𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄- 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐀. It was practically apart of his job description. Every case, every victim, every killer added another layer to the weight he carried, one that never truly lifted. He'd seen the depths of human depravity and the fragility of life more times than he could count. Trauma wasn't just something he studied; it was something he lived, ingrained in every fiber of his being. He could analyze it, dissect it, understand its patterns and causes, but no amount of intellect could shield him from feeling it—the sharp sting of loss, the haunting echoes of violence that lingered long after a case was closed.

He was familiar with the neuroscience of trauma- the neural pathways, the reason it caused people to feel the way it did. Trauma reshaped the brain in ways that were both subtle and profound. Spencer knew how the amygdala, the brain's emotional center, could become overactive, leading to hypervigilance, anxiety, and flashbacks. The hippocampus, responsible for memory, could malfunction under the weight of trauma, making it difficult to differentiate between the past and present, causing memories to feel like they were happening all over again. He understood how the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for reasoning and decision-making, could go offline during a traumatic event, leaving a person trapped in instinctual responses like fight, flight, or freeze.

Trauma wasn't just psychological; it rewired the brain on a physical level. Spencer had read countless studies on how prolonged exposure to trauma could shrink parts of the brain and disrupt the balance of neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine, leading to depression, emotional numbness, or an inability to experience pleasure. He knew how trauma could alter one's sense of time, make seconds feel like hours, or blur years into a haze of pain and survival.

He understood the complex interplay of hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, released during traumatic events, flooding the system and pushing the body into overdrive. It explained why victims often felt exhausted after an adrenaline-fueled moment of terror, or why they sometimes seemed distant, their bodies still on high alert long after the danger had passed. Trauma was both a biochemical storm and an emotional labyrinth, one that left scars on the brain just as real as any physical injury.

Spencer could explain how these neurological changes could make someone feel disconnected from reality, haunted by the past, and unable to control their reactions in the present. He could trace the brain's electrical patterns, show how trauma imprinted itself like a ghost on a person's neural map, but none of that knowledge made him immune. Knowing the science didn't lessen the weight of witnessing its impact, either in others or in himself. He'd immersed himself in books and scientific journals, wondering if someone would someday make a discovery that would somehow fix him; fix countless other people who were going through the same things as him. 

He knew every complex detail about the way that trauma affected the brain, which was why he was so worried about his girlfriend. 

Spencer had the curse of an eidetic memory, which meant he was haunted by the ghosts of every single person he'd ever killed. He remembered the first time he raised his gun and had to shoot an unsub dead. He remembered the look on his face as all colour drained from his face as he took his last breath. He remembered the feeling of his hand shaking, the gun suddenly feeling more like a cinder block in his hand. He remembered his teammates rushing forward to check his pulse before they called over the paramedics. He recalled the way that they put his body in a black bag and zipped it up and took him away forever. He remembered wondering if he had family, people who would come to his funeral, people who would mourn him. The life. The life that Spencer had taken. 

Knowing this, he was worried about Alana. 

When she came out of that house covered in blood, albeit alive, he couldn't see a single thing on her face. After seeing her for a while, he'd grown used to the fact that she was a closed off person; that was just Alana's nature. But knowing that she'd just killed a man for the first time, knowing how she might be feeling, it killed Spencer not being able to know what was going through her mind. He wasn't even sure that he saw her cry once after it happened. She didn't seem shaken, didn't tremble or break down like he had that first time. Her face was a mask, impenetrable, and it unnerved him. He knew the body's natural response to trauma, how even the strongest could crumble under the weight of it. But Alana? She was different. She didn't cry, didn't scream, didn't seem lost in the moment. She walked out of that house as though nothing had happened, but Spencer knew better. The silence, the emptiness in her eyes, was its own kind of scream.