Okay, I'm out of ways to use the phrase...CRIMINAL MINDS for now. Enjoy, and leave a review if so inclined!

It was three in the morning.

Hotch lay awake in bed, rigid, his hands folded on his chest. In the bed to his left, Reid was turning fitfully; from time to time he murmured something. Across from them, Rossi omitted the occasional phlegmy snore. Morgan was absent; Garcia was pulling an all-nighter, refining the data she'd gathered, and he had volunteered to stay up in solidarity.

The phone rang. Hotch's arm reached out immediately.

"This is Agent Hotchner."

"Hotchner, this is Sakaki," came a breathless, pained voice. "I am at Cafe Blue Paradise. The neighbors heard a struggle…we have another body."

When Prentiss arrived in the hotel conference room, rubbing her eyes, the atmosphere of defeat was palpable. Reid was slouched in a chair, fanning himself with a document although it wasn't hot; Hotch stood like a broken automaton, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Rossi looked up. "You heard?"

She nodded. "I heard."

Photographs were spread across the table. They showed a terrified, motionless face, a small body, and ugly knots of rope around its wrists, ankles, and neck.

"We talked to that girl just yesterday," Prentiss whispered.

Sasaki was massaging his temples. With each motion of his hands, his frameless glasses trembled. "It's my fault," he said. "You warned me something like this might happen."

"It was a risk we had to take," said Rossi. "If not for the cops on the platform, the unsub might have taken another victim there…"

Hotch was stern: "It isn't your fault. We let you down, Captain. We should have developed a complete profile by now."

Prentiss, in spite of her revulsion, was studying the photographs. "She was hanged?"

Reid nodded. "In Night Train, the hero's father hangs himself, and that imagery is prominent. This is consistent with the victimology, but it's a complete one-eighty in methodology. Pushing a victim from behind is simple, impersonal, and low-risk. Hanging is highly personal. What's more, they employed forensic countermeasures; the area around the body was meticulously cleaned."

"Imagine," said Rossi. "It would be almost impossible not to look into the victim's eyes. To feel them struggle. They would have to stick around until her last breath to make sure. This is the crime of a sadist."

"We couldn't have imagined this level of escalation," said Hotch.

Morgan was quiet, gazing at his interwoven fingers. Prentiss tapped one photograph.

In the middle of the victim's belly was an angry red wound, too small to be a bullet hole.

"What's this?"

"We believe the victim was shot with an air gun," Reid explained. "Properly modified, a weapon like that could seriously injure, even kill. This could have been what the unsub used to threaten the first victims. It's also what Colonel Sebastian Moran tried to use to kill Holmes in The Adventure of the Empty House." There was a pause in the tense stream of conversation as everyone stared at him. He shrugged. "What? It seemed relevant."

"The question is, why?"

"This is where Agent Hotchner and I disagree," said Rossi, with a significant look at his colleague. "I maintain it's part of the escalation. The victim was shot before she was hanged, and there's no question it made her easier to handle. The unsub is still hesitating."

"Whereas I believe," Hotch said firmly, "an unsub capable of this level of brutality wouldn't hesitate. The only explanation is that they weren't physically capable of overpowering Rin Todokawa. This means we still can't rule out a woman, or a young adult."

"Hotch. Come on. I wrote the book on this."

"We both know that. Just as we both know of each other's decades of field experience."

Rossi looked genuinely annoyed. "Let's agree to disagree," he said through one side of his mouth.

Prentiss listened, perturbed. It was rare for the team's two most experienced profilers to disagree, especially on such a fundamental point.

"Any luck with our only suspect?" she asked.

Hotch started to pace. "All last night, officers were looking for the vagrant Morgan's contact mentioned, whom we assume to be Akira, the missing Yuusuke cosplayer. Nothing turned up. Further questioning of witnesses suggested this man had been seen in the weeks following the first murder, but recently vanished."

"He's gone to ground," said Rossi. "I never thought I would say this…but forget the profile for now. We need to circle the wagons, get the Rei Nakamura cosplayers under protective surveillance."

"According to the list Johnny B compiled for me," said Reid, raising an eyebrow, "there are at least forty-five."

"Then we'll need at least forty-five officers."

"I'm on it," said Sasaki, already dialing.

"This is turning into a disaster," said Hotch. "With the police presence last night, and an effort to put surveillance into place today, we're edging closer to widespread panic."

Sakaki turned to him as the phone rang: "Don't underestimate the people of Tokyo. We've been through worse than this, after all.-Ah, Kimura?" He switched to Japanese.

"To make matters worse," Rossi confided to Hotch, "Hasekura was talking about holding a press conference yesterday. He really wanted to play up the whole otaku angle. I managed to talk him out of it, but once he hears about this…"

At that moment, the door opened and Garcia rushed in, face red, beaming through her glasses.

Morgan sat up. "Girl, you look like a rescuing angel! Tell us the news from heaven."

"The news, my lovelies, is that I've found our mystery man, or my middle name isn't Infallible. Le difficulties du translation slowed me down a bit, but not much."

Rossi slapped the table. "Garcia! I could kiss you!"

"And I could sue for harassment; now feast your eyes on this."

She tossed a folder onto the table and they flocked around like dogs to a bowl.

"Akira Fukui," Hotch read out. "Aged thirty-two, programmer at Keystone Studios."

"That's the studio responsible for Night Train," said Reid, quietly shocked.

"Could he have worked on it himself?" asked Prentiss.

"Before his time, I'm afraid," Hotch went on, "but the connection is hard to miss all the same.-His work attendance has been erratic; he missed three consecutive days after the first murder…then showed up looking disheveled, was given forcible sick leave…"

Impatient for him to reach the good part, Garcia interjected: "Eight years ago, Fukui and his fiancee were in a car wreck? His fiancee was killed, and Fukui suffered brain damage. He's been on a course of powerful anti-psychotics ever since."

"Prior offenses?"

"No, sir," she admitted, "the drugs seem to have been working."

"Diomorphex," said Reid. "Used to treat persistent visual and auditory hallucinations. If he went off this for any reason, the consequences would be immediate."

Sakaki was dialing again. "Kimura?" In the conversation that followed, they made out the name: Akira Fukui. When he hung up, he pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. His hand was trembling. "We've got him," he said softly. "We have got the son of a bitch."

Morgan suddenly tensed. "Unless Toyoda gets to him first."

Rossi looked to Sasaki. "Should we have your guys pick up this gangster, just to be safe?"

"Hmm.-No. No. He didn't make a definite threat, and I don't want to start a war with his family over something like this. He was probably just talking big anyway."

It was just past four in the morning. She had stayed out longer than usual.

As nervous as she made him, he felt worse without her. The shadows on the wall began to look sinister. He thought he could hear faint voices through the wall. Mostly, he stayed in bed, getting up occasionally to pace around and stare into mirrors. At least he could be sure of himself.

A wedge of warm light came through the door and a voice called sweetly: "Tadaima!"

He could hear her taking off her shoes, hanging up her coat; domestic sounds. It had been so long since he'd heard them.

She padded into the bedroom, proudly holding up a couple of takeout boxes. "I couldn't make you breakfast, so I bought this at the convenience store. How are you feeling?"

"Better." He swallowed. "I think. I'm not sure."

"You see! I told you all you needed was rest."

"Where…were you? Why do you only come at night?"

Ignoring the first question, she moved closer and said, almost in a whisper: "Because the night is scary. It's when you need me the most. When it's dark outside, you don't know what's out there. But I'll be in here, with you."

She set the boxes down and in a burst of playfulness, leapt onto the bed. She pecked him on the cheek. He drew back; she pouted.

"Why are you so scared of me?"

"I'm sorry. I…just can't forget her, that's all. It doesn't feel right."

"Yuusuke-kun." She lay beside him, the sheets separating their bodies. He could feel her warmth. She reached up and ran one hand through his hair. "I know," she said. "I had someone important to me, too. But they went away. She went away, didn't she?"

"Everybody goes away sometime," he said abruptly.

"That isn't true!" He drew back again, shocked at the strength of her voice; but in moment it had receded again into gentleness. "That isn't true. Because if it were, that would mean death was stronger than love, wouldn't it? But love is stronger than death. Isn't it. I love you. I'm going to help you, just like you helped me."

Speechless, he gave a weak nod. "That's right," she said, gave him another kiss, then leapt back up. "I know what'll cheer you up. A nice, warm bath! Let me run it for you."

"You can go in first. I'm tired."

"We could go in together," she said, then burst out giggling and dashed out of the room.

The second she was gone, he wished her back. How could he be sure she had even been there? But he heard the reassuring gurgle of water from the bathroom, and gave a relieved sigh. He lay back on the pillow. Several minutes passed. There was a knock on the door. Feeling more puzzled than anything, he got to his feet, put on his slippers and robe and, walking past the closed bathroom door, went into the foyer.

"Who's there?"

"Someone who doesn't like to be kept waiting," came a low voice. "Open up."

He couldn't help himself; his body did what it was told. He opened the door.

A tall man was leaning on the frame, one hand in his pocket. The other reached out and seized the collar of his robe. "You Akira Fukui?"

"Y-yes."

"Mind if I come inside?"

Helpless, he shook his head.

The man shoved Akira to the floor, then shut the door behind them. He loomed over him, broad-shouldered, wearing a black raincoat like the vestments of an evil angel. He had a cold, handsome face and a shaved head.

"Who are you?" breathed Akira.

"Call me a concerned citizen."

He gave Akira a kick, then another, pushing him into the middle of the kitchen floor. Then he hauled him up and slammed him into the wall.

"You like to push little girls in front of trains, huh? I got a little girl of my own. Sixteen years old." Leaning forward in a cloud of whiskey-scented breath, he whispered: "Would you like to fuck my daughter?"

Tears began to run down Akira's face.

"I asked a question. Would you like to fuck my daughter, you perv?"

"N-no!"

"What's that? My daughter aint good enough for you?" He slapped him, hard, then reached into his pocket. He took out something that looked like a weapon from science fiction, a short, sharply curved knife, and held it up for Akira to see. "Know what this is?"

"No."

"It's a linoleum knife. Carpet guys use 'em. I carry this around, the cops stop me, hey, it's for my business. But it gets the job done." And he ran the blade along Akira's cheek. "Feel that?"

Akira nodded.

"The boss told me not to hurt you," said the man, "but I figure, a few cuts won't do any harm. Well. Not much, heh. Maybe somewhere nobody can see? I bet you enjoy it. Just pretend I'm one of your little cartoon girls, you sick fuck."

"P-please, I haven't done anything!"

But even as he said it, he doubted. What if he had? What if this was what he deserved? He shut his eyes. A door opened behind him.

"Get away from him," came a voice.

The man looked up, blinked in the darkness. "Oh, this is rich. Is that your little girlfriend? Does she know what you do to girls? Should I cut you up right in front of her?"

Akira twisted around and saw the girl, wrapped in a towel, standing dripping in the bathroom door. "Get out!" he yelled. "Y-you have to get out of here!"

"Don't worry," she said. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

She reached for an object on the kitchen counter. The man squinted again, then gave a barking laugh.

"What is that, a replica? Come on, sister, put that shit down."

She held the pistol with steely calm, pointed right at his head. "I'll give you one chance. Get away from my Yuusuke-kun."

"I said put it down!"

He took a step toward her. There was the sound of a popping cork. The next instant he was howling like an animal, one hand pressed to his face. Akira cringed at the force of his screams. Blood was pouring down his sleeve. She fired again, hitting him in the knee, and he fell with a crash. She stepped forward.

"What did you do!" Akira yelped.

"I told you. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"You k-killed him!"

"Oh, don't be silly. He's not dead yet."

The man was struggling like a dying fish, the thrashing of his legs propelling his body in circles, leaving long streaks of blood. The girl stood over him, then knelt down, modestly keeping the towel in place with one hand, and picked up the linoleum knife. She gripped his right sleeve, pulled it back. It was covered in dark tattoos. She giggled.

"Are you a gangster? Big Mister Gangster? You don't look very much like a gangster."

The man was groaning incoherently.

"Please," begged Akira, "stop!"

"You see, Mister Gangster, real gangsters? Real gangsters are missing fingers."

And she raised the knife.

By the time Hotch and the others arrived in Sasaki's car, two police cruisers and a jeep were parked outside the apartment building. At least twenty officers stood around, talking in groups or on radios. Hotch recognized Kimura, standing impatiently on the curb.

Sasaki jumped out. A quick exchange in Japanese followed, and he turned to Hotch. "It's bad. We have to get in there."

"Understood. Morgan, Prentiss, with me; the rest of you wait here."

Detective Hata was waiting inside the apartment. There was a plainclothes officer with his gun drawn. They all stared in disbelief at the spectacle on the kitchen floor.

Sasaki removed his glasses and rubbed his nose, then replaced them, as if he'd been checking his vision.

"That's Ryo Gan. One of Toyoda's crew. He used be to a safecracker."

"Looks like he beat us to the punch after all," said Hotch.

Morgan was shaking his head. "God, that poor bastard. Is this really our unsub? So much for the theory they lacked the strength to subdue Rin Todokawa."

"Don't be so sure," said Hotch, stepping over the body, "this victim was shot with the pellet gun as well."

Sasaki consulted with Hata, then turned back.

"He says the place is clear. Apparently there's something interesting in the bedroom."

"It better not be this kind of interesting," said Morgan and, feeling naked without a gun, stepped into the bedroom door.

A naked man was curled up at the foot of the bed, clutching his knees. He had been good-looking, but his matted, shoulder-length hair clung to his face, and he hadn't shaved in days. His bleary eyes stared at Morgan.

"Tasukete," he said, in a blank voice. "Tasukete kure."

Morgan turned to Sasaki: "What's that?"

"He says, 'help me.'"