Elle returned to the BAU two days later.
I watched her walk into the bullpen at exactly 8 AM—perfect punctuality, perfect posture, perfect professional mask. Anyone who didn't know her would think nothing was wrong.
But I knew her.
The edges were sharper now. The warmth that used to soften her intensity had been replaced by something colder, harder. She moved through the office like a blade—efficient, purposeful, dangerous.
Reid approached her desk with a stack of files and one of his rambling statistical observations.
"Elle, I was looking at the victim profiles from your Seattle case, and I found an interesting correlation. If you cross-reference the unsub's geographic—"
"Not now, Reid."
"But the statistical significance—"
"I said not now."
Reid's mouth closed. He looked at me across the bullpen, confused and a little hurt. I shook my head slightly—leave it alone.
He retreated to his own desk.
Morgan tried next, approaching with coffee and the easy grin that usually broke through any tension.
"Hey, partner. Rough trip?"
"Rough enough."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Want to grab lunch later? That Thai place you like just reopened after—"
"I'll let you know."
Morgan's grin faltered.
"Okay. Offer stands."
He walked away, glancing at me with the same confusion Reid had shown.
[BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS: ELLE GREENAWAY]
[TRAUMA MARKERS: ELEVATED]
[SOCIAL WITHDRAWAL: ACTIVE]
[RECOMMENDED INTERVENTION: PROFESSIONAL SUPPORT]
[FOCUS: -3]
She won't accept intervention. Not yet.
All I can do is watch.
The morning passed in uncomfortable silence. Elle worked at her desk, barely speaking, barely acknowledging anyone. The team moved around her like she was made of glass—careful, quiet, uncertain.
At 11 AM, Hotch called us to the conference room.
"We have a situation."
He stood at the head of the table, a piece of parchment in his hands. The paper looked old—deliberately aged, with ornate calligraphy in dark ink.
"This arrived in the morning mail," Hotch continued. "Addressed to the BAU collectively. No return address. No fingerprints."
He set the letter on the table, allowing us to read.
"The quest begins. Are you worthy of the grail, or will you fail as all before you? The wounded king awaits. The knights must prove themselves. Only then may the question be asked."
Signed at the bottom, in elaborate script: The Fisher King.
Gideon leaned forward, studying the calligraphy.
"Arthurian mythology. The Fisher King is a wounded ruler from Grail legends—cursed to live in pain until a questing knight asks the right question to heal him."
"Someone's taking that mythology literally," Reid added, already running through his mental database. "The linguistic patterns suggest education—formal, possibly academic. The parchment appears authentic, not modern reproduction."
"How does anyone get a letter into FBI mail?" Morgan demanded. "That's not supposed to be possible."
"It's very possible if you know how," Gideon said quietly. "This person has been planning for a long time. Studying us. Learning our procedures."
I stayed silent, watching the team react.
The Fisher King. Finally here.
Just like I knew he would be.
The temptation to speak up was overwhelming. I could reveal my cold case connections now—the medieval artifact thefts, the Arthurian texts, the pattern I'd been tracking for months. It would accelerate the investigation, potentially save lives.
But it would also raise questions I couldn't answer.
How did you know to look for this?
How did you connect incidents that no one else saw?
What else do you know that you're not telling us?
"The medieval fixation," I said instead, offering what I could without revealing too much. "He'll communicate again. This letter isn't a threat—it's an invitation. A game. He wants us to play."
Gideon's eyes found mine across the table.
"You seem very certain about that."
"Narcissistic offenders with elaborate fantasy frameworks always want an audience. They don't create mythology just to destroy it. They create it to be seen. To be understood." I kept my voice analytical, professional. "He's reaching out because he needs us to participate in his story."
"Which means he'll escalate until we do," Hotch concluded.
"Exactly."
The briefing continued—security protocols, communication monitoring, background research on Grail mythology. Standard BAU procedure for a new threat.
But I could feel Gideon's attention on me, cataloguing my responses, filing away my certainty for later analysis.
He knows I know more than I'm saying.
He always has.
After the meeting, I found Elle on the roof.
She stood at the edge, looking out over Quantico's sprawl of training facilities and administration buildings. The wind caught her hair, pulling it loose from its usual severity.
"You should be inside," I said.
"You should mind your business."
No heat in the words. Just distance.
I walked to the edge and stood beside her, not touching, not pushing. Just present.
"The letter," she said after a moment. "The Fisher King. Another monster playing games."
"Yes."
"They never stop, do they? The monsters. There's always another one."
"There's always another one," I agreed. "But there's also always us. People who hunt them."
Elle turned to look at me.
"What if hunting them makes us into something we don't want to be? What if every monster we catch takes a piece of us with it?"
She's talking about herself. About Seattle. About what she's becoming.
"Then we hold onto the pieces we can," I said. "And we trust the people around us to help carry the weight."
"What if we can't trust anyone?"
"Then we learn to."
Elle studied my face for a long moment.
"You're very patient with me," she said. "Most people wouldn't be."
"Most people don't know what you're worth."
Something shifted in her expression—a crack in the armor, quickly sealed.
"I'm not worth much right now."
"You're worth everything. Even when you can't see it."
She didn't respond. But she didn't walk away either.
We stood together on the roof, watching the winter sun track across the sky, while somewhere in the distance a wounded king prepared his next move.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes .
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!