Reid and JJ frowned. This explanation was too...
"Why are you only thinking of this now?" Morgan directly challenged.
"Ah, Agent Morgan." Vance's voice took on a hint of pleasure, as if he had been waiting for this question. "Human memory is selective. Not until I just reviewed these materials did I realize the importance of these details. Guilt, you understand? The failure of an educator."
"Would you be willing to provide these materials to us?" Hotch ended his speech, asking pointedly.
"Of course. In fact," Vance paused, his voice suddenly lowering a few notches, becoming more intimate, "I'd like to give them to you personally, Agent Hotchner. Some content requires... contextual explanation. Are you available later?"
Hotch hesitated for a moment. Everyone in the team was silently shaking their heads.
"We could send someone—"
"No, I insist on meeting in person." Vance's voice suddenly became firm. "This concerns my student, my responsibility. I trust only you, Agent Hotchner. You understand the weight of responsibility, don't you?"
The last sentence made Hotch's breathing pause momentarily. Vance was playing a psychological game with him, and he was good at it. For a moment Hotch almost agreed.
Then, another pause.
"I trust you understand, Hotch, that some communications need to be face-to-face. Certain... subtle details are difficult to convey accurately over the phone."
Rossi's gaze turned dangerous as he stared at the phone, revealing a cold hostility.
Hotch maintained his professional mask, dismissing the request indifferently and distantly. "If this is case-related information, we can conduct a formal inquiry at the FBI—"
"No, no, no, Agent Hotchner," Vance interrupted, his voice carrying a certain pleasure. "Some things require the appropriate atmosphere. I'm sure you understand, given your professional experience."
He deliberately emphasized "professional experience," making it sound full of other implications.
Morgan's fist clenched, making a faint joint sound. Reid uncomfortably shifted his body a few centimeters away, looking like he wanted to distance himself from this suggestive conversation.
"Besides, some things aren't suitable for discussion in formal settings," Vance continued, his voice becoming more ambiguous, suggestive. "You know, Agent Hotchner, truth often hides beneath appearances. Just like you... beneath that strong exterior you show the world, there must be something more fascinating hidden. I've been thinking about our last meeting; unfortunately, we parted too hastily. We still have so much left unsaid..."
Garcia nearly spilled coffee on her keyboard. Almost everyone defensively folded their arms, and Prentiss looked like she wanted to draw her gun.
"Four o'clock, your office," Hotch coldly interrupted his romantic fantasies.
"Perfect." Vance's voice revealed satisfied victory. "Looking forward to your arrival. I'll have the relevant materials ready for you. Oh, and, Aaron..."
He deliberately used Hotch's first name, the intimacy in his tone making the entire team feel sick.
"I'll be waiting for you."
The moment the call ended, the conference room erupted like a volcano.
"That disgusting bastard!" Morgan jumped to his feet, his chair making a harsh scraping sound. "He was—he was just—"
"Sexual harassment," Prentiss said coldly. "Blatant sexual harassment. And he knew we were all listening."
"He was enjoying it," Reid's analysis carried rare anger. "This public provocation, letting the entire team know of his... interest in Hotch. It's a kind of territorial marking behavior."
"You can't go, Hotch," Morgan fumed. "This is obviously a trap!"
Hotch remained silent, but everyone understood his attitude.
"If you've decided, I'm going with you," Rossi used an uncompromising tone, his gaze toward Hotch revealing deep concern.
Hotch stood there, maintaining his characteristic composure, at least appearing flawless on the surface. But those who knew him well could see the subtle signs—the tightness in his jawline, the almost imperceptible stiffness in his shoulders, and his unconscious gesture of shielding his side with his arm.
That gesture. Whenever he felt threatened, his hand would lightly press there, as if confirming those scars were still there, reminding himself he had survived worse.
Nine scars left by Foyet. Permanently branded prompts.
"Hotch," JJ spoke softly, her tone full of concern. "Actually, we could have local police—"
"That won't work," Hotch's voice was unwavering as he quickly erected that familiar professional barrier. "If he has information about Crane that's intimately connected to the case itself, he won't cooperate properly with local police. We need to know what information he wants to convey to me privately. This is my job."
"Damn the job!"
Morgan angrily slammed his fist on the table. "That pervert obviously wants to—"
He suddenly stopped, as if swallowing many unspeakable words.
"Enough," Hotch's decisive tone appeared again, containing an undeniable sharpness. "I appreciate everyone's concern. Rossi and I will go together. Personal feelings cannot affect the investigation."
"Garcia," he turned to the technical analyst, deliberately avoiding the concerned gazes of others. "Continue tracking Crane. I want to know everything about him—bank records, call records, internet browsing history. Everything."
"Already on it, Boss," Garcia's fingers frantically typed. She paused, then added in an overly innocent tone, "And, Sir? I'll 'accidentally' monitor a certain professor's whereabouts. Purely a technical error, you understand. If I 'happen' to see something I shouldn't..."
Hotch gave her a warning look but didn't actually stop her. This tacit permission made Garcia smile with satisfaction.
"Aaron," Rossi walked to his side, his voice low. "You don't need to prove anything. We all know your capabilities, but—"
"I said, this is work," Hotch responded stiffly.
Rossi wanted to say more, but ultimately just gave him a deep look before nodding. He knew nothing he said now would change his decision.
This man always made himself a shield, standing between his team and danger. Even when the danger was so personal, he was accustomed to playing this protective role.
Washington University, 3 PM.
On the campus paths, students walked in small groups, youthful laughter floating in the air. This peaceful academic atmosphere formed an ironic contrast with Hotch's current state of mind.
Vance's office was located in the corner of the top floor, reportedly specifically requested by him, ostensibly for a better thinking environment.
Hotch and Rossi walked side by side down the hallway, their footsteps creating rhythmic echoes on the marble floor.
This is just another inquiry, Hotch told himself. Stay professional, get the information, then leave.
"Maintain distance, don't give him any wrong signals," Rossi reminded in a low voice. "If he tries something like last time—"
"I know what to do, Dave," Hotch sighed helplessly, as if this yet-to-begin conversation had already drained his energy.
"I know you know," Rossi's expression was filled with worry. "But this man... his level of obsession reminds me of some bad memories."
They both remembered. Those criminals attracted to specific BAU members, those dangerous obsessions that crossed professional boundaries. But this was different; this hunter was more sophisticated, knowing how to skirt the edges of the law.
The office door was half open, with classical music coming from inside—Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde," an opera about fatal love.
The choice of this piece was no coincidence; the melody floated out like some ominous invitation.
"You know what, I've changed my mind. I'm going to punch him a few times as soon as we get in," Rossi said quietly. "I'll just say I lost control."
"Dave," Hotch's voice carried rare fatigue.
"I'm serious, Aaron. I won't stand by and watch you again—" he stopped, but the unspoken words hung in the air.
Become prey for another madman.
Hotch gave him a reassuring look before pushing open the door. Vance stood with his back to them by the window, the evening sunlight outlining his silhouette. The entire posture was obviously designed to achieve some dramatic effect, like the opening act on a stage.
This artificially created cinematic feel made Rossi roll his eyes.
The office itself was an extension of its owner. Psychology books were neatly arranged on shelves, but Hotch noticed more obscure and lesser-known books interspersed among them, studies on rituals, symbols, and body modification.
Various diplomas and awards hung on the walls, but most eye-catching was a huge print, Da Vinci's "Vitruvian Man," with circles and squares surrounding the perfectly proportioned human body.
The air was permeated with a faint fragrance—sandalwood mixed with other complex scents, evoking ancient rituals.
"Agent Hotchner. You've finally arrived."
Vance turned around, wearing a long-anticipated smile. He completely ignored Rossi's presence, his gaze locking directly onto Hotch with an intensity that seemed almost tangible.
He walked briskly forward, each step seeming meticulously rehearsed. When he extended his hand, Hotch noticed his nails were trimmed with unusual precision, almost to the point of obsession.
Hotch shook hands briefly, intending to quickly withdraw, but Vance noticeably prolonged the contact. His thumb gently caressed the back of Hotch's hand, the touch uncomfortably gentle, as if memorizing the texture of his skin.
Hotch yanked his hand away, facial muscles tensing unnaturally, a suppressed disgust flashing in his eyes. But Vance merely smiled, as if this reaction too had been anticipated.
"Please, sit." He gestured to the chair opposite, but didn't immediately move away, forcing Hotch to brush past him to reach the seat.
As Hotch passed by, Vance took a deep breath, making no attempt to hide that he was smelling him.
"Your cologne... quite distinctive," he commented with genuine appreciation.
Rossi coughed sharply, seemingly as a warning, but Vance appeared not to notice.
"Let me pour you some coffee. Black, if I recall correctly?"
"No thank you," Hotch said coldly. "Let's discuss Crane."
"Ah, straight to business," Vance's hand lightly brushed Hotch's shoulder, pretending to reach for the bookshelf, "that's one of the things I admire about you."
He retrieved a heavy folder but didn't immediately hand it to Hotch, instead leaning over from behind to place it on the desk.
This movement brought his body almost touching Hotch's back, his breath lightly brushing Hotch's ear.
Rossi saw Hotch's fingers clench into a fist under the table.
"These are Crane's research notes, along with some paper topics he chose himself," Vance's voice was low. "You'll find some... disturbing content."
Hotch's body instinctively wanted to lean forward, but he forced himself not to recoil, maintaining outward composure as he opened the file. Inside were densely written handwritten notes, filled with discussions of "transformation," "transcendence," and "perfect vessels."
"These are Crane's records of your theories," Hotch observed.
"Ah, yes, poor Samuel," Vance didn't increase the distance, instead placing his hand on the back of Hotch's chair, his fingertips almost touching his shoulder. "He... over-interpreted my theories."
"Over-interpreted?" Rossi interjected, his tone dangerous, voice carrying obvious hostility.
He hadn't sat down, choosing instead to stand behind Hotch, positioning himself next to Vance, projecting an extremely dissatisfied and powerful intimidating presence.
He wasn't certain if he might punch the man in the next moment, considering Vance's excessive behavior.
Vance seemed to notice his presence for the first time, a flash of annoyance crossing his face.
"Oh, Agent Rossi," he made no attempt to hide the mockery and contempt in his tone. "I almost forgot you were here."
Rossi just stared at him coldly.
Vance's ideal interaction space had been disrupted; he finally straightened up reluctantly but only moved to the opposite side of Hotch, not sitting down but leaning against the desk, a position that allowed him to look down at Hotch.
"Yes, he over-interpreted my theories. About how trauma changes a person's essence, how it becomes a catalyst for transformation." His voice deepened, revealing suggestive intimacy. "You understand this better than anyone, don't you, Aaron?"
He used Hotch's name again, as if savoring the taste of the word on his tongue.
"The things you've experienced, those... rough and painful baptisms." His gaze obviously fell on Hotch's abdomen, lingering there.
"Do I need to remind you again, Dr. Vance, that we're here to discuss Crane," Hotch's voice was ice-cold. Each word seemed forced through gritted teeth.
"Of course, of course." Vance made a placating gesture but didn't bother hiding the unusual excitement flickering in his eyes.
He finally sat in his own chair, but deliberately chose an angle where their knees almost touched.
"Samuel Crane believed trauma could be artificially created, that transformation could be forced."
"Also, his understanding of trauma was... unique," Vance continued, still maintaining the too-close distance. "He believed only those who had experienced extreme pain could truly be 'reborn.' And those ordinary traumas—unemployment, divorce, bankruptcy—were all merely disguised tests."
"So he thought they needed 'help' to experience true transformation?" Rossi scrutinized him.
"To some extent, yes." Vance's gaze never left Hotch. "But his standards were special. He wasn't looking for ordinary trauma survivors, but people who demonstrated extraordinary resilience."
He paused, his expression becoming sympathetic, but Hotch knew it was just an act.
"Like you, Agent Hotchner. In his notes, you're mentioned repeatedly. He called you 'living proof'—someone who experienced hell yet still walks among the living."
He pushed across some new files, but when Hotch reached for them, he deliberately covered Hotch's hand with his own.
"Careful," he said softly, his fingertips stroking Hotch's knuckles. "Some content might disturb you. Considering it involves your... personal experiences."
Hotch yanked his hand back, papers scattering across the floor. He instinctively bent down to pick them up.
"Oh, let me." Vance immediately stood up.
When they both bent to retrieve the files, Vance deliberately brought his face extremely close, close enough that his breath caressed Hotch's cheek, close enough that Hotch could see the abnormal light in his eyes.
"Enough." Rossi couldn't stand it anymore; he roughly intervened, pushing Vance away. "Maintain your distance, Professor."
Vance stood up, a hurt expression on his face.
"I was just trying to help," he said innocently. "Agent Rossi, you seem to misunderstand me."
"Help? By harassing a federal agent?" Rossi was blunt.
"Harassment?" Vance affected a shocked expression. "I merely have academic interest in Agent Hotchner. He's a fascinating research subject."
"If my attention makes you uncomfortable, I apologize," his tone sounded very sincere. "Sometimes I just can't control myself. When faced with such an exceptional... subject."
He used the word "subject." Not person, not agent, but subject. Something that could be studied, dissected, owned.
Hotch ignored him, simply organizing the files and continuing to review Crane's notes.
Turning to one page, he indeed found his name, surrounded by strange symbols and annotations. He felt an obvious discomfort but his expression remained undisturbed.
As they read the content, both men's expressions gradually grew grave. The paper contained detailed analyses of several cases of "survival after extreme trauma," one clearly alluding to the Foyet case.
"Where did he get this information?" Rossi demanded.
"That's exactly what concerns me," Vance sighed. "Some details are clearly not from public records."
"Are you suggesting he hacked into the FBI database?" Hotch looked up, meeting Vance's burning eyes directly.
"I'm not sure," Vance shook his head, his voice almost a whisper. "Or he had other channels."
The atmosphere in the office suddenly became oppressive.
"When did he write these?"
"About a year ago," Vance answered. "After this he was dismissed. I admit, some of my theoretical discussions may have triggered his paranoia."
He leaned forward, shortening the distance again.
"But you must understand, Agent Hotchner, there's a fundamental difference between academic exploration and actual action. I study trauma and transformation because I'm fascinated by human spiritual resilience. While Crane... he confused theory with reality."
"You're saying you have similar interests in these theories?" Rossi threw out a relatively sharp question.
The corner of Vance's mouth curled into a meaningful smile.
"I'm interested in many things, Agent Rossi. Including how trauma shapes a person, how it leaves unique imprints on the soul."
His gaze returned to Hotch, filled with a hungry scrutiny.
"Some people consider scars defects, but I think they're... marks of beauty. Especially those hidden beneath clothing."
The air in the room almost solidified. Hotch's nails dug deep into his palm. Vance kept testing the limits of his patience. His allusions to the Foyet case, mentioning those scars—this had gone far beyond any professional discussion.
"If there's no other relevant information—" he stood up.
"Wait," Vance also stood, quickly moving around the table to block the door. "One more thing."
He took another folder from the bookshelf, this time deliberately letting his body brush against Hotch.
"Crane's final research proposal. Written obscurely, but mentioning a specific target," Vance said softly, almost whispering. "A doctor. Martin Reynolds."
"Why him?" Rossi asked, simultaneously stepping closer to Hotch in a protective posture.
"Dr. Reynolds was a battlefield surgeon who lost a leg in Afghanistan and returned to become a renowned trauma specialist," Vance explained. "In Crane's view, he's an 'incomplete healer,' a paradox that needs perfecting."
"If you knew all this, why didn't you report it earlier?" Rossi's questioning voice carried controlled anger.
"Only when I returned to my office and deeply considered these murders did I connect them with Samuel's behavior," Vance's expression was quite remorseful. "Only this morning when reviewing his notes again did I realize the seriousness of this content. I contacted you immediately."
He stepped closer to Hotch, his expression becoming extremely sincere and sad.
"Even today I still can't believe," he said painfully, "that my student because of my theories..."
He suddenly grabbed Hotch's hand. "Agent Hotchner, I'm truly sorry. If I had noticed earlier... perhaps all this could have been avoided."
His grip was very tight and lasted too long.
"Your information is helpful," Hotch forcefully withdrew his hand, perfectly maintaining an agent's professional mask. "If you have any other relevant materials later, please send them directly to the FBI."
"Of course," disappointment flashed across Vance's face but was quickly replaced by another expression. "However, Agent Hotchner, I was wondering..."
His voice became more ambiguous.
"After this case is over, perhaps we could engage in some deeper exchanges? I'm very interested in your professional experiences. Purely... academic interest."
"I'm afraid that won't be necessary."
Hotch's refusal was direct and cold.
"Don't refuse so quickly," Vance persisted. "I believe we'll have many common topics. About survival and... transcendence."
As he spoke the last word, his gaze obviously fell on Hotch's abdomen.
"We need to go," Rossi decisively intervened and ended the topic.
But Vance moved quickly, blocking the door again. This time he didn't completely obstruct it but leaned against the doorframe, creating an angle where Hotch would have to get close to him to pass through.
"Before you leave," he said, pulling out a business card, "this is my personal number. If you need... any help. Or just want to talk."
He handed over the card, tucking it into Hotch's suit pocket.
"I know it's difficult bearing such a burden," he said sincerely, his voice becoming unusually gentle. "Being obsessed over, being watched. If you need someone to confide in... someone who understands the psychology behind it..."
"Thank you," Hotch interrupted, "but I don't have such needs."
"Alright, Aaron, but remember," Vance said as they were leaving, "Crane may be caught, but his mentor is still out there. And based on these notes, you remain their primary target."
He paused, revealing a meaningful smile.
"Please be careful. If anything happened to you, I would be... distressed," he said, his voice carrying possessive concern. "You're too precious to be treated in such a crude manner."
Hotch pressed his lips together without responding. He mechanically stepped forward and turned to leave.
Vance's gaze remained attached to his back. Only when the elevator doors closed did that feeling of being watched as prey finally subside. Hotch's long-tense muscles finally relaxed slightly.
"Seriously?" Rossi's voice was low. "That pervert was flirting with you right in front of me?"
Hotch didn't answer, but Rossi noticed him unconsciously wiping the hand Vance had gripped.
After the elevator opened, he quickly stepped out, walking with almost windlike speed.
Rossi called after him in confusion, "Hotch, wrong direction, the main entrance is this way."
"I know," Hotch's stride paused momentarily before resuming. "I need to wash my hands."
Rossi's expression became quite colorful, but he immediately showed understanding.
After leaving the building, the two walked silently toward the parking lot. Autumn wind swept by, carrying early winter's chill, but Hotch felt nothing. His skin was still burning at every place Vance had touched.
Only after sitting in the car, closing the door, forming a relatively safe space, did Hotch allow himself to show a hint of genuine reaction.
His hands trembled with anger. He gripped the steering wheel trying to control it, but the trembling spread to his arms.
"Aaron?" Rossi's voice was full of concern.
"I'm fine." An automatic answer, like a programmed response.
"You're shaking."
"I said I'm fine." His voice became harder, his defense level rising higher.
Just another unsub, he told himself. You've dealt with worse. Foyet was worse.
But this meaningless comparison only made things worse. Foyet at least was direct—violent, bloody, undisguised malice. While Vance... Vance was playing a more insidious game.
"He kept trying to touch you," Rossi's voice was low, filled with barely controlled anger. "That psychopath was—"
"Dave." A warning tone, perhaps mixed with a barely detectable plea.
"No, Aaron. We need to talk about this." Rossi looked at him, twenty-plus years of friendship giving him the right to break those boundaries. "His obsession with you has gone far beyond professional misconduct, this is—"
"This is what?" Hotch suddenly turned to him, emotions finally erupting after being suppressed. "Harassment? Of course it is. But what can we prove? He's very careful to stay within legal boundaries. Every touch can be explained as accidental. Every word can be misinterpreted as academic discussion."
He took a deep breath, struggling to regain control. But his voice still carried rare bitterness.
"He's smart, Dave. He knows exactly what he's doing. Knows how to touch boundaries without crossing them. At least not in any prosecutable way."
"That doesn't mean we just let him—"
"We have no choice!" Hotch's voice became sharp. "Not yet."
Silence fell. Rossi studied his old friend's profile, seeing what he tried to hide.
"This isn't just about the case, is it?" he asked softly. "This triggered something else."
The muscles in Hotch's jaw tightened.
"Foyet." It was a statement, not a question.
Hotch didn't answer, but his hand unconsciously moved to his abdomen, lightly pressing on those hidden scars.
"Foyet stalked you," Rossi's voice was gentle but persistent. "He invaded your life, threatened your family, and finally—"
"I know what Foyet did," Hotch said flatly, emotionless. "I remind myself every day."
"And now Vance—"
"Vance isn't Foyet," Hotch interrupted him. "He won't break into my home. Won't threaten Jack. He's too smart. He wants something different."
"What?"
Hotch was silent for a long time, so long that Rossi thought he wouldn't answer.
"Control," he finally said, his volume barely above a whisper. "He wants to break me, or to have me, bit by bit. Through these little violations, these calculated touches. He wants to get under my skin, into my head. He wants me to think about him, fear him, even..."
He stopped.
"He won't get what he wants," Rossi said firmly.
"Won't he?" Hotch's laugh was bitter and brief. "I'm already thinking about him, Dave."
"That's just a normal stress response, not—"
"I know what it is," Hotch suddenly resumed his professional tone, invisible defensive barriers rebuilt. "But knowing doesn't stop it."
He started the engine, checked the rearview mirror, his movements precise and mechanical.
"Now we need to focus on Dr. Reynolds. The rest... can wait until later."
"Aaron—"
"Dave, please." Hotch took a deep breath, his tone showing rare pleading. "Just, not now... I need to focus on the case."
Rossi wanted to argue further, but he had known Aaron Hotchner too long. He knew when to push him and when to give him space to process.
"Well," he finally said, "but this conversation isn't over, this isn't finished."
"I know," Hotch responded softly.