[23rd Avenue. Building Three.]
The unmarked SUV rolled to a slow stop half a block from the entrance.
Ray was out before the engine fully died. Hotch followed behind him, checking his handgun. Spencer adjusted his vest while Rosa checked her sidearm one last time.
They went over to their target.
The building was a classic Brooklyn walk-up: four stories of faded red brick, metal fire escapes zigzagging up the front like rusty veins. A single bulb glowed above the entrance, flickering every few seconds. There was no security guard at the entrance.
Hotch signaled with two fingers: stack up. They formed a tight line beside the door. Ray picked the lock and then entered the building.
The stairwell smelled of old paint and yesterday's takeout. Dim overhead lights buzzed. Ray took the point up the narrow stairs. Hotch followed, Glock drawn low. Spencer kept his breathing even, counting doors as they passed the landing. Apartment five was the last one on the right, at the end of the hall, farthest from the street noise.
Ray raised his hand, signaling them to stop. He noticed something weird with the door. There was a tiny hole at the bottom of the door and one at the top. He pointed at the bottom peephole.
Hotch nodded and raised his gun.
Ray tapped his wristwatch. The top flipped open and the fly drone flew out. He took out his phone and controlled the fly to go under the door.
[Inside]
The walls were a plain beige. There was a cheap-looking couch, and a coffee table that had been positioned a bit too perfectly against the rug. A little boy sat on the floor in front of the couch, his legs tucked underneath him. He had a bowl of pasta in his lap. He was eating while watching an old cartoon.
"Kid confirmed," Spencer whispered.
The boy seemed completely calm. There was no sign of panic or confusion on his face, just the look of someone going through the motions of a normal routine.
"Cameras," Ray whispered, noticing the red dots hidden in the vents. "We can't rush in there until we get an eye on Elle or our unsub."
Ray flew the drone toward the hallway.
There was no sign of any adults nearby.
The kitchen looked spotless. The sink was empty. The countertops had clearly been wiped down. There weren't any dishes left soaking in the sink, and there wasn't a single cluttered surface anywhere.
The drone flew into the first bedroom.
The bed was made tightly. The closet door was slightly ajar, revealing neatly pressed clothes inside. They were all men's sizes, with just one small outfit for a child. There wasn't a single piece of women's clothing anywhere.
Next came the bathroom.
There were two toothbrushes. One looked like an adult's, and the other was clearly for a child. There were no feminine hygiene products in sight, and nothing extra at all.
"Elle isn't up here," Rosa said, voice flat.
Ray already knew that, of course.
He flew the drone into the last room.
It was a storage space.
Cardboard boxes were piled in one corner. Cleaning supplies were neatly arranged on metal shelves. There was a mop bucket and a vacuum cleaner—the kind of tidy setup that would make any landlord smile.
Then, the camera's angle shifted just a little.
"There," Ray whispered, almost to himself.
In the middle of the floor, between two shelves, was a square metal hatch.
Spencer leaned closer. "The flooring around it has less dust accumulation. Our unsub must be using that hatch every day."
Ray's mind ran fast.
"We are on the second floor," he said quietly. "There is no basement access from here."
Hotch's eyes sharpened. "Unless it leads down."
Ray zoomed in.
The hatch had a reinforced handle recessed into the metal. Industrial-grade hinges. It looks like someone took their time installing that.
"That goes into the apartment below," Ray said. "He modified the structure. Keeps the kid up here. Keeps the victim downstairs."
Rosa's jaw flexed. "Separate containment zones."
"Control and insulation," Hotch added quickly. "If a victim resists, the child remains unaware of the full violence. Preserves the fantasy structure."
Ray pulled the drone back slowly. He gave the living room one last sweep.
Adrian was still eating.
He guided the fly back under the door and snapped his watch shut as it returned. He looked at Spencer. "Stay here with Rosa." He looked at Rosa. "Break the door and get the kid when I give the signal. I'll give you a missed call."
Then, he looked at Hotch. "Let's go. It's apartment 2."
[Downstairs] [Apartment 2]
The door looked older than the one upstairs. The paint around the lock had been scratched recently, faint silver lines against brown enamel.
Ray crouched and examined the hinges and frame for a few seconds. There were no peepholes. Whoever set this up trusted the upper floor as his buffer zone.
Hotch positioned himself to the left of the frame and gave a small nod.
Ray slid his tools into the lock and worked fast. The tumblers clicked into place one after another. He felt the final pin set and eased the handle down slowly.
The door opened without a sound.
The smell hit first.
Incense mixed with something metallic and stale.
They stepped inside.
The apartment was dark except for dozens of small candles placed in uneven circles across the floor. Their flames flickered against walls covered in black paint strokes and red symbols that looked hand-drawn and obsessive. Symbols crawled across plaster and ceiling, spirals and jagged shapes layered over one another like someone had been rewriting the same nightmare for years.
In the center of the living room sat a slab of gray stone raised on metal supports.
Elle lay strapped to it.
Her wrists and ankles were bound with leather restraints bolted into the slab. Her shirt had been cut open down the center. Dried marker lines traced crude shapes across her skin, intersecting over her sternum like someone mapping out a target.
Her eyes snapped toward the door the moment they entered.
She was conscious.
"Ray!" Tears dripped down the corner of her eyes as she whispered. "Hotch!"
A man stood over her.
He was tall and lean, eyes wide with something feverish and bright. He wore dark clothes smeared with faint red streaks, which were probably the blood of his old victims. In his right hand, he held a long ritual knife, the blade thin and polished, hovering inches above Elle's chest.
He turned slowly at the sound of their boots.
This was not Jason Wells.
Ray did not hesitate.
"Move a muscle and I'll fucking drop you, motherfucker," he shouted, voice cutting through the room like a gunshot.
Hotch shifted right to get a clear angle, Glock steady, finger resting along the trigger guard.
"FBI! Put down the knife and step back," Hotch yelled.
The man smiled.
It was calm and wrong at the same time.
"You are early," he said softly, like they had interrupted a dinner party instead of a ritual.
Ray's vision tunneled for a second before he forced it wide again. He cataloged everything in the room automatically. No visible firearms, one knife in hand, candles placed too close to the walls, curtains drawn tight and no visible exits beyond the front door and a narrow hallway to the left.
"Drop it," Hotch commanded, gripping his Glock tightly.
The blade dipped a fraction lower toward Elle's chest.
Her breathing was shallow but steady. Her gaze locked onto Ray's and held there.
The man's eyes flicked between them. His fingers tightened around the knife handle. A tremor ran through his forearm, though whether from adrenaline or anticipation was impossible to tell.
"You cannot stop what has already begun," he said.
The man's voice dropped into a low, rhythmic chant, words tumbling out faster now as if he had been waiting years to speak them aloud. "The signs have aligned perfectly. The old world is rotting from the inside, and tonight the barrier finally tears open. Her blood on this stone will call him forth. Satan walks among us already, wearing the skin of the unworthy, and with this final offering, the gates swing wide. No more hiding in shadows. No more whispers in the dark. A new era rises on the ashes of the weak, and I am the herald who—"
Ray squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot cracked sharply inside the candle-lit room. The man's head snapped back, a neat dark hole blooming between eyebrow. His body folded at the knees first, then collapsed sideways in a loose heap. The ritual knife clattered against the stone slab and skidded into the circle of candles, knocking two of them over. Wax spilled and hissed as flames licked at the black-painted floor.
"Told you not to move a muscle," Ray said, voice flat and already moving forward and went to Elle in five steps.
His hands moved fast but carefully, checking the leather straps for quick-release buckles. They were bolted tight. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, snapped it open, and started sawing through the first restraint around Elle's right wrist. The leather parted with a dry ripping sound. He cut the remaining restraints.
Elle sat up and hugged him tightly while crying.
Ray hugged her back and waited for her to let it all out.
"Took you long enough," She whispered.
"Traffic," He replied as his eyes were fixed on the wall opposite them.
There was a big Illuminati Eye drawn with blood on the wall.
'Fuck! I thought that the siblings' case was just a coincidence, but I guess it's not a coincidence anymore. Those bastards are back again. Tsk.' Ray thought as he continued to pat Elle's back.