She wasn't supposed to turn into another statistic, another victim to add to the already-too-long list of lives ripped away much too early by the injustices of evil.

This was supposed to be a routine crime, another day on the job.

You were supposed to find the perpetrator and apprehend him—just in the nick of time to save another victim, to prevent the unholy waste of another valuable life.

But unfortunately, things don't always go as they're supposed to.

You had profiled him as a disorganized, Anger-Retaliatory killer: angry at the world for his failures and trying to recompense himself through violence. This was nothing uncommon in your line of work. There was nothing to set off the warning bells that maybe, just maybe, there was something you had failed to consider.

But then… then he took her, and it all went downhill from there.

How were you supposed to know that she had an uncanny—no, perfect—resemblance to the woman who had rejected him in the past?

How were you supposed to know that he, more organized than the crime scene suggested, worked at the police precinct and did all he could to dog you and your team in every step of the investigation?

How were you supposed to know that allowing him to accompany her to the analysis lab would result in a missing federal agent and insurmountable heartbreak for years to come?

How were you supposed to know?

You couldn't have. But regardless, you should have.

You should have known, should have seen it coming.

You should have prevented this from happening.

At the very least, you should have saved her.

But you didn't; you couldn't.

And now, for the rest of your life—for as long as you have to look your team in the eye and know that they blame you, for as long as you have to watch Henry grow up without a mother and watch Will grow old without his soul—you will be plagued with this notion.

Sure, you know logically that the blame should land squarely and solely onto the shoulders of the perpetrator, but all the same, this… this was different. This was personal: you failed to save the innocent when it mattered most.

And that's something you'll have to live with.

Maybe one day you'll be able to close your eyes without images of the mangled, bloody, and violated shell of what used to be her bombarding your mind.

Maybe one day you'll be able to overcome the rift between the members of your team that has reduced the once almost-familial relationships to the utmost formality and professionalism.

Maybe one day you'll be able to let yourself off the hook and realize that tragedies happen, especially in your line of work.

But that day is not today.

So, as per usual, you'll spend your down-time at the privacy of your desk, burning through the files of the case that is now permanently etched into your memory.

You realize that it's twisted—masochistic, even. All the same, you can't help it: you can't help but retrace every bit of evidence for things you could've picked up on, analyzing things that you should've have noted the first time around—things that would've kept her safe.

So many conditionals, so many hypotheticals.

But at the end of the day, you didn't.

And that's not at all hypothetical.

AN: this is the result of a random itch to write and a strong aversion for schoolwork. Also, I... uh maybe have a thing for angst and writing in the second person :p