2 | GREEN LIGHT. [SPENCER REID]

INTRODUCTION.

INTRODUCTION ; ORIGINS.

TEN YEARS AGO.

GONE WERE THE days of child's play for the man who sat stoic in his barstool. He waved off the young woman who went to refill his glass, eyes darting to the entrance of the dim resturant in ten second intervals. His foot tapped against the stool, the only tell of how nervous he truly was. He cursed his racing heart.

He hadn't missed the suspicious glances that he had been recieving from the bartender. He suspected that she had seen his face plastered on some 'WANTED' page in the paper or online. He hadn't missed the hint of uncertainty within her eyes either, the only thing keeping him from running.

He stared at his glass, thoughts rushing through his mind of what was to come from this encounter. He knew that he was risking his life by just entering this building, let alone speaking to the man over a drink. It was a risk that he was going to have to take. He couldn't let his team down. Not as their leader.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. He flinched slightly, internally grimacing as the man chuckled to himself, taking the seat beside him. The man gave the bartender a charming smile, grin widening as he ordered his favorite whiskey.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," the man told him, jovial tone masking the manic in his eyes. He spun his index finger around in a circle, motioning to the area around then. "But I do have to say, when I receive an email that simply says, 'we need to talk', I do get a little worried. What exactly are you and I talking about?"

"You killed my father," he muttered, eyes forming into slits. "That's what we need to talk about."

The man's smile faltered for a moment, but soon regained it's full strength, seeming only a bit more mad. "Kyle, my boy," he began, gaze meeting his, "I've killed many people's fathers." His voice was now threateningly low, eliciting a gulp from the opposing party. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific. Who was your father?"

"Nicholas Masters," he replied, watching recognition sink into the man's face.

He shifted his position to fully face him, eyebrows raised as he placed his head on his hand. The mania in his eyes was now rationed out by rage. "So, you're-"

They held each other's gaze. "Kyle Masters-"

"-of The Four Horsemen," the man finished, disbelief lacing his voice. He laughed incredulously, though Kyle thought he looked slightly impressed. "Christ, you're good. I wouldn't have showed if I knew who you were."

"I know," Masters responded, shrugging nonchalantly. "We had to draw you in. We thought that vagueness would be the way to go."