Chapter Text
Hotch senses the danger before he sees it.
It isn’t a clear certainty or a defined image; it’s a pressure behind his sternum, an automatic adjustment of posture, the subtle shift in his breathing.
An old instinct, sharpened by years of hunting men who never wanted to be found.
The alley is too quiet.
He stops mid-step.
The city is still alive a few streets away—engines, voices, a distant siren—but here the sound feels muffled, as if someone closed an invisible door.
Hotch turns his head slightly, scanning reflections, shadows, exits.
Nothing.
And that’s what doesn’t fit.
He takes a step back, hand moving naturally toward his weapon, when the first movement breaks the air.
He doesn’t shout.
He doesn’t question.
He strikes.
The punch is pure reflex—knuckles to jaw, with enough force to disorient, not to kill. He feels the impact travel up his arm, the sharp crack confirming he hit the right spot.
The man stumbles into the wall, dazed, and Hotch is already moving.
The second comes from the right.
Hotch grabs a trash lid, uses it as an improvised shield, and hurls it hard.
Metal hits face. A muffled cry. He doesn’t slow down.
Inhale through his nose. Exhale through his mouth. Control. Always control.
—FBI —he says evenly, without raising his voice—. Step away. Now.
They don’t.
The third comes from behind. Hotch senses him by the shift in air, the shadow out of place.
He ducks at the last second, pivots on one foot, and sweeps the legs with surgical precision.
The body hits the pavement with a heavy thud.
One down.
Hotch straightens, heart racing but steady. His mind is clear, focused, cataloging details: three attackers visible, possibly more.
None of them look improvised.
Too coordinated.
Too quiet.
This isn’t a mugging.
The fourth charges without warning, all brute force. Hotch blocks the first hit, but the impact rattles his shoulder.
He answers with an elbow to the gut, hears the air leave the other man’s lungs.
—Mistake —Hotch mutters, never breaking rhythm.
He strikes again.
One stumbles back, blood running from his eyebrow. Sweat starts to slide down Hotch’s spine, pulse pounding at his temples.
He’s not winning.
But he’s not losing either.
Not yet.
The problem isn’t skill. It’s numbers.
Someone grabs his arm. Hotch twists, uses the grip as leverage, drives his knee up. The man collapses with a groan.
Hotch barely has time to regain his balance before something slams into his side.
The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, involuntary grunt.
He grits his teeth. Pain isn’t defeat.
He recovers, throws a punch that connects, then another.
One body goes down.
Another staggers away.
Hotch takes a step back, searching for space—for an exit.
The alley feels narrower now.
—Stay down! —someone shouts.
Hotch doesn’t comply.
He never does.
The next impact catches him off guard.
Something hard strikes his back.
He loses his footing and drops to his knees, one hand scraping against the rough ground. Before he can rise, weight crashes down on him.
A knee between his shoulder blades.
The pressure is immediate and brutal. Hotch exhales hard—not a shout, just a controlled, forced breath. His hands brace against the ground, pushing, searching for leverage.
There is none.
—Enough —someone growls, breathing hard—. It’s over.
Hotch tenses, muscles locked, calculating angles, force, timing. He can still fight. He can still—
Another hand grabs his arm, twisting it behind his back.
Pain spikes, sharp and blinding, but Hotch doesn’t give in. His jaw tightens, breathing fast, rough.
The world narrows to sensation:
cold pavement against his cheek,
weight crushing him down,
the harsh sound of his own breathing.
He isn’t afraid.
He’s furious.
He struggles once more—useless, but necessary. The response is instant: more weight, more pressure.
—Don’t move! —they repeat, closer now—. Or it gets worse.
Hotch goes still.
Not because he surrenders.
Because he listens.
The sound cuts through the air with unmistakable clarity.
Crrrrrk.
Tape.
His chest rises and falls harder as realization hits.
They hadn’t gagged him before.
They waited. Waited until he fought. Until he made it clear he wouldn’t cooperate.
He breathes.
Fast.
Uneven.
Movement at his side. A shadow leaning in. He turns his head instinctively, opens his mouth to speak—a threat, a name, anything—but his breathing outruns the words.
The tape touches his lips.
He resists.
One second.
Just one.
Then the pressure increases—firm, final.
The adhesive seals over his mouth, trapping the sound, turning his breath into a muffled exhale behind the improvised gag.
Hotch blinks once. Then again.
His chest keeps moving—fast, strong. He’s not unconscious. He’s not beaten.
Just captured.
They haul him up roughly.
The world tilts as they drag him, his feet barely touching the ground.
Hotch keeps his gaze fixed, cold, locking eyes with anyone foolish enough to meet it.
He didn’t go down easy.
And this—he knows—is only the beginning.