"He's in trouble, Hotch," JJ was already talking before he had even picked up the phone. He could hear the roar of the Suburban in the background and he guessed that she was pushing 90. "CSI is already en route."

"CSI?" His mouth felt dry. "There's a crime scene?"

"He isn't there, but..." Her voice up until then had been rigid, professional. Now it wavered. "Something happened. Someone... There was blood, and we can't know whether or not it's his until..." There was a soft sound- a muffled cry, and then she seemingly collected herself. "Gather the team. We'll be there in 10."

They were all sitting around the table when Prentiss and JJ arrived, silent. Reid's seat, of course, was empty.

"From what we could tell, this, ah..." JJ stopped and cleared her throat as her fingers moved over the face of her tablet, and an image appeared on the large viewing screen behind her. "This was on the wall in his apartment. We think it was there when he got home, which was when he tried calling us. And then someone..."

"What the hell?" Derek leaned forward in his seat.

The photo was of Reid's bedroom wall, the one visible from the hallway. In huge, crudely painted letters were three words, and they were written in a crimson so dark it was almost black.

Confess your sins.

Wake up. Pay attention. Where are you? Who has you? How many, and are they armed?

He'd been under for too long, far too long, but he couldn't seem to open his eyes. There were flashes- a face with teeth that gleamed in a terrible smile, light, dark, neon. And he heard bursts of sound, too, but everything was blurred and it echoed and the headache, God, the headache was going to tear him apart. With every pulse of his heart he thought he might throw up. And then there was dark, complete dark and for a little while, he slept.

The lights that woke him were artificial and so any amount of time could have passed. They were muted by a thin veil over his eyes- burlap, perhaps, but he could still make out the room beyond him through the material. He was alone save for the unmistakable outline of a video camera set on a tripod. His breath hitched in his throat and he fought not to hyperventilate, biting back a scream. There was no use in panicking.

Think.

He had come home after the symphony. Seen the message on the wall. And he had panicked then, too, trying everyone's cell instead of getting the hell out and calling 9-11. He hadn't even known anyone was in the apartment until someone had hit him from behind, and they had hit him hard.

The headache was less intense now than it had been earlier but he recognized the symptoms of a concussion. He needed a doctor. He wanted to lie down, to sleep for a while. That would help, surely.

Focus.

The space he was in was maybe 20 feet square, and the walls were rough stone; not built, but carved. Underground, then.

A mine shaft?

Against the far wall he could see a blinking lights of a hulking computer array, and if he listened closely, he could hear the buzz of a generator somewhere out of view. It sounded like it was behind him, deeply muffled. He tried to turn but his shoulders flared in protest, and gingerly, he craned his neck upwards. He was upright, suspended by a pair of shackles about his wrists.

There was a harsh noise behind him and the sound of the generator at first grew louder, and then more quiet. A door. And now there were footsteps, slow, measured.

"And the Lord said to Raphael, 'Bind Azazel hand and foot, and cast him into the darkness, and make an opening in the desert, and cast him therein. And place upon him rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him abide there for ever, and cover his face that he may not see light. And on the day of the great judgement he shall be cast into the fire.'"

"The Book of Enoch," Reid said. The speaker was still somewhere behind him. "Please, I think-"

"Be silent," the man said, and he was bending over the video camera, turning it on. At the same moment the computer monitors flared to life. Although Reid couldn't make it out, every screen except one became covered with scrolling lines of code, incredibly complex systems tying together to send video data to a single receiving server. He could, however, see the biggest monitor. It showed the feed coming from the camcorder.

"Who are you?" Reid asked, hating how scared his voice sounded, but he couldn't help it. Memories were flooding his mind now, memories of Tobias and of Charles, and of Raphael.

"I am Michael," the man said, and he moved slightly so that the camera had an unfettered view of his captive. The red recording light blinked merrily. "Are you ready to confess?"