Chapter Text
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you” – Maya Angelou
Charlotte, North Carolina
The night smelled like rain, rust, and forgotten things.
Inside the abandoned warehouse, the only light flickered from a burning trash can—weak, dying. It cast long, jittery shadows on the cracked concrete floor, and the place reeked of damp cardboard and piss. But Devon was used to it.
He pulled his hoodie lower over his childish face, hunching into himself. Fifteen. Too young to be here, too old to believe in miracles. But tonight, he had a small victory—$10, stuffed inside his sock, earned from collecting cans.
It wasn’t much. It was a good haul. And he hesitated—should he keep it hidden, or should he grab something to eat? Could he last one more night with an empty stomach?
Going out at this hour was a bad idea.
He hadn’t been on the streets for long compared to others, but he had quickly learned that money made loners an easy target. And after all—homeless kids were disappearing.
No witnesses. No suspects. Just one more missing person, like the city had swallowed them whole.
The police didn’t care.
"Less trouble for the city," a sergeant had said when Tom went missing three months ago.
Devon took a deep breath and pulled his sweatshirt tighter around him. Just a few more months, and he’d be out of this hell.
The fire crackled, but it was burning lower. The rain sang against the metal roof of the squat. His eyelids grew heavier.
He let his head rest against the metal beam behind him.
Just for a second.
Just to—
He never heard footsteps.
Not until it was too late.
The attack was silent. Brutal. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, yanking him backward.
His muffled scream barely made it past his lips before something hard slammed into his skull.
A sharp, metallic taste flooded his mouth.
His body buckled, legs kicking—but the grip tightened.
Too strong. Too fast.
Devon fought, thrashed, clawed—until his limbs slowed.
Too much blood.
His vision swam, drowning in the darkness.
The fire flickered. Then it sputtered. A last breath of warmth. Then… it was gone.
***
BAU Headquarter, Quantico.
Garcia’s pink heels clicked sharply against the bullpen floor. She loved her job—truly, she did—but some days were harder than others. Today was one of those days. Cases involving kids always hit her harder, and her call with the local police chief, who clearly didn’t care enough, had left her seething.
Inside the room, Reid was already seated, his gaze fixed on a quantum physics book filled with equations incomprehensible to the rest of the world. Since Maeve’s death more than six months ago, that light Garcia used to love in him had never quite returned. Derek teased him like a big brother would, but the quiet shadow of grief still clung to the young genius.
Reid closed his book nonchalantly as Garcia walked in. JJ and Emily followed right behind her, engaged in an animated discussion about yet another argument between JJ and Will over house chores. Across the room, Derek and Rossi were talking baseball—this time, about the Cubs’ chances this season.
As soon as the team settled, Garcia grabbed the remote and launched the briefing.
"Good morning, my fearless crime fighters. Today, you’re off to the stunning city of Charlotte, North Carolina." Her usual playful tone couldn’t mask the weight of the case. "Four homeless teenagers have been found murdered over the past three months. No witnesses. No leads." She hesitated for a second before adding: "And… no Hotch."
That got the team’s full attention.
"No Hotch?" Morgan frowned.
"He told me to run the briefing without him. He’ll meet you on the plane."
A heavy silence settled in the room.
"Hotch doesn’t miss a briefing… ever," Rossi stated, his voice calm but firm.
As expected, the entire team turned to Reid for confirmation.
Reid sat up a little straighter under their collective gaze, running a hand over the cover of his book.
"Statistically, Hotch has attended approximately 97.6% of briefings since I joined the team." His tone was precise, matter-of-fact. "The only times he was absent were due to strictly professional obligations—court appearances, high-level FBI meetings, or administrative duties. Except for the year following Haley’s death, when he missed a total of—"
He stopped abruptly when Morgan shot him a look—somewhere between amused and exasperated.
"Anyway," Reid corrected, "if he’s missing this briefing without an explanation, it’s either because he’s handling a classified situation or… it’s personal. Which is even more unusual."
"You think he’s keeping something from us?" JJ asked, her brows knitting together.
"He never keeps anything from us when it comes to a case," Rossi cut in, crossing his arms. "But if he decided to leave us out of it this time, it means he doesn’t think it concerns the case."
Garcia folded her arms, frowning.
"Or he’s been abducted by aliens and is currently negotiating intergalactic peace."
Morgan let out a small chuckle, but his expression remained serious.
"Either way, we’ll get our answers when we board the plane. Until then, let’s focus on the case."
The team nodded, shifting back into work mode as the briefing resumed. But the unease lingered.
After a brief pause, Garcia took the remote, and the crime scene photos filled the screen—four victims, four young men, all homeless, all found posed in isolated areas.
She sighed, shaking off her previous frustration before speaking.
"Alright, let’s get back to the case. Over the past three months, four young homeless men have been found murdered. No witnesses, no suspects, and according to the local PD… no clues."
Morgan frowned.
"No clues? Did they not find any, or did they not even look?"
Garcia’s lips pressed into a thin line.
"That’s exactly what I asked. The police chief wasn’t exactly eager to dig into these cases. Let’s just say missing homeless kids aren’t high on his priority list."
Prentiss shook her head. "Then why are we here?"
Garcia clicked to a new file, showing a police report with a different signature.
"Because not everyone in that department is useless. A sergeant went around his boss and contacted Hotch directly. He saw the pattern and called us in."
JJ leaned forward, scanning the reports.
"All young, all male… was there any connection between them?"
Garcia shook her head.
"Not that local law enforcement could find. No shelters in common, no social services records. These kids were completely off the grid."
Rossi rubbed his chin.
"Then the unsub is picking them up in the shadows. He knows where to find them."
Reid tapped his fingers against the table as he flipped through the files.
"The timing of the kills suggests an escalation. The first victim was found three months ago. The second, six weeks later. The third, three weeks ago. The fourth? Five days ago. The intervals are shrinking."
JJ exhaled. "Which means we’re running out of time."
Morgan crossed his arms. "And if he’s picking stronger victims, it means he’s getting bolder."
Garcia clicked to a new image: hand-drawn symbols found near the third and fourth bodies.
"These were found near two of the victims. Police have no idea what they mean, and no matches in any databases."
Prentiss leaned closer.
"They look too structured to be random graffiti."
Reid frowned, studying them.
"It’s possible they have meaning, but without context, they’re just symbols."
Morgan exhaled, looking at the lineup of crime scene photos again.
"Alright. We know he’s accelerating. We know he’s picking his victims deliberately. And we know local PD barely lifted a finger. So, what are we missing?"
Garcia flicked through a few more files.
"I’m already searching national databases for similar cases. But here’s the thing—crimes against the homeless are massively underreported. It’s a high-risk, transient population, and a lot of cases just… disappear. Some never even get investigated. So, if this guy has been doing this longer, it might take time to find a match."
Rossi leaned back.
"Alright. If he’s accelerating, we don’t have time to waste."
Garcia glanced at her watch.
"Wheels up in one hour."
One by one, the team stood and filed out, slipping into hunt mode.
But the unease remained.
Hotch never missed a briefing.
***
Local Gym, Washington DC.
The gym smelled like sweat, chalk, and faint traces of disinfectant. It was early, way before the usual rush hours, and the place was nearly empty—just the rhythmic thud of fists hitting sandbags, the occasional grunt of effort, and the low hum of rock music from an old speaker in the corner.
Hotch stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping across the dimly lit room. He moved with purpose, his presence instantly noticeable despite the lack of an audience. His suit was out of place here, crisp and formal in a world of sweat-stained training gear and worn-out mats.
In the back, near the farthest punching bag, she was there.
Kira Blye.
She was medium height, lean but not fragile, her toned muscles evident in the way she moved—compact power rather than brute strength. The kind of build that made people underestimate her. The kind that let her hit harder than anyone expected.
Her skin was warm-toned, kissed by the sun, her curly black hair escaping the messy bun at the nape of her neck, sticking to her skin with sweat.
She didn’t pause when she saw him. Not immediately.
Her fists continued their relentless rhythm against the sandbag—controlled, efficient strikes, each one precise, landing with a satisfying thud. She was exhausted, that much was clear, but there was a sharpness in her movements, an energy that refused to die down.
Hotch realized something then—he had never seen her fully rested. Kira was always moving, like a shark that dies if it stops swimming.
The loose Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt she wore clung to her back, darkened with sweat. A pair of black athletic shorts revealed legs marked with faint scars, the kind you didn’t get from careless accidents. And just above the line of her sports bra, barely visible beneath the collar of her shirt, a hint of tattooed lines traced over her chest—something geometric, something hidden.
She finally acknowledged him when he got closer, catching his reflection in the mirror to her left.
For a moment, she just kept going.
Then, as Hotch came to a stop a few feet away, he cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of what to say.
Kira took the hint, letting the bag swing back slightly before grabbing it, steadying it with both hands.
She exhaled, chest rising and falling as she finally turned to face him fully. Green eyes met his—calculating, sharp, but not surprised. She walked past him, barely acknowledging his presence, and grabbed her water bottle.
She took a long sip before speaking, her voice low and raspy, yet unmistakably feminine.
"Hotch."
She wiped her wrist over her forehead, pushing damp curls out of her face.
"Didn’t expect to see you here."
"To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to be standing in a gym at 6:30 AM either. But here we are."
Kira smirked slightly, setting her bottle down. "How did you find me?"
"I just had to look for the nearest 24-hour gym near your place. You’re not that hard to profile."
That was a lie.
They both knew it.
Yes, Kira was obvious in some of her ways, but a mystery in others. She could switch personalities in an instant if needed. Nothing with her was permanent enough to be profiled.
Hotch was hoping to change that.
"I suspected this was the quickest way to find you," he added.
"I’m not here that much," Kira lied effortlessly.
A few feet away, the gym owner scoffed under his breath, shooting her an unimpressed glare.
Yeah. She practically lived here.
Hotch let the remark go. He wasn’t here for small talk. He was already running late. With the road and traffic at this hour, they will barely meet the team on time for departure.
"I need your help," he said simply.
There it was.
Hotch hated asking for help, but he wasn’t ashamed of it either. What worried him wasn’t the request itself—it was her reaction. And, if he was being honest, his superiors’ reaction too.
But he had followed Kira’s career for a long time. She could be an asset, if she decided to put herself to work.
"My help?" Kira raised an eyebrow. "Aaron, you work with the cleverest people on the planet. How many geniuses do you need? I even heard you pulled Rossi out of retirement to reinforce your team. You don’t need me."
She sat on the nearby plastic bench, and Hotch followed, watching her carefully.
Yes, profiling each other in the team was an unspoken rule.
But Kira wasn’t part of his team. Not yet.
And her half-rejection wasn’t really a rejection. Her posture was tense, but she was still listening.
He had her attention.
"For this case, one more brain could change everything," he said. "The unsub targets homeless teenagers."
Kira stiffened, setting her bottle down a little too carefully.
Hotch knew he was pushing a sensitive spot. But that was exactly why he had come to her. Kira would never accept this job for the title. She only thrived when she was helping others—even when it cost her.
"I was laid off, Hotch. Remember? Apparently, I have a problem with authority. Are you sure I won’t punch you too?"
"Look, Kira, I know what happened. I know why you did what you did. And, between you and me," he said, voice lowering slightly, "Agent Jenkins had it coming."
She snorted, but didn’t respond.
Hotch leaned forward.
"I need your insight on this case. The local police didn’t lift a finger, and you know the streets better than anyone. You’re clever, adaptable… and that’s not all."
He stopped himself. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to show case files to an outsider. And technically, Kira hadn’t accepted anything yet.
But he needed her.
Kira could see it.
She watched him for a moment, letting him stew. She was tired. She didn’t exactly want a career change, especially not like this. But she had to admit… having the infamous Aaron Hotchner personally recruiting her in her sweaty gym was kind of an honor.
"Come on, Hotch, spit it out," she said.
Hotch sighed and finally opened his case file, flipping to the photos.
"This symbol was found near two of the four victims. We thought it was an Eastern language, but nothing matched in our databases."
He met her gaze.
"You have an M.A. in linguistics and sociology. You’re a polyglot. You know religious and cultural rituals better than anyone I could call."
Kira glanced at the image.
"I know my résumé, thanks," she muttered. "And it’s actually a PhD. Three, to be exact. But who’s counting? People won’t call me Dr. Dr. Dr. Blye anyway"
Despite her sarcasm, her focus was locked on the crime scene photo.
Her eyes scanned it, analyzing.
"You’re right," she murmured. "He’s getting bolder."
Hotch exhaled. That was it.
She was in.
Kira knew it. He knew it.
"You know I don’t thrive in teams," she muttered.
"You’ll adapt."
"Your boss really is okay with this?"
"They’ll adapt."
Kira smirked. Damn. She forgot sometimes that Hotch actually had a sense of humor.
"Fine," she sighed, grabbing her bag. "Give me ten minutes to shower. And just so you know, I like to fly first class."
"We have a jet," Hotch said, deadpan.
Fuck.
He really thought of everything.
***
BAU Jet, Washington Airport
The hum of the jet’s engines filled the cabin, steady and constant, a familiar background noise that had become a second home to the BAU team. Everyone was ready. Rossi was even talking with the pilot to wait for Hotch. The rest of the team had settled into their usual places, case files spread across the tables, coffee cups within reach. Morgan was reviewing crime scene photos with Prentiss, JJ was scribbling down notes, and Reid was flipping through a book—though from the way his fingers tapped against the pages, it was clear his mind was already on the case.
Reid was the first to notice Hotch stepping inside with someone new.
A woman.
She was different.
Not in the obvious way—Hotch rarely brought in outsiders, which was already enough to make her stand out—but in the way she occupied space without demanding attention.
Her limbs were long but coiled, as if she was always holding tension just beneath the surface. The way she moved—not just with confidence, but efficiency—suggested a balance between control and unpredictability.
The way her gaze flickered from one person to the next, absorbing every detail without seeming to focus on anything, told Reid she had spent years mastering the art of observation. Not in a controlled, clinical way like him, but in a way that came from experience rather than academia.
She followed Hotch inside, moving with the kind of ease that came from knowing she was being evaluated but not caring.Or at least pretending not to care.
She was wearing black jeans, boots, and a gray oversized hoodie. The gym bag slung over her shoulder made it clear she hadn’t even gone home before boarding. Had she even packed for the trip?
Her hair was damp, curls escaping again despite the messy bun, and her sun-kissed skin made her emerald-green eyes stand out even more.
Reid realized he was staring. He quickly turned back to his book. With relief, he noticed that everyone else was also unsettled by the newcomer. They all looked up, expectant.
Morgan was the first to break the silence.
“Hotch, you got us a new recruit at eight in the morning? Man, I didn’t even have my coffee before you started hiring.”
Before Hotch could respond, Rossi stepped back into the cabin, a knowing smirk on his face.
“Well, well, well, isn’t that very special Agent Kira Blye?”
The room tensed.
Reid had never heard of her.
His sharp eyes caught the glow of Garcia’s screen. She had logged in remotely. She wasn’t on the jet, but she was listening. More than that—her fingers were already flying across the keyboard. She was digging.
Rossi strode toward Kira with confidence and pulled her into a quick, welcoming hug.
“I’m happy to see you, kiddo.”
It wasn’t long. Just a small, firm gesture.
The team immediately noticed Kira tense, her shoulders locking for half a second.
But she didn’t pull away.
She didn’t return it, exactly, but she also didn’t push him off.
After a breath, she exhaled, relaxing just slightly. “You too, David. Sorry I didn’t bring you the scotch I owe you.”
Rossi chuckled and tapped her shoulder.
Before the weight of the moment could linger too long, Hotch took control of the conversation.
“Kira has an extensive background in linguistics, sociology, and cultural anthropology. She also has experience with covert operations, survival tactics, and intelligence analysis. She’s here because this case requires insight we don’t have.”
Morgan, sensing the shift, grinned.
“Kira Blye… as in the intelligence division Kira Blye?”
Kira gave him a lazy half-smile and dropped her bag into the nearest empty seat—in front of Reid.
Reid couldn’t help but notice she was avoiding Rossi. Odd, considering he was the only person she knew here.
Except for Hotch, apparently.
“Oh, good. My reputation still precedes me. Saves me an introduction.”
JJ frowned slightly. “Wait, I thought you—”
“Got kicked out for punching my boss?” Kira cut in casually, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah, that was me.”
Reid snapped his book shut. He couldn’t pretend to be casual anymore.
“You punched Agent Jenkins?” His tone was more curiosity than judgment.
“Yup.”
Reid blinked. “He is head of counterintelligence. With clearance levels above most of the FBI.”
“Yup.”
“And you punched him?”
Kira sighed, rolling her eyes. “For a bunch of geniuses, you are kind of slow, aren’t you? Generally, people start with a handshake, not a background check.”
Reid couldn’t contain a smirk, which he quickly hid behind a cough.
This girl was spicy.
Morgan let out a low whistle. “Damn. Okay, I think there’s a story there.”
Prentiss grinned. "You do realize we work under authority figures, right?"
Kira smirked. “Don’t worry. I only punch deserving authority figures.”
Reid raised an eyebrow. This girl was intriguing. Maybe this case wouldn’t be as monotonous as usual with her around. Even if he wasn’t a fan of change, maybe it could be good once in a while. If he could avoid her fists, apparently.
JJ shook her head, amused. “I see why Hotch recruited you.”
At that, Kira glanced at Hotch, who remained unreadable as ever.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Still trying to figure that part out myself.”
Hotch moved the conversation forward while JJ flipped through a file. “Something’s off. None of the victims were robbed. Their clothes were clean. And most importantly—the bodies were moved.”
Morgan frowned. “So he wants them to be found.”
Garcia’s voice crackled through the jet’s intercom.
“Hey, crime fighters, I’ve been digging through missing persons. Out of the four victims, only one was officially reported missing.”
Silence.
Prentiss frowned. “Only one?”
“Yep. And the case was never investigated. Cops told his friends that’s just what ‘people like him do.’”
Kira grinned, but she didn’t say anything.
None of them did.
That settled it.
“These kids would never have been found if the killer did a little work to hide them,” Morgan said grimly. “He could kill with impunity for a long time.”
“So the unsub wanted them to be found,” Rossi continued. “He’s sending a message.”
Morgan shook his head. “Then why the level of violence? The body staging suggests control, but the wounds—that’s rage. Those two things don’t add up.”
Reid was already flipping through his notes. "The unsub is strong. These victims were young, but they were survivors, used to fighting for themselves. Yet there are no signs of prolonged struggle, which suggests the unsub is either experienced in overpowering people or has a method to incapacitate them quickly."
Kira, who had been silent until now, finally leaned forward, studying the photograph closely.
Her eyes flicked between the details, analyzing. Then she frowned.
“This doesn’t fit.”
Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression expectant—like a teacher waiting for a student to articulate their reasoning. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. “What doesn’t?”
She tapped the image. "The clothes. They're too clean."
Reid blinked, processing. "You mean…?"
Kira leaned forward, her sharp green eyes narrowing as she studied the details. “If you’re living on the street, you don’t stay this clean unless you’ve got regular access to hygiene. Shelters, sure—but these kids weren’t tied to one. Your analyst would have found records, right?”
“Affirmative,” Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker. “And by the way, I’m Penelope Garcia. Happy to meet you, mysterious distant voice.”
Kira barely glanced at the camera but smirked slightly. "Likewise."
At this angle, Garcia still couldn’t see Kira sitting in front of Reid. Did Garcia have any idea what Kira looked like? More importantly—had she found anything yet?
Would looking Kira up break the unspoken rule of not profiling and investigating one another?
Before he could dwell on the thought, Kira continued, interrupting his mental spiral.
“So either the unsub is washing them after death—or before.”
A pause.
JJ frowned. "Why would he do that? He doesn’t seem like the type to show respect to his victims."
Kira shrugged, leaning back. "I don’t know yet. But it contradicts the level of violence. A guy who goes through the trouble of staging a body and keeping them clean usually doesn’t kill with this kind of brutality. It’s two different impulses. Maybe remorse?"
Hotch nodded slightly, absorbing the information. "That’s a good point."
Kira’s eyes flicked back to the file, her finger tracing a detail on the page. “Also. The piece of paper. The one the police dismissed.”
Rossi looked up. "You think it’s important?"
Kira exhaled. "When you’re living on the street, you don’t carry anything you don’t need. Trust me—a twisted, blank scrap of paper isn’t useful. Whatever that paper was? It meant something. We just need to find out if it was important to the victim or the unsub."
Reid, who had already started flipping through the report again, spoke without looking up. “There’s no mention of any personal belongings found on the other victims, but… to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ‘forgot’ to document anything they thought was irrelevant.”
The team sat in brief silence, processing. Then the analyst, Penelope, starts talking.
Kira used the pause to assess the people around her discreetly.
Rossi. She already knew him. She had met him when she was younger—and honestly, she had done her best to forget that night as much as possible. She always knew their paths would cross again, given her career choice. Over the years, she had received the occasional postcard, a few phone calls (mostly to check if she wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere) and even a dinner invite. But working with him? That was new. That was different.
And Kira wasn’t sure she could hide her discomfort for long.
Breathe. Fake it till you make it. Like always
She took a controlled inhale and shifted her gaze.
Next.
The tall, broad-shouldered, painfully attractive Black man. She hadn’t caught his name yet, but she was pretty sure Penelope Garcia had referred to him as "Chocolate Thunder" earlier.
Yeah, she wasn’t going to test that nickname out. Not yet, at least.
Jennifer Jareau. Kira had heard about her before. When Kira was working with elite intelligence groups, Agent Jareau had been a liaison for the military and special ops. Their paths had never crossed directly, but Kira had always found it interesting that a former press liaison had earned such a strong reputation in the BAU.
Emily Prentiss. Kira knew of her. She had a reputation with both Interpol and the CIA, but the full details were elusive. That intrigued her—how much of Emily Prentiss’s past was public, and how much was buried?
Her thoughts were interrupted as Morgan crossed his arms, speaking up.
"He’s accelerating. The last victim was found five days ago. That means—"
“There’s going to be another soon.” JJ finished for him.
“Actually, it is already the case,” Garcia announced sadly. “The local PD just found the body of a runaway 18 year old boy, in an old industrial parking lot. I told the forensic to wait for you at the crime scene.”
Fuck, Kira thought. They were too late. She always was.
Hotch nodded, sadly. No one dared to say out loud that it was good news for them. A clean and fresh crime scene, no lousy and useless police man messing everything around… But it was sadly the truth.
Hotch began assigning roles. "Reid, Kira—you two take the latest crime scene. Look at everything.” He gave Kira a tablet. “Took this, I asked Garcia to send everything in this so you have pictures for comparison and all the files you need.”
Kira exchanged a glance with Reid, accepting the computer. She didn’t need the files, this guy would remember every detail.
“I started working on the geographical profile of the unsub. I’d love to—”
"You’ll have time as soon as you get back from the crime scene. Hopefully, some teens from the community will be there, and you can interrogate them."
Kira leaned back in her seat, considering. Was she under supervision? Did pairing her with Reid meant something? She was a bit younger than him, so he was the closest to her age. She also had a very high IQ, even if she doesn't usually brag about it. Maybe Hotch thought the good Doctor was the safest, easiest partner to start with? Or was it because she was the muscle and he was definitely the brain?
Stop, you are going into a spiral again. and don’t be paranoid. Give this team a chance for God sake!
Yes, pep talk was usually needed several times a day.
"When we’re done, I can check if there are any local shelters that provide new clothes to homeless kids. Did the victims get a new outfit just before being killed or did the unsub provide clean clothing? Someone might have encountered him while getting those supplies."
Hotch nodded approvingly.
"Morgan, Prentiss—you’re heading to the autopsy lab. Look at the bodies first hand. Check for anything we missed in the reports."
Morgan stood. "Got it."
"JJ, Rossi, you're coming with me to the local PD," Hotch finished. "We need to find out why there’s so little documented evidence—and what else they didn’t bother investigating. JJ, look into any external help the kids might have sought out. Organizations, churches—anything Garcia couldn’t find. Let’s narrow our scope as much as possible."
The team nodded, the shift happening instantly.
"We regroup at noon to share findings before giving a profile. And Kira” he paused. “don't go solo, always stay with a team member. That applies to everyone.”
“Sir, yes sir” she agreed sarcastically.
As the jet continued through the clouds, Kira glanced back down at the crime scene photo on her brand new and borrowed tablet.
Something still wasn’t right. She just didn’t know what yet. Every fiber of her being was telling her that she missed something, something important, but as always, the chaos inside her mind didn’t allow her to focus on it so she leaned back in her seat, scanning the crime scene photos with practiced ease on her borrowed tablet. She was doing a good job of acting unbothered, of making it look like she belonged here, but Reid wasn’t convinced.
She still had the strap of her bag wrapped around her hand. That meant she wasn’t fully committing to staying. Her body remained angled toward the aisle, leaving herself the quickest escape route.
She was scanning the room—not just out of curiosity, but with calculation. She wasn’t uncomfortable in the traditional sense. She just wasn’t used to staying still.
Reid knew what that felt like.
Kira had the sense that Reid was watching her—studying her, the way he probably did with everyone. It wasn’t exactly subtle. His fingers tapped against his book in a repetitive pattern, his gaze flickering between his notes and her movements like he was cataloging everything in real-time.
She suppressed a smirk. It wasn’t the first time she’d been sized up by an expert profiler, but there was something different about Reid. He was pure logic, as if he could break people down into numbers and probabilities.
"You know, for someone who's pretending to read, you're really bad at it."
Reid blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "I'm not pretending to read," he said, voice even. "I'm very good at multitasking."
Kira smirked. "Yeah? What was the last sentence you read?"
Reid’s mouth opened slightly, as if considering whether to argue, but then closed again.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.
"For what?" Kira tilted her head, amused.
Reid shifted uncomfortably. "For… assuming."
Kira let out a soft chuckle. "Don’t worry, Doc, people have given me worse looks in the past. Tell me, did you figure me out yet, or do I still have some secrets left?"
Reid hesitated. He could tell she was pretending to be at ease, that she wasn’t entirely sure about this team, that she was still deciding how much of herself to show them. That she was wearing armor and she doesn’t like flying…
"I mean… I don’t—" His thoughts tripped over themselves. "Did you just call me Doc?"
Kira’s smirk widened. "What, you’re surprised? Of course, I know who you are. Spencer Reid. Youngest agent ever recruited into the BAU. Three PhDs by the time you were twenty-one. IQ of 187. Eidetic memory. You’ve published several papers on criminal behavioral patterns and cognitive processing in serial offenders. And let’s not forget your thesis on geographical profiling—an interesting read, even if you got a little too excited about statistical anomalies."
Reid’s fingers froze mid-tap on his notes. He blinked at her, as if she had just started speaking in another language.
"You read my work?" His voice was equal parts disbelief and confusion—as if the idea had never crossed his mind.
Kira arched an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."
"I just… it’s not often I meet people outside of academia who have."
Kira smirked. "What, you think geniuses only exist in the FBI’s behavioral unit? Hate to break it to you, Doc, but there are other nerds out there."
Reid wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the fact that she’d read his work, or the fact that he had never heard of her. He stared at her, his brain clearly running calculations again. But this time, she wasn't fitting into the formula.
Kira couldn’t blame him.
To be honest, she was spectacularly sending the wrong, unprofessional vibe. She had showered maybe twenty minutes ago, forgotten her brush at home, and did her best to tie her hair into a bun/braid/some-undefined-style. The back of her oversized hoodie, which she had entirely forgotten about, had "F*CK YOU" printed in bold, cracked letters. And her only clean t-shirt was an old gift from M. Tanaka—a ridiculous design featuring a cartoon chicken and the words Fluent in Fowl Language in bright yellow font.
Not exactly FBI standard attire .
But to be fair, she had spent the night at the gym and wasn’t even supposed to be working today. Or all week, for that matter.
Reid frowned slightly. "I don’t remember ever coming across your name."
Kira exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head. "That’s for the best, trust me. My reputation isn’t exactly flawless. Let’s just say I’m an acquired taste."
Something in the way she said it—too light, too dismissive—made Reid realize she was deflecting. She did care about her reputation. At least a little. But she had decided it was easier to own that perception of herself—the agent who punched her boss—rather than fight it.
Reid hesitated for a moment, debating his next words.
He knew what it was like to be judged before being understood.
To be the weird one in the room.
And despite everything—despite her bravado and sharp wit—he recognized something familiar in her.
Loneliness.
Slowly, he extended a hand.
Kira blinked. "What’s this?"
"You were right," Reid said simply. "We should have offered you a handshake before a background check."
For the first time since stepping onto the jet, Kira looked genuinely surprised. And Reid saw a glimpse beneath that armor. Her facial muscles relaxed, her green eyes widened slightly, and her lips parted just a fraction.
She glanced at his hand, then back at him, like she was waiting for a catch. Like she couldn’t believe it was an actual, nice gesture.
Reid could tell.
He had been the same before meeting Gideon. And his chest tightened at the realization that no one had ever greeted Kira with an actual welcome before.
After a beat, she took his hand.
Her grip was warm, steady, confident—but she held on a second longer than necessary.
Then, in an instant, she composed herself again. The moment was over.
She smirked. "You wanna clean it now, don’t you?"
Reid hesitated just long enough for her to laugh.
"Statistically speaking, hand-to-hand contact is one of the most common ways germs—"
Kira snorted. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."
Reid actually smiled.
Across the cabin, Morgan leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "Damn. I think Reid just made a friend."
Prentiss arched her brow. "Let’s see if she can keep up with him."
JJ stayed silent, a small crease forming between her brows.