Quantico, Virginia – Two Days Later
Penelope Garcia's fingers danced across the keys of her neon-colored command center, monitors flashing like stained glass in a hacker's cathedral. She was already halfway through her fifth espresso when Hotch entered the tech room, followed by Morgan, Reid, and Elle. Gideon lingered behind, unreadable as always. Jason stood off to the side, arms folded, watching the BAU's infamous tech analyst with interest.
"I was asked," Garcia said dramatically, spinning in her chair, "to dig into our new recruit. You know, do a little friendly background check. Nothing creepy."
She paused, then leaned closer to her screen.
"Well. Color me deeply intrigued. Jason Cole—born in San Diego, graduated high school at fifteen, enlisted in the Army at seventeen under a special waiver. Straight into airborne, then into Delta Force by twenty-one. Completed three tours in the Middle East. Dozens of confirmed high-value target extractions. Awards classified beyond even my clearance."
She arched an eyebrow at Jason. "You're either a war hero or a government ghost."
Jason gave a slight smile. "I'm both, depending on the paperwork."
Garcia continued. "After a final black-ops mission gone sideways, you disappear from the records for two months. Then—bam—reappear in D.C. with a forged identity that was actually signed off by three intelligence directors and one Supreme Court justice. And suddenly you're getting a master's degree in forensic psychology at Georgetown."
Reid blinked. "How did you even get into that program so fast?"
"Wrote a thesis on psychopathic warlords in counterinsurgency environments," Jason said. "Cited myself twice under aliases."
Even Morgan gave a low whistle.
Garcia grinned, pushing her glasses up. "You're like if Batman and Sherlock Holmes had a government-sponsored science baby."
Hotch stepped forward. "And now he's part of this team. Let's move."
Garcia's screen pinged with a new alert. She tapped it, frowning.
"Oh… oh no."
Case Briefing Room – Moments Later
Garcia's voice echoed over the conference line, now patched through the jet. The team had been airborne for five minutes, headed to St. Louis.
"Victim one," she said, pulling up the image on the screen, "Dana Keller. Thirty-two. Found yesterday morning in her home. Throat cut, eyes gouged, posed on her living room couch."
"Eyes removed?" Elle asked, frowning. "Signature."
"Definitely," Garcia replied. "Victim two was found this morning. Same age range. Different race, different occupation, but same exact staging. Same time of death. Same mutilations."
Hotch stood at the head of the cabin. "Local PD thought it was a domestic on the first body. Second victim proved otherwise. Now they're asking for help."
Jason leaned forward, reviewing the photos. "That's not rage. That's ritual."
Reid squinted at the medical reports. "The mutilations were postmortem. But look—victims were killed cleanly, quickly. No sign of struggle."
"That means they were drugged or trusting," Jason said.
Morgan pointed at the crime scene photos. "Look at the hands. Clasped neatly in their laps. He didn't just kill them. He posed them. Wants to make them look… peaceful."
"No," Jason muttered. "He wants them to look like dolls."
Everyone turned to him.
Jason stood, walking toward the photo grid. "He's not killing them for revenge or passion. He's making a scene. The gouging? That's part of his vision. He doesn't want them to look back. Doesn't want judgment."
Gideon added, "So he sees what he does as art. The mutilation is about control."
Reid nodded slowly. "A developing ritual. Two victims means he's starting a cycle."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "And that means there's going to be a third."
St. Louis, Missouri – Twelve Hours Later
The team split into units. Reid and Hotch went to consult with the local medical examiner. Morgan and Elle canvassed the second victim's neighborhood.
Jason and Gideon were left to examine the second crime scene. The victim, a history teacher named Brianna Jameson, had been found sitting upright in a recliner. Blood soaked into the cushions. A stuffed rabbit sat beside her on the armrest.
Jason stared at the rabbit.
"This wasn't hers," he said. "This is the unsub's. A trophy he brings with him to the scene. But not one he takes away."
"Why leave it?" Gideon asked.
"Because it's part of the performance," Jason answered. "He's not just taking lives—he's telling a story. Every scene, every cut… it's rehearsed. He wants to create a message."
Gideon looked at him carefully. "And what's the message?"
Jason glanced toward the hallway, imagining the unsub walking in, knife already drawn, mind already elsewhere.
"He thinks the world is blind," Jason said. "So he's going to make everyone see what he sees. Even if it means cutting the eyes out of the innocent."
Later That Night – Unknown Location
A candle flickered on a desk littered with children's toys, broken glasses, and a bloody cloth.
The man stood over a blank canvas, eyes wide, muttering.
"They never saw me. Never. Not then. Not now."
He reached for the next rabbit. Brushed its fur gently. And smiled.
"Time to finish the collection."