#sicarius

It started with the call. You, a body language analysis specialist, were being sent to work with the BAU until the serial killer network case closed. The person you were analyzing? Elias Voit.

The other agents called him "Sicarius". You just called him Voit. He didn't deserve the satisfaction of being infamous.

You didn't know much about him other than the brief rundown Unit Chief Emily Prentiss gave you. From what she described, you expected a monster. What you got was a scrawny man.

"You're the one they sent to profile me?" he said as you walked into the interrogation room. "I've never seen you before".

You didn't respond. Profilers aren't supposed to feed the ego of killers.

The interview room was cold. "You came here to profile me but I've already profiled you" he said. "How so?" you replied dryly, not amused.

"You're misunderstood. You hide your damage better". You rolled your eyes "Enough with the poetry Voit. I'm here to do my job and leave" you responded.

However, your pulse quickened. How the words stuck to your skin like bruises. You hated it. How he smiled-not smug, but soft, as though he pitied you. As though he knew you.

You should have walked out but you stayed.

You told yourself it was all part of the job. The BAU had been tasked with decoding him. Peeling back the layers until he cracked or confessed. It didn't end up being that simple.

The more time you spent with him, the less certain you became that he would crack. He wasn't unraveling, he was watching as you pulled your own threads loose.

The first session had gotten nowhere so he was brought back to the BAU to be interviewed once more and they had sent you in once again.

"Oh just who I wanted to see" he said as you walked in. You were good at reading people, but you couldn't tell if this was sarcasm or genuine. Maybe a bit of both?

He followed you with his eyes. His wrists were cuffed to the table, but his gaze moved freely, straight to you. Your skin crawled at the way he stared like you were prey. At the same time, you didn't take him seriously enough to act like he was the notorious killer the BAU was making him out to be.

You flipped open a case file filled with pictures of a kill kit and its contents. Before you could start talking, he interrupted you. "You want to get inside my head, but you should really be asking yourself what happens when I get inside yours first". "Stop with the theatrics Elias" you responded. "You may scare the people from behind a screen on your stupid little network, but you don't scare me".

You were getting nowhere with your questioning. Frustrated, you left after more snarky comments from Elias. Emily Prentiss dismissed the team for the night and Elias went back to his cell.

Unfortunately for you, he was right. He had gotten inside of your head. You were screaming at yourself for the feeling it brought you. A feeling much more terrifying than fear. And more career damaging.

I began to notice the pattern. People disappeared after I mentioned them—usually someone who had flirted, stared, or lingered too long. One man catcalled me on the street, right in front of Elias. He didn’t say a word, just tightened his grip around my wrist, hard enough to bruise. Like he needed me to feel it—to understand that no one looked at what was his. Not long after, a co-worker asked me out. I never mentioned it. I didn’t have to. A week later, my job transitioned to remote. The email was clean and professional, but it reeked of Elias—like he’d written it himself. His fingerprints were everywhere, invisible and cold.

There was a break-in once, just a few streets over. The next day, a surveillance camera appeared in my living room, panning slowly to follow wherever I moved. “I can’t let anything happen to you while I’m away, baby,” he cooed, wrapping himself around me like a blanket I hadn’t asked for. “I just want to know you’re safe.” That’s what he always said—even when I caught him tracking my location in real time. Even when I woke to find a second phone on my nightstand—the one he insisted I use instead of mine. Eventually, I told him I needed space. Just for a few days. I said I wasn’t sleeping well. He kissed my forehead and told me he understood. That night, someone tried to break into my apartment. Or at least, that’s what it looked like—doorframe splintered, lock snapped, nothing stolen. When I called him sobbing, he showed up in minutes. “You see now?” he whispered, pulling me into his arms. “I’m the only one who can keep you safe.”

I told him I had a headache. That I needed to rest, alone, for a little while. He didn’t argue—he never does when he’s already planned around me. His kiss was soft as he tucked the blanket around my shoulders. “Sleep tight, darling. I’ll be back soon.” I waited until I heard the door click shut behind him, then slipped out of bed. I left his phone—the one he insists I carry—right where he’d expect it. My old one, the hidden one, was already in my coat pocket. I didn’t go far. Just to the café I used to love before he made it obsolete. I ordered tea and sat by the window, watching people who weren’t afraid of being seen. For a moment, I let myself believe I’d gotten away with it.

Then I saw his car across the street, parked beneath the same oak it always was when he “happened” to be nearby. I barely had time to react before he was sliding into the seat across from me, like he belonged there. He took my hand in his, warm and steady. “Why’d you leave your phone behind, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice too calm. I told him I just needed air. He smiled, but his grip didn’t loosen. “You could’ve told me,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across my wrist, right over the spot he knew would still ache.

That’s when the glass shattered. A man outside grabbed a woman’s purse and bolted toward the café. I didn’t have time to move before Elias stood—fast, decisive—and stepped between me and the door. The thief collided with him and went down hard. People screamed. Someone called the police. Elias didn’t look at the man on the pavement. He only turned to me. Blood streaked his knuckles as he cupped my cheek like I was something precious. “You see now?” he whispered. “I’ll always be right where you need me.”

Everyone adored Elias. Neighbors greeted him warmly. The barista always saved his usual without asking. Coworkers called him a gentleman, the kind of man anyone would be lucky to have. Even the mailman had stopped by once just to say Elias had helped an elderly neighbor carry her groceries. Whenever I voiced doubts, friends brushed them off. “He’s so caring,” they said. “You’re lucky to have someone like him.” Their unwavering admiration made me question myself, made the bruises feel like figments of my own paranoia. Maybe I was deluded. Maybe I was the only one who saw the cracks in his perfect smile.

Later that night, I cleaned the blood from his knuckles. I didn’t ask what he’d done. I already knew. The cloth was warm, and though he barely spoke, he watched me with that same unreadable gaze—quiet, almost reverent. I cleaned beneath his nails, careful not to hurt him, even when the skin was raw. It felt sacred, this ritual. I should’ve run. Should’ve been sick with fear. But instead, I folded myself beside him and tended to him like it was love. Maybe it was. Maybe that’s why I stayed—because no one else saw the man beneath the violence, the aching thing inside all his brutality. Somewhere between the bruises and the broken things, he had become mine. And in some twisted, impossible way, I had become his.

Sometimes, in the stillness of evening, after the blood was gone and his shirt had been changed, Elias would cradle me like I was something fragile—delicate in a way only he understood. He’d whisper into my hair like it was prayer. “You make me good,” he’d murmur, again and again, like if he said it enough, it might become true. And maybe for a while, I believed him. Believed that if I just loved him hard enough, I could sand down the violence that lived in his bones. He told me I was his anchor, his salvation. “You’re all I have,” he’d say—first like a confession, later like a command. The words curled around me like a lullaby, until one day they stopped soothing and started to suffocate. I began to notice the pattern—how he only said them after I pulled away, after I looked too long at the world beyond him. His love came in refrains, repeated until I couldn’t tell if they meant devotion or possession.