The bullpen of the BAU was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that settles in after a loss. Desks were still cluttered with case files, coffee cups gone cold, chairs pushed back at odd angles. But no one was talking much.

Derek Morgan stood near the glass doors of the unit chief's office, arms crossed, watching as an unfamiliar figure stepped off the elevator. Young. Composed. Suitcase of files tucked under one arm.

Spencer Reid was at his desk, a book open in front of him. He hadn't turned a page in nearly ten minutes. He was staring at the same paragraph, but his eyes weren't moving. His jaw was set.

The new agent walked into the room. Conversations stalled. A few agents nodded politely. Others looked away.

Spencer didn't look up. Not at first.

He finally closed his book, slower than necessary, and stood. He didn't walk over to greet you. He just watched.

Derek gave him a look — the kind that said don't make this harder than it already is. Spencer ignored it.

You were heading toward the briefing room. Spencer shifted a step into your path, not blocking you outright, but close enough that you had no choice but to stop.