RED

pillows, masks and strings

word count: 1664

A slight frown crossed Spencer's face as he walked into Steven's hospital room. The room was dimly lit, with the rhythmic beeping of medical machines providing the only background noise. Steven lay on the bed, his face pale and drawn, but something was unsettling in his eyes—a sharpness that didn't belong to a victim.

Rossi followed Spencer into the room, his experienced eyes scanning every detail, from the way Steven's hands twitched slightly to the way his gaze darted toward them as they entered. Rossi had seen this kind of behavior before, and it always put him on edge.

"Steven Thomas?" Rossi asked, his voice calm and measured. "I'm SSA David Rossi, and this is Dr. Spencer Reid. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Steven nodded weakly, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and something else—something that didn't quite match his condition.

Spencer, always attuned to the smallest details, couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He stepped closer, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the inconsistencies that had been nagging at him since they first identified Steven as a victim.

"Steven," Spencer began, his voice soft but probing, "can you tell us what happened when you were taken? Anything you remember could help us find the woman responsible."

Steven's eyes flickered with something—was it hesitation? Fear? But then his face settled into a carefully controlled mask. "I don't remember much," he said, his voice strained. "She... she just came out of nowhere. I couldn't stop her."

Rossi exchanged a glance with Spencer. The story was too neat, too rehearsed. Spencer's frown deepened as he studied Steven's face, his mind flipping through the details they'd gathered so far.

"Steven," Rossi said, his tone more direct, "you were the last person to see your roommate alive. You were there when the abuse happened. Why didn't you do anything to stop it?"

Steven's eyes flashed with anger, but it was quickly masked by a look of forced composure. "I couldn't," he muttered. "He was too strong. I was scared."

Spencer's gaze sharpened. "But you weren't just a bystander, were you? You encouraged the abuse. You watched, and you did nothing to help him. Why?"

Steven's hand twitched, and he clenched it into a fist. "I didn't have a choice," he said, his voice tight. "He would have turned on me if I tried to stop him."

Spencer leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Steven's reaction. "But you weren't scared of him, were you? You were angry. Angry that he had control over you. Angry that you had to watch him hurt someone else."

Rossi stepped closer to the bed, his voice taking on a steely edge. "And that anger didn't just go away, did it, Steven? It grew. It festered."

Steven's face tightened, a flicker of something darker crossing his features. Rossi continued, his voice low and commanding. "You didn't just want to stop him—you wanted to hurt him. To make him suffer like he made you suffer." For a moment, Steven's mask slipped, and Spencer caught the barest hint of a smirk. It was fleeting, but it was enough. Spencer's heart raced as the pieces fell into place.

"She wasn't the mastermind," Spencer said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was just the tool. You were the one pulling the strings."

Steven's eyes locked onto Spencer's, and the cold, calculating gaze that met his confirmed the truth. The fear, the helplessness—it had all been an act.

Rossi took a step back, his expression hardening. "You used her. You manipulated her into doing what you couldn't do yourself."

A twisted smile curled at the corner of Steven's mouth. "It wasn't hard," he said, his voice taking on a chillingly calm tone. "She was already broken. I just gave her a little push."