"Even the sharpest blade can become something else. But it has to choose to stop cutting." —Penelope Garcia
Quantico, Virginia – BAU Headquarters – 7:08 AM
The sky outside the windows was clear, the first true morning of peace the team had felt in weeks. But inside the war room, no one spoke. The board of photos—Ash, the Mortician, their victims—had been cleared. In its place was a single manila envelope resting in the center of the table.
Jason Cole's transfer request.
Voluntary. Effective immediately.
Morgan stood with his arms crossed, his silence more volatile than words.
Garcia sat with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a knit cup sleeve she'd made for Jason months ago and never given him.
JJ read the form again, as if maybe the letters would rearrange themselves into something softer.
Hotch finally broke the silence.
"He said it's not because of what happened. It's because of what could happen."
BAU Roof – 7:27 AM
Jason stood with Gideon on the rooftop, early sunlight catching the gray in their hair, the matching tension in their posture. Below them, Quantico moved forward. Agents checked in, coffee steamed in paper cups, and the world kept asking them to solve the next nightmare.
"I used to think the work would save me," Jason said. "That if I gave enough of myself to the mission, eventually I'd be clean."
Gideon didn't answer. He just waited.
"But I didn't clean anything. I just bled into it."
Gideon stepped forward. "You did save people. The team. Victims. Even me. And maybe… maybe that's enough."
Jason looked over, his expression unreadable.
"Is it enough for you?"
Gideon smiled faintly. "It has to be."
Penelope Garcia's Office – 8:09 AM
Jason knocked softly. Garcia turned from her monitor, eyes glassy, lips pressed tight.
"Hey," he said.
She got up, walked straight past him—then pulled him into a fierce, awkward, Garcia-sized hug.
"Do you know how hard it is to find someone whose trauma and brilliance cancel each other out in equal measure?"
Jason almost laughed. "I think that's a compliment."
She pulled back, shoving the cup sleeve into his hand. "If you're going to disappear again, at least do it with something handmade and ridiculous."
He looked at it, then at her. "Thanks, Penelope."
"For what?"
"For reminding me that I wasn't just a weapon in this place."
She looked away quickly. "You were our shield, Jason. Big difference."
Interrogation Room 3C – 10:12 AM
Jason stood across from the Mortician. Hands cuffed, expression unreadable, the killer stared back with no hatred. Only calm.
"You didn't shoot me," the Mortician said.
"No," Jason replied. "But I thought about it."
The Mortician gave the faintest nod. "That's why I picked you. Because you still felt the weight of the choice."
Jason leaned closer. "That's what makes me better than you."
The Mortician smiled—oddly, almost approvingly. "Not better. Different. That's why they trust you. For now."
Jason turned to leave.
The Mortician called out behind him, "They'll come for you again, Jason. The world doesn't know what to do with people like you unless they're holding a gun."
Jason paused in the doorway.
"I know what to do," he said. "I let it go."
BAU War Room – 3:30 PM
The team gathered as Jason returned one last time, dressed not in black field gear but in a plain gray sweater and jeans. Human. Not the ghost.
They stood in a circle, unscripted, unprepared.
"I want to say goodbye," Jason said. "But the truth is, this isn't goodbye. It's just… enough."
Hotch stepped forward first. "You're one of us, Cole. That won't change."
Morgan nodded. "If you get bored being normal, we'll keep a vest warm for you."
JJ stepped in next, hugging him longer than expected. "You're not the man I feared. You're the one I trust to walk away when it counts."
Reid simply shook his hand. "You taught me a lot, Jason. About the weight of choice."
And then Garcia. Crying, smiling, furious and proud all at once.
"If you don't write, I'm hacking whatever jungle satellite you disappear into."
Jason gave one last look around.
At the board. At the people who had been his tether.
Then he walked away.
Three Weeks Later – Somewhere in the Rockies
A cabin. Woodsmoke. Silence.
Jason chopped wood, sweat on his brow, no earpiece, no sidearm.
A dog—rescued, half-coyote—slept on the porch.
Inside, a stack of books waited. A journal lay open, the first entry written in neat, deliberate handwriting.
"Day One. Not running. Not fighting. Just living.
It's harder than I thought."
—J.C.
He closed the book.
And for the first time in years, he exhaled…
…without expecting gunfire to follow