What is the point of living any longer? He struggles each day, desperately searching for a reason to continue on, but he finds absolutely nothing. His work is emotionally taxing – the subjects of their pursuits often leaving dozens of bodies in their wake. He would stare at their mistreated corpses, wondering whose sister, mother, or cousin would identify the body before it's buried away. His heart would grow heavier, until it became difficult to even breathe. Then, when the team would finally catch their unsub, it would never be relieving.

The people that they hunt – they're the utter dregs of humanity. They kill, maim, rape, or torture their victims. No matter their individual intentions, it is his job to mentally slip into their shoes to figure out their reasonings – the why, how, or when – before another innocent life is taken.

It has simply become too much.

He lay in his bed with the lights off. A faraway look is in his eyes as he contemplates calling Rossi to ask for sick leave. Since he joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit four years ago, he has never taken a day off, not even when he had the flu. The team will develop their own suspicions for his absence, but Spencer hopes that they will refrain from sending someone out to check on him. Morgan is especially protective – he may call, if only to hear Spencer's voice to soothe his own concerns.

He turns on his side; the nightstand is close by. It has documents strewn all over the top, along with a pile of medical texts stacked precariously near the lamp. He reaches for one of the papers. His eyes begin to water as he unfolds it.

It's a note from a doctor – an oncologist.

For the dozenth time, he rereads the print.

He stifles a sob, the paper crumpling in his hand as he throws it away from him. His cell phone is ringing, but he doesn't bother answering it.