"You don't survive war by avoiding bullets. You survive by learning to live with the ones that never hit you—but should have." —Jason Cole
Location: Gideon's Old Files – BAU Archives – 9:13 PM
Jason flipped through the brittle folders by lamplight, his fingers gliding over the yellowing pages as if they were sacred. The room was quiet, buried in the lower levels of Quantico, away from the daily rhythm of the Bureau. It smelled of dust, age, and unfinished business.
The file was labeled:
K/M 48-31 – "The Mortician"
Four kills in 2009. All shot once, center mass or between the eyes. Hands folded. Peaceful. Intentional. The victims were not random. Two were journalists. One was a professor who'd testified at a Senate hearing. The fourth was a retired intelligence officer.
Jason scanned Gideon's final notes.
"He doesn't kill for sport. He kills for control.
The Mortician believes in moral surgery."
Jason whispered, "So why'd you stop hunting him, Gideon?"
As if summoned, Gideon appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee.
"Because he disappeared," the older profiler said. "Dropped off the map after the fourth body. No prints, no signatures, no trace. It was like chasing a ghost."
Jason looked up. "Or like chasing me."
Gideon walked in slowly and set the coffee down. "Difference is, you wanted to be found. Even if you didn't know it."
Jason hesitated. "You ever wonder why some killers vanish without warning?"
"Always."
Jason flipped the page.
"This one didn't vanish," he said. "He waited."
BAU War Room – 10:01 PM
The board was already up—photos of the four original victims beside the new set. Same pattern. Fifteen years apart.
Reid pointed to a name on the new list. "Gregory Trent. Investigative podcaster. He was working on a retrospective of the CIA's human experimentation program from the '70s. Called it Project Wake."
Morgan added, "The last guy? Dr. Clara Hollings. She was about to publish a report connecting military psych programs to a wave of suicides among veterans."
Hotch turned to Gideon. "All five of your original victims were connected to ethics violations or whistleblower cases."
Jason nodded slowly. "This isn't a killer. It's a philosopher with a rifle."
JJ stepped into the room, eyes tired but steady. "He doesn't just kill people. He silences stories."
Gideon sighed. "He used to write notes."
Reid blinked. "Notes?"
"Not left at the scenes. Mailed to victims' families. Messages about 'cleaning decay.' One widow reported getting a letter that said, 'The stain was too deep to scrub. I buried it for you.'"
Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. "This guy really thinks he's doing God's work."
Jason looked around the room, then lowered his voice.
"He hasn't resurfaced randomly."
Everyone turned.
"He came back because of me."
Later That Night – Jason's Apartment – 1:44 AM
Jason stood at the window, staring into the city lights, the glow outlining the scars on his shoulders and the new ones hiding just beneath the skin.
He sipped a glass of water that tasted like metal.
Garcia's voice replayed in his head.
"They want to prove you don't belong."
Ash's voice followed.
"They'll never trust you again."
And now this new voice—the Mortician—spoken not in words, but in the silence between bullet holes.
He moved to his desk and opened the envelope waiting for him there.
No return address.
Inside: a photo.
A sniper's view of the BAU bullpen.
Crosshairs aligned over Hotch's heart.
No note.
Just one word scribbled on the back.
Missed.
Jason's hands shook—but not from fear.
From rage.
He snapped the photo in half.
The Next Morning – JJ's Home – 8:22 AM
JJ opened the door in sweatpants and a hoodie, clearly in the middle of trying to be "off duty." Jason stood there, holding a thermos and a manila envelope.
"I didn't know where else to go," he said.
She stepped aside.
They sat on the back porch. The sky was clear, the world quiet. It didn't feel like the kind of place death belonged.
Jason handed her the photo.
"He's watching us."
JJ stared at it for a long time. "Was it real?"
Jason nodded. "High-angle vantage point. Park tower a block from Quantico. He had the shot… and didn't take it."
"Why?"
Jason looked out across her backyard.
"Because he's like Ash," he said. "But colder. He doesn't want me dead. Not yet. He wants me to understand his message."
JJ took a long sip from the thermos.
Then she set it down and said softly, "You scare me sometimes."
Jason turned to her, caught off guard.
"Not because I think you'll hurt anyone. Because I think you'll never stop, even when it's breaking you."
He opened his mouth—but she stopped him.
"I get it, Jason. You think pain is just the price of purpose. But some of us… we don't want to survive another war. We want to live."
Jason closed his eyes for a moment.
Then, quietly, "I don't know how."
JJ reached over and rested her hand on his.
"Then let us teach you."