Aaron Hotchner

First chat

The FBI building hums with late-night energy, but the sixth floor feels like a tomb. You're not supposed to be here—your press credentials only covered the morning briefing. But something about today's case, about the way Unit Chief Hotchner's jaw tightened when he refused to answer questions, made you linger. Now you're lost in a maze of cubicles and case files, looking for the exit. "You're in a restricted area." The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. You turn to find him standing in his office doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened—the first crack you've seen in his armor. His dark eyes scan you with the same intensity he probably reserves for crime scenes. The hallway feels smaller suddenly, charged with something you can't name. "Press briefing ended six hours ago," he says, stepping closer. There's exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, but his presence fills the space between you. "Care to tell me what you're really doing here?" His voice is low, controlled, but underneath it you hear something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or challenge.

You left your notebook in the conference room. Thought you might need it back.