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Chapter Text

His mother always wanted a girl.

That was why she’d thrown him away, sent him into a system that taunted him for being weak. For being emotional. The other boys hated him, and the girls made fun of him. He’d been an outcast since he was born. Never wanted. Never loved. No foster home kept him for more than six months. No foster parent ever connected with him. The other children at the group homes kept away.

No wonder he was so screwed up.

He hummed a lullaby, off tune, as he drew the needle and thread through his material of choice, pulling it up and out with surgical precision before he went for the next stitch. His fingers were stained red, but he paid it no attention as he plucked a pin from where he’d had it resting in his mouth, causing his tongue to bleed as he accidentally pricked it with the swipe, and then pushed it into the material.

He set his creation down and dabbed a finger to his bleeding tongue, the small bead disappearing and welling up again with every dab. He stared at the blood on his finger for a moment before he thrust the finger into his mouth and licked it clean, the taste of metal filling his mouth.

He stood, continuing to hum, and then walked over to a vanity sat in the corner of the dark and musty bedroom. He slid into the seat in front of the mirror in an odd movement that was both elegant and brutish. He inspected his appearance, reaching for a hairbrush to run through his long, curly, blonde hair.

He looked over at his creation and huffed. It wasn’t finished—not even close—but the vision was beginning to come to life.

The eyeless holes of a woman’s face stared back at him, the skin perfectly preserved and carefully dissected.

Almost like a sewing pattern.

The lights in the lecture theatre dimmed, casting the room into shadow. At the front of the theatre, behind the desk and below the projector that had been lit up, ready and waiting for the presentation to start, was a man in a wheelchair, his skin once burned to oblivion, meticulously reconstructed into something resembling a human body, but with a tightness and remaining patterns from mesh coverings and skin grafts marking the skin forever. Despite his appearance, the man didn’t seem to be bothered. He wore a wig to cover his scarred and bald scalp, and it had been chosen specifically to match his hair before, and while his lips didn’t work like they used to, the grafts had done wonders for his ability to be observed by others without flinching.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the room where rows and rows of young men and women in FBI-issued t-shirts sat, computers and notebooks ready for the lecture ahead, “welcome to the first class of your psychology module,” he continued, rolling his wheelchair with one hand that had been burned into a permanently clawed position, and the other which had more mobility, so he was positioned in front of the desk, “as you may know, I am Dr. Frederick Chilton, I will be your teacher for this module,” he used his better hand to click a button on the small remote that controlled the presentation. A slide popped up, showing two images side-by-side, taken directly from the FBI’s most-wanted list, “we will begin today with a very personal case of mine, and perhaps one of the FBI’s most interesting…” he trailed off and inclined his head to the extent able, “and controversial,” he finished with a slight smile, making his lips—which had been reconstructed with grafts that made it look like two small flesh-coloured balloons that had been deflated on his face—tighten. Frederick’s unseeing eye lagged behind his good one, creating an unsettling dichotomy within the same man.

Standing at the back of the lecture theatre, watching from the doorway with resigned interest, was Jack Crawford. His eyes gave away nothing, but Frederick could tell he was tired. Exhausted, even.

“Years ago, in 2013, the FBI pulled Will Graham—once a homicide detective in Louisiana, turned teacher at this very same academy—out of a classroom, gave him a gun, and put him in the field,” Frederick spoke cleanly, having memorised his presentation beforehand, but his eyes didn’t leave Jack, “they told him to profile killers. Get inside their heads. And at the same time, they brought on Dr. Hannibal Lecter—a well-respected psychiatrist and former ER surgeon—to help ensure his mental state remained…stable,” Frederick turned his wheelchair to start facing his students, “in doing this, the FBI failed to recognise two major things. The first: Will Graham’s psychology is so unique, that it cannot be quantified. He is both antisocial, presents with traits of Autism Spectrum Disorder, and has an empathy disorder which allows him to feel what the killers felt,” Frederick explained matter-of-factly, “a goldmine for any psychiatrist worth their salt,” he added with a slight chuff, “and the second thing they failed to notice: Hannibal Lecter is an extremely intelligent psychopath masquerading as a member of high society,” Frederick glanced back to Jack, “and together, they make up the top of the most-wanted list.”

Sometime later, after the presentation was complete and the students began to leave, Jack made his way down to the front of the theatre, approaching Frederick with a seemingly-permanent scowl on his face.

Frederick would’ve raised an eyebrow if he had any left, or his muscles worked as intended, but he hoped to convey his simultaneous confusion and annoyance in his tone of voice regardless, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Jack?”

Jack came to a stop and looked down at Frederick, eyes glazing over slightly as they roamed Frederick’s skin, recognising the damage that had been done to him by Francis Dolarhyde all those years earlier, thanks to Will’s manipulations.

“Using Will and Hannibal as your starting point at the academy is not going to win you any favours,” Jack commented drily.

Frederick sighed and rolled his eyes, “It is my class and my experiences, I can use them however I like. Besides, if even one of these trainees can think of something to catch two highly dangerous criminals, then so be it.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “you don’t look particularly happy to be teaching.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Frederick snorted, “but Dr. Bloom owns the hospital, and I was forbade from continuing to work in close proximity to killers, psychopaths, and insane people by my doctor,” he shook his head and rolled his eyes, “for fear of my…penchant for being nearly killed returning to finally off me,” Frederick paused and sighed sadly, “in many ways, that would’ve been preferable.”

Jack nodded, understanding the feeling all too well, “I have a killer that’s skinning women. Would you come in to see what you think?”

Frederick froze, considering the idea in his head several times before he gave a slight incline of his head in agreement, “I can,” he said slowly, “but don’t expect me to be on the case full time…I can’t exactly make it onto most crime scenes these days,” he gestured shakily to his seated situation and Jack didn’t even blink.

“I just need you at the lab to look at the body,” Jack said after a moment, “it’s…strange.”

“I am curious, though…why not contact Dr. Bloom?” Frederick asked, curiosity in his voice as he asked.

Jack looked grave as he spoke, “she’s been keeping a low profile since they escaped.”

Frederick didn’t need to ask who ‘they’ are.

“Smart woman,” Frederick muttered.

Alana sat on the bar stool, angled slightly out from the kitchen island, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands as she watched Margot get Morgan ready for school. Margot was frantically moving around the kitchen, from the fridge to Morgan’s bag as she stuffed in his packed lunch.

“Moooom!” Morgan groaned as Margot went to fix up his school uniform.

“You need to look presentable, Morgan,” Margot said curtly, crouching in front of him as she dusted off his shoulders and straightened his blazer—he was going to a prestigious private school, and they had strict uniform rules. Alana smiled from behind her mug as she watched the display.

“It’s school, not the opera!” Morgan grumbled and Alana snorted a laugh.

“You still need to follow the rules, honey,” Alana slipped off the stool, placing her mug on the counter as she joined Margot to crouch in front of their son.

“Rules suck!” Morgan pouted.

“Sometimes,” Margot nodded with a smile, “but they exist to keep us safe.”

Morgan sighed and, without warning, lurched forward to hug his mothers. Margot and Alana clutched onto Morgan like he was their lifeline.

Alana whispered in his ear, “now you need to be good, okay?”

“I know, Mama,” he muttered and pulled back, “love you!” He said to both.

“Love you too, Morgan,” Margot said with a soft smile as she stood. Alana stayed in front of Morgan for a moment, hands on his shoulders before she, too, stood. Margot grabbed Morgan’s backpack with one hand, “now let’s go, or you’ll be late!” She said purposefully.

“Have fun, Morgan,” Alana said, putting a hand on the back of his neck and gently pulling him in for another hug, “you need to tell me everything when you get home, okay?”

“Okay!” Morgan grinned. He then abruptly started bounding out of the kitchen. Margot gave a sigh as she watched him, then turned to Alana.

“See you when you get back,” Alana told her.

“Yeah,” Margot smiled and leaned forward. The two women shared a quick goodbye kiss before Margot went after their son.

When it was just her, Alana grabbed her mug and moved into the study. She took a seat behind the grand oak wood desk and lifted the lid of the laptop, placing her mug on the coaster next to it. After it booted up, she navigated to her emails, checking the list to see if anything new came in.

One new message from a contact labelled only as ‘Baron’.

She clicked into the email and read the contents. It was a simple message of ‘I thought you would like to see these,’ with two photos attached. The first photo was taken from far away, so the detail was grainy, but it showed a man exiting a deli—the text Spanish. The man was uniquely identifiable, and Alana’s breath caught when she recognised Hannibal Lecter. He wasn’t wearing a three-piece suit, rather a white short-sleeved shirt, light brown pants, and perfectly shined brown dress shoes. On his head was a cream-coloured boater hat adorned with a blue and green ribbon trim, and sunglasses in a brown tortoiseshell over his eyes. As stylish as ever, just a more practical version.

Alana clicked into the second photo and stilled when she saw a man standing at a stall at a crowded market. He wore a loose-fitted navy blue linen shirt unbuttoned at the top to show his collarbones, and black slacks with workman boots that looked of a higher quality than Alana had ever seen on him. His eyes were shrouded by sunglasses, but he was instantly recognisable from the pushed-back curls off his forehead, exposing the horizontal scar on the right side, and the scar from Dolarhyde’s knife on his cheek. Will Graham.

Alana replied to the email with one word.

‘Where?’

Will and Hannibal sat across from each other at a cafe in Bogota, Colombia. This was their third stop in Colombia, but Hannibal seemed reluctant to leave the country. Hannibal had sold their boat not long after entering the country to one of his shady, under the table contacts. Will hadn’t questioned it. They’d arrived in Barranquilla two weeks earlier, and had quickly made their way inland. Hannibal seemed much more content in Bogota, but Will didn’t have much of a preference. He’d never been to Colombia before, but the country had a rich history and the people were very accepting, so he couldn’t complain.

Not long after entering the country, Will had asked Hannibal why Colombia, as he’d expected Europe. Hannibal had simply smiled and said ‘no extradition treaty’, and left it at that.

“What are we doing here, Hannibal?” Will asked after taking a long sip of his coffee. Hannibal was quietly lathering a layer of a locally produced strawberry jam over a plain, toasted croissant.

“We are enjoying ourselves,” Hannibal replied. He cut the pastry in half and took a small bite out of one half, savouring the taste with his eyes closed.

Will raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat, “we’ve been here two weeks and all we’ve done is travel, keep an eye on TattleCrime, and eat. I’m a little confused as to what we’re doing just in general, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s eyes opened and he smiled slightly, “we have escaped capture in a rather spectacular fashion, Will,” he began, setting the croissant down and taking a sip of his absurdly fancy coffee he’d customised down to the beans the baristas used—in perfect Spanish, of course, while Will was getting by on his limited high school Spanish, “we must be unremarkable for some time, until we are no longer being hunted.”

Will huffed, “we’ll always be hunted. If not by the FBI—which, we’re in Colombia, so you made that much harder just on principle—then by Alana and Margot.”

Hannibal smiled, “yes, I have noticed the same man watching us for several days now. I believe he’s on the Verger payroll.”

Will stilled, his eyes darkening as he stared at Hannibal, “and you didn’t think to mention this to me?”

Hannibal didn’t react, “I was simply trying to gauge who this man is, and how he was reacting,” he explained like it was simply discussing the weather, “I do not believe he is here to kill us, rather just monitor our location.”

Will huffed, “and with our location compromised…?” He trailed off and locked eyes with Hannibal.

Hannibal smiled and picked his pastry up again, “we can take measures to remedy this.”

Will took his mug into his hands and sipped the coffee. Without a word he nodded, understanding exactly what Hannibal had in mind. He wasn’t naive, he did choose to escape with the Devil, so why not let out his own?

Chapter Text

The house in Bogota was on the higher end of the city’s property market, but very clearly not up to Hannibal’s standards. It was a two-story home on the outskirts of the city, nestled half in the nature reserves that bordered the eastern side of Bogota. They lived in a complex of mansions and condominiums, and yet just down the road was a neighbourhood of narrow streets, brick houses built on top of one another in block formation, and rundown sheet metal huts.

Their home was lavish in comparison, an impeccably clean mission-style McMansion that, among it’s direct neighbours, was poor in comparison. It was intentional, though. While Hannibal would’ve enjoyed a lavish estate sitting on its own amongst an acreage of trees, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, it was, unfortunately, a difficult feat in Colombia, particularly for foreigners, without drawing attention from the wrong people who looked twice because they lived like cartel kings. So, instead, Hannibal opted for his idea of modest to try and blend in better, while still being part of Bogota’s high society.

The upside to their residence, was that it was in a gated community, meaning their Verger-employed tail couldn’t follow without permission.

“Welcome home, Señor’s,” the day-time guard, Manuel ‘Manny’ Diaz, standing watch at the guardhouse greeted with a smile and accented English.

“Thank you, Manuel,” Hannibal said from the driver’s seat—he never referred to Manny as such, it’s informality rubbing him the wrong way.

Manny waved them through and opened the gates for them to enter. Hannibal drove his car—a modest, but shiny, SUV, a far-cry from his Bentley—through the gates and down the long stretch of tree-lined road until they came upon the neighbourhood itself. It was a nestled, close-knit community of the affluent, from Colombia and abroad. Hannibal, predictably, had taken to their neighbours instantly. Will was more reserved and preferred not to interact with the neighbours more than necessary, however.

After a moment, they reached their home. It fit in well with its neighbours, just a little smaller. In the driveway was a car already parked—not either of theirs—but Hannibal paid it no mind as he pulled into the garage.

“You got the cash?” Will asked almost absent-mindedly as he exited the parked SUV, Hannibal barely a second behind him.

Hannibal didn’t even blink, “always.”

Will nodded curtly and went to walk through the door that separated the garage from the rest of the house. He came out into the kitchen, and almost immediately a pack of excited dogs scrambled through the house, their claws clacking and scraping on tile as they crowded Will’s feet. Hannibal slipped in behind Will and paid the dogs less—but not no—attention as he went to find their dog sitter, a young woman named Ana Castillo. She was a university student and the daughter of one of their neighbours—Aron and Elena Castillo—whom Hannibal had made acquaintance with.

After a moment, Ana emerged from the living room, a bright smile on her young face, “Hola, señor Balkus,” she greeted Hannibal, using the surname of his alias—Adam Balkus.

“Good afternoon, Ana,” he smiled and handed her 50 Peso’s, “here, for your troubles.”

She took the money graciously, “gracias, señor,” she said, “the dogs were good today.”

“I’m glad,” Will stood and went to join them, “thank’s for taking care of them when we’re gone, Ana. We appreciate it,” he smiled warmly at her. Despite his reservations about mingling with the neighbours, he liked Ana. She reminded him of Abigail.

“I am always happy to do so, Señor Evans,” she said warmly, referring to Will’s own alias—William Evans. Hannibal was adamant that Will didn’t need to change his first name, as William was common enough amongst westerners that it wouldn’t be questioned, “I will see you next time, yes?”

“Yes,” Will nodded, “have a good night, Ana,” he said, and she soon left. After a moment, they heard her car leaving the driveway—she no longer lived with her parents, but was around the neighbourhood enough.

After she left, Will turned to Hannibal, “are you making dinner?”

Hannibal smiled, “of course. I will call you when it is served,” he said promptly.

Will gave a half-smile and nodded, before he started towards the stairs, “I’ll be in my room,” he said, and Hannibal nodded, heading towards the kitchen.

That was one thing Hannibal hadn’t enjoyed when they arrived in Colombia. Will had insisted on separate rooms—separate everything, besides routines. Hannibal couldn’t understand it, after all they’d been through together, why Will was still…hesitating. Or maybe he was holding back on purpose. Hannibal couldn’t say—he wasn’t an empath, and he barely understood his own feelings on a personal level when they did occur—but he hoped to change it eventually.

However, he would be patient.

All that mattered were that they were together.

Hannibal hummed as he began chopping vegetables with Michelin-star proficiency, his mind on the plans he and Will would curate together over their meal and wine. Alana and Margot’s spy would soon be little more than a stuffed roulade…or maybe sausages they could have for breakfast. He paused as the potential dishes sprang into his head.

He would have to consult Will for his preferences, Hannibal decided.

Clarice gagged as she entered the lab, her eyes wide as she stared at the body on the slab. Jimmy and Brian were dutifully working on the woman, glasses on with magnifying attachments, nitrile gloves on, and a complete lack of situational awareness. In the corner of the room, observing the forensic pathology process with a look of utter distaste on his face, was Frederick Chilton, wheelchair and bad wig and all.

“Oh my God,” Clarice covered her mouth as she came to a slow stop, “poor woman…”

“Indeed,” Frederick winced.

The woman’s body was stripped bare to the muscle, but only on her face, next, and upper torso. Her back had been left bare, her arms had been untouched, but everything below her breasts had been left. What was interesting, her hair and ears had been left as well, only the face and neck had been touched. The cuts were uneven but intentional, some cuts to the muscle showing how the perpetrator actually went about removing the skin. Her eyes were clouded and perpetually open, given her lack of eyelids, and Clarice noticed Frederick moving his more mobile hand up to his own face in discomfort at the similarities he recognised between his own appearance—or how it had been after he’d been burnt—and the woman.

“Do we have an ID on her yet?” Clarice asked, trying not to look at the woman’s body as she directly addressed Jimmy and Brian.

“Not yet,” Jimmy answered solemnly, “we did what we could with the fingerprints, but she’s not in the system,” he gestured vaguely to the woman’s hands. What skin remained on her body was loose, like she had been overweight previously and rapidly lost weight.

Clarice sighed and turned to walk over to Frederick. She leaned against the wall next to him, “what’s your assessment, Doctor?”

Frederick grimaced, “I was under the impression I’d be working with Agent Crawford.”

Clarice rolled her eyes, “he’s in a meeting. You’ve got me. So what’s your take?” She said bluntly.

Frederick gave what little of a smirk he could and vaguely shrugged his tight-skinned shoulders, “this is the third victim?”

Clarice’s jaw clenched and she nodded, “found in a river on the other side of the city than the last, and even further from the first. All women had parts of their skin missing.”

“Same parts?” Frederick asked.

“No,” Clarice crossed her arms tensely, “first victim, Frederica Bimmel. She’d been shot with a 9mm round—which isn’t a help given that’s the most common type of ammunition in the country—and her legs had been skinned.”

Frederick hummed, “and the second?”

“Cathy Rafter,” Clarice sighed, “shot with a 9mm round, her back had been skinned.”

“And now this woman, face, neck, and breasts removed,” Frederick frowned—a rather off expression on his grafted face—and he rolled his chair forward to get a better look at the body, “I don’t see a bullet hole in her heart like the others. Where was she shot?”

“Head,” Brian said, gesturing to a bullet hole on the side of the woman’s head, above her ears.

“He chose that spot so as not to blemish the flesh…” Frederick mused, “how interesting.”

“What does it mean?” Clarice asked, feeling a shiver begin to crawl up her spine.

“I don’t know. Yet,” Frederick said, “this is rather intriguing, however…quite a goldmine this killer is…” he trailed off, then realised all three agents had paused to give him an odd look, “psychologically speaking, that is.”

The knock at his door was unexpected. Annoying…unfavourable, given his current state. He frowned, deep lines etching into his aging face, and he stood from his workstation, hands stained red. He let out a few grumbled curses and tried to hurriedly wash his hands in the sink by the stairs up into the main part of the house.

The knock came again—louder, this time—but he couldn’t be any quicker. The water ran red in the sink, but once the third knock came—impatient—he knew he couldn’t do anything else to help his situation, so he turned off the tap. He used a dish towel to dry his hands then hurriedly ran up the stairs. There was a closet by the top of the stairs in the old house, and once he reached it, he threw it open, grabbed the first coat he saw—an unfashionable one, given his choice of outfit, but he had little time to worry about complementary colours—and then a pair of leather gloves. Thankfully, the cold Virginian air meant nobody would bat an eye at his rugged up appearance.

When the fourth knock came, this time accompanied with an identifying, “police! We’d like to ask you a few questions,” he plastered on the most polite smile he could muster and threw open the front door.

“Hello officers,” he greeted sweetly, his voice a low timbre but with a softness others tended to not expect, “what can I help you with?”

The two officers were both in uniform, both with friendly, but rather annoyed expressions. One officer had short sleeves with a few identifying chevrons on the shoulders, but goosebumps on her exposed arms. The other officer wore long sleeves, also with identifying chevrons, though he had fewer than his partner.

“We’re inquiring in the area about a missing person,” the female officer said, professional but not unkind, “Desiree Matrice.”

He frowned, put on a show of being confused by the name, and said without missing a beat, “I’m sorry, I don’t know her. Do you have an image?”

“Of course,” the male officer pulled out a photo and held it up. It was of a heavier-set woman with perfect skin, bright blue eyes, a smile that seemed to light up the photo, and dark, curly hair.

He looked at it for a while, but then shook his head again, “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her.”

“Well, if you do remember anything, please call us,” the female officer said, handing over a business card that read Hannah Ryerson. She was pretty, but too harsh around the eyes for his tastes.

“Of course,” he said with a polite smile, “is there anything else?”

“Just your name, sir,” the male officer—whose badge read A. Moore—said.

“Yes, right,” he replied, pretending to fluster and blushed in fake embarrassment, “it’s Jame. Jame Gumb.”

Moore wrote his name on his notepad and looked up with a smile, “thank you. You have a nice day, Mr. Gumb.”

“I hope you find her,” Jame said as he waved them off.

Once the door was closed, Jame’s expression shifted. He flattened, his eyes growing cold. He threw off his coat and gloves then made his way back downstairs to his workstation. His pattern had been coming together quite nicely, but he was beginning to notice signs of decay on the skin. He’d treated it, but he was no embalmer. He would need a better method.

Jame’s eyes found the soulless black holes where Desiree Matrice’s beautiful blue eyes used to sit, and sighed.

“Three more might do it,” he muttered, “I need some replacements…”

Dinner was, as always, an elaborate affair. Hannibal had plated up an impressive spread of food Will couldn’t even begin to name, paired it with an absurdly expensive red wine, and made sure to serve Will first, as always. It was nice, and Will had to admit he enjoyed their dinnertime routine, but it still tended to leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

It had only been around a month since he and Hannibal had left Baltimore again, so Will needed to keep reminding himself that it takes time to adjust to such situations. His current situation being that he ran off in a rather spectacular, and violent, fashion with his cannibalistic serial killer…something…and had settled in Bogota, Colombia with his pack of dogs and false identification. It was quite an interesting leap.

Chiyoh had left them a few days into their arrival in Colombia, after securing identification documents and helping Hannibal with sales. Will didn’t doubt that she was close by, though. Probably holed up in a house in the nearest town, or even within the same community. Will didn’t know, and he didn’t entirely care. Even still, the whole situation was just…new. Will never did particularly well with the concept of ‘new’.

“You are unusually quiet tonight, Will,” Hannibal observed, setting his fork down with barely a clack on the plate. He stared at Will—or through him, Will wasn’t sure—from across the table, the intensity in his gaze causing Will to flinch despite the fact that he’d been around that piercing stare for years.

“I’m thinking,” Will said with a shrug, stabbing his fork rather aggressively into a piece of meat and shovelling it into his mouth. Hannibal raised an eyebrow and frowned slightly.

“You are troubled,” Hannibal said after a moment and Will gave him a ‘you don’t say’ look.

“Yeah,” Will huffed, “there’s a lot to be troubled by, Hannibal,” he sighed, set down his cutlery and flicked a piece of meat off his plate and onto the floor for a begging Winston at his feet. Deciding to ignore the spiral in his mind about his current situation with Hannibal and being on the run, Will decided to steer the conversation into a more practical direction, “what are we going to do about the Verger guy?”

Hannibal blinked, slightly caught off guard, but he recovered almost instantly, “it will be up to you,” he said simply, “I am merely concerned with your preferences for what I make once we’re through.”

Will raised his right eyebrow and leaned back in his seat, “what you make,” he echoed with a knowing look.

“Yes,” Hannibal inclined his head, “I was thinking a stuffed roulade or sausages.”

Will was silent for a moment, but then he barked out a laugh. It was genuine, one of Will’s caught off guard laughs that filled the entire space. Hannibal couldn’t help himself but laugh with Will.

“I think it’ll come down to what you feel like making in the moment, I suppose,” Will said after he calmed down, “but that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Hannibal replied quickly, “how we kill him will be entirely up to you, Will.”

Will frowned and paused, not expecting that release of control, “you would let me…take the lead?”

Hannibal smiled, “you are the only one I trust to do so,” he said.

Will gulped down a sip of wine to hide the discomfort—and unexpected flush—etched on his features.

Timothy Baron—or just ‘Baron’—lingered at a market stall, the old woman was selling jars of preserves. From lemons to olives to some kind of animal feet—Baron really didn’t want to ask. He picked up random jars, pretended to turn them around to look at them, but his focus was elsewhere, specifically on the tall, distinguished man standing at another stall, less than 30 feet away, with a basket full of fresh produce over one arm as he conversed in perfect Spanish to the middle-aged man selling fresh fruits.

“Señor,” the old woman asked kindly, her eyes slightly glassy with cataracts, “are you going to buy something?” She asked him in Spanish.

Baron put down the jar of feet with a barely suppressed grimace then selected a small jar of olives to purchase. The woman smiled at him, gave him the price, and once he’d handed over a few Peso’s worth, he turned, the jar of olives tucked under one arm, and started strolling towards the stall of fresh fruits.

But his target was nowhere to be seen.

Baron stopped, his eyes darting around, from stall to stall, person to person. He wasn’t even pretending to be inconspicuous. He was almost certain that his target knew he was being followed, but just didn’t care. Or his did, and Baron was being lured into a trap.

“Crap,” he hissed to himself. He was about to fish out his phone to text Dr. Bloom an update, when a tall figure with impeccable posture drifted into view at the end of the row of stalls, and then left Baron’s sight again, turning around a corner. Baron straightened his posture and began to half-jog in the direction of his target. Either this would lead to a confrontation, and he’d be dead by morning, or he’ll lose his target. Again.

As Baron turned the corner he’d seen his target drift down, he stopped dead, faced with the brick enclosure of an alleyway between two tightly-packed Columbian unit blocks stacked just behind the park the markets were held in.

Trap.

Baron turned quickly on his heel, ready to bolt out of the alleyway, when he was stopped by another man, smaller than the first, but no less lethal if his reputation was to be believed.

“It’s rude to stalk people,” the man said casually.

Baron’s jaw clenched, “it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye, Mr. Graham,” Baron spoke as casually as he could, trying to mirror Will Graham’s tone, but a slight quiver gave him up.

For all Baron’s military training and experience, nothing, and nobody, scared him more than Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. Two forces of nature perpetually caught in a swirling storm.

Will stepped forward, a smirk on his lips, “Alana will get over it,” he said simply.

Then, without warning, Baron felt a sharp crack of pain on the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

As darkness began to overtake his vision, he could just faintly make out the figure of Hannibal Lecter coming to stand beside Will.

Chapter Text

Will watched with interest as Hannibal tied up the man at their dining table. It was relatively easy to get him inside the gated community—security only required non-residents to abide by searches as necessary—and so they managed to stuff him in the trunk of Hannibal’s SUV and get in without a problem. Hannibal had worked up a sweat carrying him inside, his forehead glistening with the light sheen of moisture.

Will hadn’t offered to help. It was rather amusing for him to watch Hannibal struggle. Neither of them were young men, but Hannibal had a few years on Will, and carrying a 150 pound man inside was no small feat, despite Hannibal being in shape.

“What’s for dinner?” Will asked once Hannibal had finished tying the man up.

Hannibal stood, his eyes glinting with slight mischief and his body language that awkward, stiff, cat-like posture he sometimes held around Will, “you tell me,” he said simply.

Will hummed, “if he’s polite, make the roulade,” he said with a slow drawl, “if he’s rude, sausages.”

Hannibal smirked and inclined his head in acknowledgment, “as you wish.”

Will slowly walked around the man, appraising him like a fair judge appraising an entry for ‘best pig in show’. He huffed a laugh to himself—it wasn’t that far off—and picked up the wallet the man had, which had been deposited on the table before Hannibal had started with the restraints.

Will picked open the wallet, finding nothing but pesos and cards which looked brand new. No driver’s licence. No ID. He was a professional, “no name,” Will said, tossing the wallet back onto the table.

“We’ll have to ask him when he wakes up,” Hannibal said, “shall we let him wake up naturally, or speed the process along?” He looked to Will, seeking Will’s direction.

Will frowned, thinking the proposal through, then shook his head, “let him wake up on his own. I need to think about what I’m going to do,” Will said after a moment, “I’m not as…natural with this sort of thing as you are.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal replied, like it was a fact, “you are quite the natural.”

Will snorted but didn’t respond to that, “start getting dinner ready. I’ll let you know when he wakes so you can harvest the meat.”

Alana had tried calling Baron 6 times in 10 minutes. He had texted her, saying he had information about Hannibal and Will, but when she got the chance to call him back—nothing. It wasn’t like Baron to be unreachable. He was meticulous, always ready for a fight and always ready for new intel.

The last communication before his update had been a location: Bogota, Colombia.

That gave her a location, but what she did with that location, she was still deciding. Alana had been pacing a hole in the floor of her office for a lot longer than she’d realised, as Margot had come inside, a concerned expression clouding her features.

“Alana, what’s wrong?” Margot asked slowly, “you’ve been in here for hours…” Alana stopped pacing but kept worrying her teeth at her thumbnail on her good hand—the other still sporting bandages from Will’s attack. Margot quickly reached forward and gently pulled Alana’s thumb away from her mouth, “talk to me, baby,” she said softly.

Alana let out a shuddered sigh and nodded, “I found Hannibal and Will,” she said slowly, “or rather, I had Baron find them.”

Margot raised an eyebrow at the name ‘Baron’. Baron had been on the Verger’s payroll for years, often acting as security and a member of the Verger’s team of people that could only be quantified as bounty hunters on a salary, “you didn’t tell me that,” Margot said after a beat of hesitation. Her eyebrows creased down as she digested the information that Alana had kept from her.

“I’m sorry,” Alana said, sincerely, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Margot bit back with a small half-smile, “you’re my wife. I get to worry with you. That’s kind of the point of marriage.”

Alana smiled slightly and laughed, “yeah, yeah it is…still, I’m sorry,” she said, “but now I really don’t know what to do.”

“Why?”

“Baron’s not answering. He’s never offline without notice, and he’s never missed a check-in,” Alana explained.

Margot’s expression shifted into concern, more for Baron than Alana, and her mouth opened slightly, “oh, God,” she muttered, “you think…?”

“I don’t know,” Alana sighed, a frustrated growl coming out at the same time, “but I know we need to do something.”

“We can send more people,” Margot said decisively, “I don’t want you going to wherever Baron was last. I want you away from Hannibal and Will for as long as possible, do you understand?”

Alana nodded, her mouth still curved downward into a frown, “they’re in Bogota.”

Margot stilled, “Bogota?” At Alana’s nod, Margot let out a frustrated puff of air, “that makes things harder. Means we can’t just get Jack involved,” she explained.

“No extradition,” Alana said, and Margot nodded.

“Good thing we’ve got our own people, and our own means of influence,” Margot said, fishing her phone from her pocket, “we’ll handle this. Together. No more secrets,” she squeezed a hand around Alana’s with her free hand, “okay?”

“Yeah…okay,” Alana nodded and gave Margot a small smile.

Frederick wheeled himself into Jack Crawford’s office the moment he could get away from the lab. The body was…not pleasant, to say the least. Jack was sitting behind his desk, fingers rubbing circles at his temples, eyes closed and jaw clenched in frustration. It took Frederick a moment of struggle to get through the door—of which Jack didn’t even stir for—but he eventually made it.

“I would’ve thought there would be more accessibility options in this building,” Frederick commented with a disdainful sigh, “and yet here I am barely fitting through every door, and trying to hold doors open myself when most of my body doesn’t work right,” he glared at Jack.

Jack’s eyes opened and he raised an eyebrow, “Dr. Chilton,” he greeted, tone flat, “how did you find the body?”

“Awful,” Frederick said, wheeling himself so he was in front of Jack, “she had been mutilated, but with purpose. Like the others,” he added.

Jack lowered his hands to sit flat on his desk, “what’s your takeaway of the killer, doctor?”

Frederick sighed and shrugged, “he’s got a mission. Each piece is different, so this killer is working toward something. He also killed this latest woman in a way that wouldn’t tarnish the skin he took,” he explained, “I’d say he’s…making something,” he shuddered.

“Making something?” Jack echoed.

“Indeed,” Frederick nodded, “serial killers often have a need to take a trophy, whether it is a physical item or a surgical trophy. This killer takes large portions of his victim’s skin, which is…unusual, but not unheard of.”

“Like Ed Gein,” Jack surmised with a frown, “he took trophies from the bodies. Sometimes made them into things,” he shuddered, “also similar to Garret Jacob Hobbs who used every part of his victims.”

“Yes, and let’s not forget the obvious here,” Frederick said with a pointed expression on his tightened face, “Hannibal Lecter.”

Jack’s jaw clenched, “Hannibal took organs for meat. He never kept anything he didn’t eat.”

“True,” Frederick nodded, “but he still took surgical trophies. I’m just pointing out the obvious here.”

Jack sighed, “what do you want, Frederick?”

Frederick hummed, “well, since you asked,” he began with an overly casual tone, “I can give you my consult for this case, but…I also want to be put on Hannibal and Will’s case.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “why?”

“It’s simple—research,” Frederick said simply, “and, well I can’t say I wouldn’t benefit from those two being incarcerated.”

Jack regarded Frederick for a moment, his eyes betraying his exasperation, “you just want more book material,” he surmised.

“Of course,” Frederick said with a smile, “I’ve already got a draft…all I need is an ending.”

Jack rolled his eyes, “and if I put you on that case, what could you provide me? We already know what we need to about them, so why would I need a psychiatrist?”

“I have known Hannibal for years before the world knew him,” Frederick said slowly, “and during his time in my hospital, I had quite a few one-on-one’s with him. And with Will…well I had some enlightening conversations with him when he was also incarcerated at my hospital, and conversations afterwards, once Hannibal had framed me,” he explained, “so I can help. Just say the word.”

Jack stared at Frederick for a moment, then gave a half nod, “I’ll let you know if I need you,” he said after a moment.

Frederick smiled and began to wheel himself back, “that’s all I ask. See you soon, Jack.”

Will sat perched on the edge of the dining table, crisp apple in hand as he watched their captive begin to stir. He took a bite, the crunch so loud it caused the man to groan as he woke. The smells wafting from the kitchen had him nearly salivating—a rich, savoury scent he couldn’t quite place, and an underlying sweetness. Whatever Hannibal was making, it was clearly able to accompany both main protein choices for the night.

“Wh-wha…?” The man groaned awake, his head lolling to one side as his eyes fluttered open. Will didn’t say anything, just let the man come to consciousness naturally, and kept taking bites of his apple. After a moment of the man looking around, eyes half-lidded, they slowly opened until they appeared normal, and his posture eventuality righted itself. The man let out another groan as he pulled against his restraints, “what the hell?” He spat at Will, “what’s going on?”

Will hummed, “I’m wondering the same,” he said casually, “you were following us,” it was a statement, not a question, and the man squirmed, “why?” Will asked as he stood, walking over to the man, apple discarded on the table—Hannibal would chew him out later for manners.

The man stiffened and kept his gaze straight, refusing to lock eyes with Will, “you know why.”

Will huffed, “yeah,” he sighed, “you were hired by the Verger’s, weren’t you?” He asked, his tone tinted with something almost excited.

The man’s jaw clenched, “who else would I have been hired by?” He grumbled, “you two are on everyone’s radar but few have actually sent resources to find you.”

Will raised an eyebrow, “good to know,” he mused. Will took out the chair directly adjacent from the man and sat, “what’s your name?”

The man froze for a moment, frowned, and said: “why?”

Will leaned back, “I’m not in the habit of killing people I don’t know the names of,” he said casually, “neither is Hannibal, mind you.”

That got a reaction. The man’s eyes widened for just a fraction, but then he schooled his expression. Trained, “Timothy Baron,” he said slowly, “but nobody calls me Timothy. Or Tim. Just Baron.”

Will nodded in approval and stood, “well then, Baron…” he trailed off as he pushed the chair back into place, “what you do next will determine how you die,” he explained, like he was explaining the plot of a book.

Baron fought against his restraints, but it was futile, “what do you mean?”

Will smirked slightly, grabbed a steak knife from the nearest place setting on the table, and lifted it like a pointer towards Baron, “well, you’ve been polite, so I’m inclined to kill you before Hannibal harvests the meat,” he hummed, “but…I need something first, before I make that decision.”

Baron deflated in his seat, panting hard. He knew he was dead either way—there wasn’t any way out of the situation he could see—and so he nodded, “what?”

Will smirked, set the knife down and crouched in front of Baron so they were eye-to-eye, “does Alana know where we are?”

Baron stared Will down for what felt like hours, but was mere seconds, then nodded, “she does.”

“How specific?” Will continued.

“City,” Baron replied, “nothing more. I couldn’t get more information to her before your little…trap,” he huffed. Will went silent and stood. Baron huffed, “did I pass?”

It was then that Hannibal decided to enter the dining room, rubbing his hands on a dish towel that he then threw over his shoulder. He immediately went to Will’s side, completely ignoring Baron.

“Have you made a decision?” Hannibal asked curtly.

Will took his eyes off Baron to look at Hannibal, a small smile on his lips, “roulade. He was polite,” he said.

Hannibal matched Will’s smile with his own, “excellent.”

Baron felt his blood go cold when both predators trained their sharp eyes on him.

Clarice barged into Jack’s office holding a printout in one hand, eyes wide with determination. Jack startled slightly, his eyes jumping up meet hers, one hand instinctively coming to rest at his abdomen, where the wound he’d sustained from Hannibal sat, now on the mend enough for desk work.

“Starling, what is it?” Jack asked after a moment.

Clarice stepped forward and slapped the paper on the desk in front of him. It was a DNA profile result, “we got an identity on the latest victim,” she said, panting slightly, “her name’s Desiree Matrice. She was reported missing six weeks ago,” Clarice explained, “and that’s not all…” she trailed off and winced.

Jack frowned, “and?” He nudged, prompting Clarice to continue.

Clarice hesitated for a moment but then spoke: “during the autopsy, Jimmy found…a moth,” she said slowly, not quite sure she was believing it herself.

“A moth?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Specifically, a Death’s Head Hawkmoth,” Clarice continued, “Jimmy’s got some weird hobbies…” she added quietly.

“Where was it?” Jack stood from his seat, one hand holding the DNA result, and he walked around the desk to stand in front of Clarice.

Clarice shifted uncomfortably on her feet but her eyes met Jack’s, “in Desiree’s throat,” she said after a moment of silence.

Jack raised his eyebrows and just stared at Clarice for a moment, “alright…let me see this moth,” he said with an exasperated sigh, “freakin’ serial killers,” he muttered, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes.

After a few minutes, Clarice and Jack were back in the lab. Jimmy had the moth on a slide, inspecting it under a microscope at his desk, while Brian was weighing Desiree’s organs, noting down the weight of each in a verbal recording, which he’d then later go and transcribe on the report.

Brian noticed Clarice and Jack first, his eyes lighting up with a curiosity only one who worked daily with the macabre could hold, “glad you guys are here!” He said excitedly, “this one was weird.”

Jimmy turned around in his chair to face Jack and Clarice, “so the killer put the moth in the victim’s throat, but he didn’t do so by brute force,” Jimmy explained.

“How do you mean?” Jack asked, coming over to hover above Jimmy’s shoulder to see the moth.

“It was placed. Carefully,” Brian cut in before Jimmy could answer, “probably used a similar method to Hannibal when he forced Abigail’s ear down Will’s throat,” he added, and Jimmy shot him a look.

Clarice’s eyebrows raised, “I’m sorry?”

Jimmy sighed, “from what Will told us, Hannibal forced a tube down Will’s throat and used it to push Abigail’s ear into Will’s stomach—not very far down. It was why the ear hadn’t been chewed or really digested. I did wonder about that when it happened,” he explained.

“So the killer put the moth in the throat. Why?” Jack asked, steering the conversation back to the case.

“Can’t be sure,” Clarice said, clearing her throat, “but we also can’t be certain if there weren’t moths in the other victims,” she added.

“And why is that, Starling?” Jack turned to her, eyebrow raised.

Clarice grimaced and opened her mouth to speak but Jimmy spoke instead, “autopsies can sometimes miss things like this. This is the first body I’ve examined personally, the others were done by county,” he explained.

Jack let out a frustrated sigh, “well get the bodies you can gain access to back here. I want to know if there are any more moths in throats!” He exclaimed, “do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Clarice replied, and it was echoed by Brian and Jimmy.

Freddie Lounds typed furiously at her laptop, her latest piece a deep dive profile into the newest killer haunting the greater Virginia area. Bodies had been found everywhere from Radford to Jonesville, and with the river currents, there was potential for bodies to continue appearing in West Virginia and Kentucky, given the proximity.

The locals had begun calling this killer ‘Buffalo Bill’.

Freddie wasn’t a huge fan of the name—it was a reference to an old 19th century American soldier. He had a habit of hunting bison and then went into showmanship. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, which had claimed the soldier scalped a Cheyenne woman. Hence, Freddie wasn’t a fan…but she couldn’t just up and change it. TattleCrime had its loyal audience, but it was nowhere near influential enough to change the name for a serial killer that had been dubbed another name by both police and mainstream news. It may have worked for Francis Dolarhyde, AKA the Great Red Dragon, but only because the FBI had picked up on it.

So, with reluctance, she typed. The headline read ‘Buffalo Bill: Sinister Sexist or Woman Worshiper? A Deep Dive’. She was quite proud of that headline—and she had to admit, the alliteration did make for easy merch.

“Alright Billy…let’s figure you out…” she muttered to herself.

And clicked post.

Chapter Text

Clarice felt eyes on her as she walked across the street to her apartment building in the dead of night, hands clasped tightly around her chest, hugging her coat over her body like a shield. She felt exposed, the wide open space of the empty street, the faint sounds of cars in the distance underlying the hum of crickets in the night—it was unsettling.

Everything was unsettling to her these days.

She kept her head down but her ears open as she approached her building, letting herself in as quickly as she could then practically slamming the door closed behind her. She let out a breath of relief as her anxiety began to settle, her heart rate coming back down to normal as the adrenaline faded from its peak.

She was paranoid—but who wouldn’t be in her position?

“Just a few steps up, Clarice. Come on…” she urged herself on, taking a step onto the staircase within the tiny entrance to the building to reach her second floor apartment. After a moment of hesitation, Clarice started tackling the steps—a simple single flight of stairs up to the second floor landing, but it was enough to ensure her nerves were still heightened.

A single, small space. Limited visibility up and down at a certain point of the steps, easy choke point, easy place to spring a trap.

“Crap,” Clarice muttered, letting out a frustrated noise.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she was feeling so paranoid—whether it was the newest serial killer at play, or the fact that she’d been the topic of interest in the weird situationship that was Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham’s relationship for a brief period—but it was beginning to take its toll. She’d avoided social outings—her old FBI academy roommate, Ardelia Mapp, had gotten wind that Clarice had begun working with the BAU after the whole fiasco with the Patapsco Butcher, and reached out. But despite wanting to keep in contact, Clarice found herself unable to feel at easy anywhere that wasn’t in the heart of Quantico, or her apartment.

Even then, her apartment was already beginning to feel…tainted.

Clarice finally made it to her apartment, locking herself inside with all the fervour of an agoraphobic. She immediately deposited her things by the door and headed to the kitchen, where a beer sat waiting for her in her fridge. She picked it out—not caring to read the label, as it was a random bottle from a case she’d bought at the local convenience store—and used the edge of the counter to open the cap. The cap popped off in spectacular fashion, and she flinched, probably way too much given the circumstance.

Clarice let out a breath slowly to calm herself down, then deposited the cap into the tiny pull out trash can under the sink. She took a sip of her beer as she walked back to her living room, wincing as the bitterness hit her tongue. Clarice set the bottle down on the coffee table—completely missing the coaster—and slumped onto the couch, practically sinking into the pillows.

Clarice picked up her laptop from where it was sitting on the coffee table and opened it, flicking on the TV to whatever channel it had been left on last as she waited for the laptop to boot up. She became engrossed in the old western movie playing for a brief moment, but was brought out of it by a distinct chime coming from her laptop—new mail.

Clarice frowned, looked back down at her laptop, then clicked through to her mail application. The newest item on the list came from someone she hadn’t expected to hear from—Alana Bloom. Out of curiosity, Clarice clicked into the subject-less mail and found herself staring at photos of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, with the single-word caption of ‘Bogota’.

Clarice stared at the screen for what felt like hours, gaze fixed on the images, at the relaxed setting, at the immaculate presentation the two men had provided to their surroundings, at their comfort.

She felt sick.

Clarice picked up her phone and immediately dialled Alana’s number. She picked up on the third ring.

“Why did you send me this?” Clarice asked, voice rising in pitch and volume with every word.

“I need help,” Alana replied simply, “and I think you do too.”

The laundromat was practically deserted at night. Usually only two regulars and maybe a few stragglers late on the week’s washing populated it anywhere between 8pm and midnight. Since Desiree, Jame had been going to the laundromat every night for one reason, and one reason only—her.

He didn’t know her name—not really, just the initials M. S. scrawled in pen on the waistband of her underwear Jame had taken when she wasn’t looking some nights earlier—but she was perfect. Her skin was flawless, plump and alive, her hair was stringy, but that was fine, Jame didn’t need that, and with a little calorie deficit for a few weeks, she’d be ready.

He just had to wait.

Jame was good at waiting. All he’d ever done was wait—wait for people to like him, wait for the right person to catch his eye, wait for the moment of desperation that pushed him into escape.

Jame stood in the corner of the laundromat, dutifully loading the washer with his own clothing, his peripheral vision locked onto her. She was paying no attention to anyone else as she pulled a dress from her bag, lifted it to her body, and let out an annoyed sigh before she dropped it on the floor. Jame had noticed her do that several times over the days he’d been watching her—she always threw out the discards.

“Hello, Marnie,” the owner of the laundromat—an older woman, in her 60s, named Jia Huang—greeted with a kind smile.

“Hi Jia,” the woman—Jame fought a smile as he now knew her name, Marnie—greeted in return, kind eyes but a sad smile.

Jia took a look at the dress and sighed, “another one for the donation pile?”

“I’m afraid so,” Marnie replied with a sadness behind her eyes Jame couldn’t understand when she was so beautiful, “doesn’t fit anymore. Can’t seem to keep anything these days,” she replied.

“It will be better soon,” Jia said, picking up the dress, “just believe in yourself. Good fortune will come to those who wait, and believe,” Jia put a comforting hand on Marnie’s shoulder.

Marnie laughed, but it was devoid of joy, “I’ll take your word for it,” she said.

Jame couldn’t help but smile now—he was always good at waiting, after all.

Will’s hand clasped around the folding knife from his pocket—it was the same one he’d had since his father had given it to him when he was in sixth grade, the same one Hannibal had taken and used to cut off Abigail’s ear, the same one Matthew Brown had stolen and used to cut off the ear of the correction’s officer. It had a history, that knife. One forged in blood and fire, and Will couldn’t bear parting with it despite the marks.

He flipped the knife open and inspected the recently sharpened blade, then glanced over to Baron. The captive was ramrod straight in the chair, eyes fixated on the knife with a sort of resigned understanding behind his eyes. He knew what was going to happen next.

Will stood in front of Baron, his eyes cast almost lazily downward over the man as he considered where he’d strike. Hannibal was making a roulade, so the better cuts of meat were on the backs of the legs—Will fought a shudder at the fact he just knew that information now—and so Will would have to make it fast, and effective. He wasn’t a fan of Hannibal harvesting the meat before the death—it took some considerable discussion to get Hannibal to abandon that part of his ritual when Will was present—so he’d afford Baron the mercy he’d promised.

“It’ll be quick,” Will said honestly, “I promise.”

“No offence, Graham, but you’re not the most trustworthy person,” Baron spat back.

Will raised an eyebrow and gave a relenting shrug, “completely understandable,” he said in return, as casually as if he was responding to the question of what movie to watch.

Will flipped the knife around in his hand once more, adjusting his grip so it was purposeful and oriented correctly. He heard the soft patter of Hannibal’s footsteps coming into the dining room, and felt Hannibal’s presence hovering by the doorway, simply content to watch, but didn’t acknowledge it. Hannibal had a fascination with watching Will work—always had—and he made no secret of it. Will had long since accepted this quirk of their relationship, and tried his best to ignore it, despite his own aversions to being watched.

After a moment of internal deliberation, Will thrust the knife cleanly, and deeply, into Baron’s carotid artery, the blood coming out in high pressure sprays the moment Will pulled his knife out, covering Will, the table, the floor, and anything in-between in spatter. Will watched Baron as he died, the few fleeting moments of recognition of the wound entering his eyes before they glassed over as quickly as the recognition came. He was dead before he hit the floor, the heart pumping out the arterial blood in slowing pulses until all that was left was a trickle.

Will let himself breathe, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, but his heartbeat was relatively steady, only mildly elevated from the adrenaline rush.

“I couldn’t have imagined a more fitting end,” Hannibal said softly from behind Will. 

Will didn’t flinch, instead he glanced back at his companion with the wild expression in his eyes, “for me or for him?” He asked.

Hannibal smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges, as he walked to Will’s side, “for him, at your hand,” he replied.

Will looked back down at the body, “what now?”

Hannibal looked at Will, face close enough that Will could feel his breath on his cheek, “now we send a message to Alana and Margot,” he said simply, “if that is what you desire.”

Will raised an eyebrow, “what I desire?” He let out a half-scoff but it was more a disbelieving laugh, “since when have you been…willing to abdicate control?”

Hannibal’s smile widened, showing some of his teeth in that same smile that Will had once noticed only occurred around himself, “since I found myself in the company of an equal,” he replied, “one I find immense enjoyment in watching cater to his darker urges.”

Will fought the urge to roll his eyes and looked away from Hannibal, clearing his throat. The moment was charged, and he knew Hannibal was as aware as him, but Hannibal was letting Will drive this aspect of their dynamic, much like he was letting Will lead in murder. It was rather unsettling, in a way, being so trusted, so completely by Hannibal Lecter.

And yet…it felt right.

“You better get carving,” Will said instead, taking a step away from Hannibal, “before the meat spoils.”

Hannibal watched Will with intensity in his eyes—fondness, delight, and something more—before he nodded, “quite right,” he said, “go clean up. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Will nodded, averting his eyes from Hannibal, and left the dining room.

Sunday mass was always packed. Father Santiago Valencia always arrived at the church early to prepare. He was usually alone when he arrived—the sun still dipped below the horizon—as he made sure everything was in order and ready for his parishioners to arrive. He also had to check the preparations for Eucharist, as he always did a count to ensure he had enough prepared.

Father Valencia whistled a tune with no distinct origin as he opened up the church—it was a small church, located on the outskirts of Bogota, made of stone and concrete and wood—and flicked on the lights. The electric hum filled the space that wasn’t originally made to house electricity, before one of the lights above the altar flickered then blew.

“Ay, maldición!” He exclaimed with a huff.

Father Valencia turned back around and exited the church, closing the large wooden doors behind him. He had spare lightbulbs and a ladder in the maintenance house outside, by the cemetery. He would have to make sure he could fix the lights before mass.

With a purposeful stride he walked around the church to the back, where a large open plot of land sat adorned with headstones both young and old, but dutifully maintained. Several had been decorated with flowers, photographs, and even a few toys sat by the headstones of children tragically lost to sickness. Despite the death under his feet, Father Valencia always felt a sense of peace at the cemetery, like God was always watching.

As Father Valencia headed for the maintenance house, a large shape caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He stopped and turned, his gaze sharpening into the best focus he could get in the darkness of dawn. In the middle of the cemetery was a large tulip tree, generations old. It towered above both the cemetery and the church, but it wasn’t the tree that had caught Father Valencia’s attention.

It was the body nailed to it.

Father Valencia’s eyes widened in shock and he took a step back. His hands flew up to his mouth as he fought the urge to scream. The body of a man with a hole in his neck and eyes glassed over in death stared back at him, body nailed to the trunk of the tree like a martyr made a message, an omen of evil.

As Father Valencia fished out his phone to call the local police, his hand shook. 

He would have to tell his parish that mass was cancelled.

Alana’s hand shook around the phone pressed to her ear. She stood at the edge of the living room, watching as Margot pulled Mason into her lap as they watched a cartoon on the large TV. Alana could barely process the words being told to her, her heart racing with increasingly anxious fervour.

“We are sorry to bring you this news, Señorita Bloom,” the police officer said over the line in heavily accented English.

“Thank you,” Alana managed to reply, then hung up.

Margot glanced back at Alana, immediately concerned at the shellshocked expression on her wife’s face, “Mason, I’ll be right back, I need to talk to mama for a bit, okay?” Margot said into Mason’s ear, one hand rubbing over his sandy-brown mess of hair.

“Okay,” he replied without a hint of concern.

Margot kissed the top of Mason’s head then slipped out from under him, and off the couch. She immediately crossed the room to Alana, and the two women stepped into the hall—within eyesight of Mason, but far enough away that hushed conversations wouldn’t be overheard.

“What is it?” Margot asked, one hand firmly holding Alana’s.

“Baron’s been murdered,” Alana replied, her voice hoarse.

Margot stilled and swallowed, “Hannibal?”

Alana shrugged, “he was…definitely involved.”

Margot’s eyebrows furrowed, “involved?”

Alana let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes, mustering up the courage to speak about what she’d heard, “from what I understand, this…display…has none of Hannibal’s usually artistry,” she began slowly, “but there’s similarities…just more…brutal, in a way.”

“Will,” Margot breathed out.

“Seems likely,” Alana replied, “what do we do?”

“I’ll buy a few of the police down in Bogota,” Margot said decisively, “I’ve already put some feelers out so I know who’s…pliable, so I’ll make the offers. Keep tabs on the region,” she explained, “what about the FBI?” She added, as if it was an afterthought.

Alana’s expression hardened, “we keep Jack out of it,” she said, “he’ll get obsessive. It’s better for him to focus on what’s here.”

Margot nodded, “I agree, but we could use an ally in the Bureau on this.”

Alana hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking away from Margot’s until she spoke, “I can talk to Clarice.”

Margot frowned, “Clarice? Why?”

“She got…close to Will,” Alana explained briefly, “and she’s determined. I think she’ll help…keep an ear out for intel.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Margot asked.

“Then Jack Crawford will knock down our door.”

Jack couldn’t help himself. He’d set up alerts, made sure they were worldwide, for anything that could be considered a displayed murder. He knew it wasn’t healthy for him to fixate, but ever since Bella died, he’d done little else than fixate. First he fixated on Hannibal, then he fixated on Francis Dolarhyde, then the Patapsco Butcher and Hannibal again…now, it was Hannibal and Will.

The monster Jack thought of as a friend, and the monster Jack helped unleash.

He still wasn’t sure which man was which.

The alert came in just as he was setting up for the day in his office, his laptop barely open before it dinged. Jack clicked into it, expecting yet another display that either didn’t meet the standards of artistry he expected from Hannibal, or was sloppily done and would be solved within the week.

He wasn’t expecting to see a brutal crucifixion of a man against a tree in the cemetery of a Catholic church in Bogota, Colombia. The photo attached to the alert showed the scene in full detail—the man had been nailed to the tree, but the blood indicated he was already dead when it happened. He’d been stabbed in the neck, and the Colombian medical examiner noted surgical removal of tissue right down to the bone on the backs of the victim’s legs.

Jack’s breath caught, his pulse quickening in anticipation and dread.

He knew that signature. Studied it, immersed himself in it to understand its maker, and accompanied with the brutal display that left nothing to the imagination of the victim—one that bore some sick similarities to a body mounted on a prehistoric skeleton many years ago—Jack knew who the victim’s killers were.

Jack scrolled down on the profile, but was annoyed to see the rest of the file had been redacted. He’d have to contact the Colombian police to gain access.

Jack deflated, his heart slowing as he slumped into the back of his chair. His eyes were locked on the screen, locked on the image of the man who’d been murdered and posed like a message.

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham’s handiwork.

Chapter Text

Clarice gulped as she drove down the long, tree-lined driveway of the latest in Alana and Margot’s residences. It was smaller than the old Verger Estate—considerably so, but that didn’t make it small—but it was still, by all definitions, a mansion. After their brief conversation over the phone, which had ended with Alana telling Clarice to be vigilant and that they’ll be in touch soon, Clarice wasn’t expecting soon to be the next day. 

But, when summoned by two very powerful and connected women, Clarice had no choice but to say yes.

She pulled her car around to the front of the house—a circular driveway orbiting an elaborate stone fountain—and stepped out. A man stood at the entrance to the house, waiting. He was tall, built, and otherwise unassuming, but the earpiece curling behind his ear and the kydex holster on his hip told Clarice he was security.

“Uh, hi,” she greeted awkwardly, accompanied by a half-hearted wave, “I’m here to see Alana and Margot.”

The security guy raised an eyebrow, “name?”

Clarice cleared her throat and tried not to flinch, “Clarice. Starling,” she replied.

The man nodded, and after a moment stood aside, “they’re in Dr. Bloom’s office. Down the hall on the right, door at the end of the hall,” he said curtly.

Clarice stepped past him, “uh-thank you,” she smiled awkwardly then entered the home.

The house was simultaneously nothing special and impressive. It had all the hallmarks of a family home—pictures everywhere, kids toys on the floor—and the home of two of the richest women on the east side of America. The furniture was expensive, the fireplace had gold trims on the mantle, the light fixtures were gold plated and extravagant, and Clarice felt considerably underdressed in her jeans and t-shirt she’d thrown on.

She blinked away her awe—and her need to be nosy and look at everything—and headed down the hall. She reached the door at the end and knocked twice, lightly and politely.

“You can come in, Clarice,” Margot’s voice sounded from inside.

Clarice slowly opened the door and stepped inside Alana’s office. It was lined with bookshelves filled with stacks and stacks of books, antique furniture, a sitting area, and an entire alcohol station by one wall. Margot was perched on the back of the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, while Alana sat behind her desk, laptop flipped open.

“Hello,” Clarice greeted, unsure of how to behave in the home of the Verger-Bloom’s.

Alana glanced up and gave Clarice a warm smile, “take a seat. Have a drink if you like. We’ve just got some things we’d like to discuss with you.”

Clarice raised an eyebrow but nodded. She turned toward the sitting area, only to find that Margot had already gone over and poured an additional glass of wine. Margot handed it to Clarice with a smile, and she took it graciously before sitting.

“What’s this all about?” Clarice asked, “you sent me pictures of Will and Hannibal in Bogota yesterday.”

“Yes,” Alana nodded, “but things…have changed. Quickly,” she said with a sigh and turned her laptop screen around to show a photo of a man nailed to a large tree. Clarice flinched and looked away for a moment.

“What is this?” She asked softly.

“Our employee,” Margot said with a frustrated edge to her voice, “Thomas Baron. Alana sent him to keep an eye on Hannibal and Will.”

Clarice gulped and glanced back to the image, “and Hannibal and Will…”

“Killed him for it,” Alana finished with a nod, “and displayed his body like a sacrifice,” she turned the laptop screen around, “which is why we need you to keep an eye on Jack, and, eventually, the FBI’s involvement in the case in Colombia,” she explained. 

Clarice stood, eyes wide, “you want me to spy?” She asked with an incredulous laugh, “no way!”

“Just…think about it,” Alana sighed.

“Did you tell Jack about your talk with Alana yesterday?” Margot asked, stepping to Alana’s side behind her desk.

Clarice flinched, hesitated, then said: “no.”

“Why not?” Margot crossed her arms.

Clarice glanced away and sighed, “I was…curious at the information you had, and where from.”

Alana gave Clarice one of her earnest smiles, “we all want the same thing—we want Hannibal and Will put in prison. For life,” she said softly, “you can help.”

Clarice chewed on the inside of her lip then took a step back, “I…I’ll think about it,” she said slowly.

“That’s all we ask,” Margot replied with a smile.

Clarice couldn’t return the smile. She couldn’t stop the pit from forming in her stomach.

“We need to leave!” Will said, hands at the sides of his head as he paced across the living room floor.

Hannibal sat in his preferred armchair, angled directly at the digital fireplace—a poor imitation of the real deal, but real fireplaces weren’t a necessity in Colombia—where he held a glass of an expensive wine Will didn’t care to learn the name of in his hand. Despite the situation they were in, Hannibal was quite relaxed.

“We do not,” Hannibal said simply, taking a sip of his wine, “no need to be hasty.”

Will stopped and turned to face Hannibal, his right eyebrow raised in annoyance, “we killed a Verger employee and staked him to a tree, I think that’ll make the news, don’t you?” He basically snapped.

Hannibal smirked slightly, “you killed him and staked him to a tree. I merely observed.”

Will scoffed, “you cooked him!” He grunted and turned back around to continue his pacing. Winston and a local stray they’d recently picked up—Hannibal, of all people, brought her home—named Calliope lifted their heads an stared at Will, but he paid the dogs no mind.

“And he was quite delicious,” Hannibal said, a chuffed expression on his face. Will rolled his eyes.

“We can’t stay, Hannibal,” Will stopped and faced Hannibal again, his expression hardening, “Baron relayed who-knows-what to Alana and Margot, this kill being discovered is going to catch the attention of the FBI—we won’t be safe.” He said firmly.

Hannibal sighed, “Will,” he paused and gestured for Will to sit on the armchair adjacent to his. Will hesitated before he sat, “you need not worry.”

“Why not?” Will countered, “our location is compromised.”

Hannibal smiled, “you did not need to display him in such a significant and recognisable manner, Will,” he took another sip of his wine, eyes locked onto Will’s.

Will glared at him, “you said we should send a message—that’s what I did!” He grunted.

“And you did it magnificently,” Hannibal responded quickly. Will fought the urge to smile at the compliment and instead looked away.

“Just tell me what’s going on, Hannibal,” Will said after a moment, words tinged with annoyance, “this isn’t going to work unless you talk to me!”

Hannibal conceded with a dip of his head and sat his wine down on the side table, “we have time,” he said slowly. At Will’s renewed glare, Hannibal continued, “Colombia is a non-extradition country with the United States, the FBI would need special permissions to investigate on Colombian soil…” he trailed off and looked at Will, “do not panic.”

Will quirked an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, “what happened to ‘being unremarkable’?” He asked.

Hannibal smiled, “it failed spectacularly,” he said, “you were quite remarkable.”

Will’s jaw clenched and he looked towards the fire, “at least have Chiyoh run interference,” he said after a beat of silence, “if we’re going to stay, we need a trail elsewhere,” he glanced back to Hannibal, “otherwise I’ll make sure we leave.”

Hannibal picked up his wine glass again and took a sip, “of course,” he said curtly, “I would expect nothing less.”

Will spent a moment just staring at Hannibal, trying to read the man he’d risked—and ruined—everything for. Will couldn’t be sure why he did what he did, why he left with Hannibal instead of killing him. He’d made a lot of bad decisions in his life, but somehow all the ‘bad’ felt like ‘good’. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Hannibal had become the one person Will couldn’t live without, and it both terrified and comforted him.

What that meant? He couldn’t be sure. Not fully, anyway.

Sure, Will knew where Hannibal stood and what he wanted from Will, but Will wasn’t in a good enough place to even think more than conceptually about that. It was not only new on every level for him, but the one part of his brain that still held common sense screamed at him to avoid it at all costs.

“Yeah,” Will finally muttered under his breath and stood, “I’m taking the dogs for a walk,” he announced.

“Don’t forget your knife,” Hannibal said, his tone light.

Will scowled but said nothing, giving a sharp whistle loud enough that eight dogs immediately flocked to his side. Without sparing Hannibal another glance, he gestured to the dogs, “come on!” And headed for the front door of the house.

As he stepped out into the morning air, he huffed a laugh under his breath. He panicked over whatever he and Hannibal were to one another, but he was as calm as ever when murdering a man and later displaying his body. Not to mention the meal they’d eaten for dinner.

Will ran a hand over his hair, making the light curls flop over his face in a way he hadn’t worn for many years.

“Onward,” he muttered.

Then, with his pack of dogs at his feet, he began walking.

The early morning air was cold outside the laundromat. Jame stood in the shadows next to the dumpster out the side of the building, thick coat wrapped around his frame to disguise his broad figure. After some minutes of waiting, the door to the laundromat opened and Marnie stepped out. She let out a puff of air that created mist in the air as she fumbled her pocket for her keys to the van sitting just out front of the laundromat.

Jame began to move.

He stepped out of the shadows and into the yellow overhead lights attached to the awning of the laundromat. Jame kept his movements slow, added a limp to his right leg, and started huffing as if it was a struggle for him to move. He put a hand up to rub at his face, which he’d painstakingly applied makeup to cover his more defining masculine features at first glance.

As Marnie got closer to her van, Jame made a show of stumbling and falling to his feet. He let out a high-pitched gasp.

Marnie stopped and looked back, “oh!” She exclaimed and rushed over, “are you okay ma’am?” She asked, putting hands out to help steady Jame as he shakily stood.

“I-I have to get home,” he said, keeping his voice low in volume but higher in pitch than his usual cadence.

Marnie looked around the parking lot, noting the lack of other cars, “do you have a car?”

Jame shook his head, “I-I take the b-bus,” he replied.

Marnie sighed, checked her wrist watch for the time, “no you’re not,” she said kindly, with a smile, “I’ll take you home.”

Jame kept his head slightly down, “oh, thank you!” He exclaimed, keeping up the act.

Marnie helped Jame steady himself then started guiding him towards her van. They approached the passenger side of the van, which happened to be facing away from the laundromat and its cameras, when Jame decided to strike.

Marnie left Jame leaning against the van as she went to open the passenger door.

Jame stood to his full height and lunged.

Jack sat in his office, blinds drawn as he tried to block out the beginnings of the day. Since he’d received the alert about the murder in Bogota, he hadn’t stopped looking. He’d combed through as much photo and video footage he could find from Bogota since Hannibal and Will escaped, but despite his tenacity, Jack hadn’t found a single thing.

He huffed and picked his desk phone up from the receiver and dialled an unfamiliar number he had to check off his laptop several times to ensure he got it correct.

After three rings, the line clicked and a woman’s voice answered, “Hola Policía Nacional, Bogotá, ¿en qué puedo ayudarles?” She said quickly in Spanish.

Jack grimaced, “Uh…hi, do you speak English?” He asked.

“Yes,” the woman responded, “you have reached the National Police, Bogota. How may I help?” She repeated in English.

“My name is Jack Crawford, I’m the head of the Behavioural Analysis Unit at the FBI. May I speak to…Brigadier General Horacio Ortiz?” Jack asked, double checking he got his police contact’s name and rank right.

“One moment. Please hold,” the woman said, and after another click, music began to play. After a few moments, the music faded out for a pre-recorded message said entirely in Spanish. That played on a loop for what felt like hours, droning on and on.

Then, finally, the line clicked again, the music stopped abruptly, and a man spoke, “I am Brigadier General Ortiz,” he introduced.

“Brigadier General,” Jack sat up in his seat, alert now, “my name is Jack Crawford, I’m with the FBI.”

“Good morning Agent Crawford, why did you need to speak with me?” Ortiz asked, a hint of confusion in his tone.

“I read online that you have a peculiar murder—a man was found nailed to a tree behind a catholic church, is that right?” Jack asked, using his free hand to pull out a pad of paper and a pen.

“That is correct. I cannot share details of the case with you, Agent Crawford. You understand this,” Ortiz replied.

“I know,” Jack sighed, “I thought I might be able to assist you.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment before Ortiz spoke, “proceed.”

Jack let out a small sigh of relief, “recently, a notorious serial killer escaped police yet again, and this time he broke an associate of his out. They escaped together. This murder at the church?” Jack paused to gather his thoughts before he continued, “it bears a striking resemblance to their murders.”

“And these individuals are…?” Ortiz asked.

“Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham,” Jack answered honestly, “I don’t expect you to believe me that it’s them, but I do ask you look into the possibility.”

Ortiz hummed, “what makes you think this is the work of Hannibal the Cannibal?”

Jack fought a scoff at the nickname Hannibal had acquired, “the body was posed, the murder occurred elsewhere, there was surgical removal of tissue behind the thighs. It doesn’t mean it is Hannibal, but it does mean there’s enough similarities to check.”

“Okay,” Ortiz said, “I’ll take a look, but you are not being read in on my case. Is that clear, Agent Crawford?”

“Yes, of course,” Jack said with a barely restrained sigh, “those two are out there, and they’re dangerous. Top of our wanted list. I just want to put them away. For good.”

“I understand your need, Agent Crawford. However, you must understand that if they are caught, they will be prosecuted under Colombian law, not American,” Ortiz explained, “we will not be making special allowances.”

“Yes, I understand,” Jack said, “thank you for taking the time to humour me.”

Ortiz hummed again, but this time it was not an impressed hum, “I hope you have not wasted my time,” Ortiz said, then he hung up.

Jack sat back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his fingers into his eyes.

He couldn’t do this for much longer. He couldn’t live with them just…out there. Not after everything, not now. 

Jack had to find Will and Hannibal.

Frederick strained his neck as far as he could muster to get a look at Jimmy working on the latest body they’d had pulled in from county. Some of the victims had been buried and required exhumation, while others were waiting in the county ME’s office until arrangements could be made.

This was the third body they’d checked.

“Another moth,” Jimmy said decisively, using his long-handled, thin tweezers to gently pull the moth out of the victim’s throat, “I’d say we’ll find them in the rest.”

Brian glanced over at the latest moth that was being added to a dish for collection and grimaced, “eugh!” He exclaimed, making a dramatic shivering motion.

Clarice, who’d been observing quietly from the side, raised an eyebrow, “not a fan of moths?”

Brian shrugged, “not ones that have been in dead people’s throats,” he shot back and she snorted a laugh.

“Are they all the same type of moth?” Frederick asked.

“Looks like it,” Jimmy said with a nod, bringing the collection dish of moths over to Brian’s workstation, “all Death’s Head Hawkmoth’s.”

“There’s got to be something significant about the moths…” Clarice muttered, trailing off.

Frederick frowned, “moth’s represent similar things to butterflies, however butterflies are always cited first because of their beauty,” he said, “could this killer be transforming?”

“Into something people don’t like?” Clarice raised an eyebrow.

“I think he’s already hit that milestone,” Brian muttered.

Frederick gave a shrug that seemed jerky on his burned frame, “it’s a working theory. Moths are also used to symbolise death, while butterflies can symbolise joy, hope, and the soul. It seems our killer has a fascination,” he explained with a dramatic sigh.

Clarice slumped back against the wall to lean on it and frowned, “so is he obsessed with the moth, death, or the transformation he believes he’s undertaking?”

“My guess…all three,” Frederick said decisively, “this…Buffalo Bill is quite peculiar, I must say.”

“You’re telling me,” Jimmy huffed, “I’ve seen a lot of awful stuff, but this guy’s work? I had to get rid of the taxidermy deer my dad had stuffed and mounted.”

“You had a taxidermy deer?” Brian asked with a raised eyebrow.

“My dad was a hunter. For some reason he thought he’d leave it to me in his will. It scared the crap out of my boyfriend at the time when I brought it home,” Jimmy explained with a dramatic gesture of his gloved hands.

As they continued to bicker, Clarice froze, eyes jumping to Jimmy as her mind made leaps. Taxidermy required the hide of an animal, but also a frame to drape and pin it to, so the animal appeared alive again. She let out a gasp of realisation.

“Oh my God,” she said, getting the others to stop and look at her.

“What is it?” Brian asked.

Clarice’s eyes were blown wide, “he’s making a hide,” she whispered.

The dogs liked it in Bogota. Lots of smells, lots of open space in the right areas, lots of people. Will often took them for walks around the neighbourhood. Since it was a gated community surrounded by forest, it was relatively private and peaceful. Today, though, Will decided to leave the gated community and head into Bogota itself—on foot, because he needed the time to think.

He waved goodbye to Manny as he, and his eight fluffy companions, walked down the long road that led out to the main street. The pack trotted alongside Will happily, and if one strayed too far, Will had trained them all to have excellent recall.

It didn’t take him too long to reach the city itself, the dogs occasionally straying from his side to sniff at a particularly interesting scent or to go say hello to a group of kids playing soccer on the street, or to beg for food from the busy street vendor.

It was a city that was alive in ways American cities weren’t. The people were lively, music played on street corners while children danced and played, vendors lined certain areas, and animals roamed—stray and owned alike.

Will made his way to the markets—the same markets where he and Hannibal had encountered Baron and brought him to his end. As he roamed the market stalls, asking in broken Spanish about various items and wares, his dogs wandered nearby, Winston even obtaining treats from a kind vendor, while Calliope found shade under another vendor’s store. The other dogs wandered around, some excitedly meeting people, others out of the way.

Will purchased a jar of honeyed almonds from a vendor and turned, bumping immediately into a young man. He was no older than twenty-five, but Will wouldn’t have been surprised if he was younger.

“Oh, sorry!” Will apologised in English, then winced and switched to Spanish, “lo siento,” he added.

The young man stared at Will for a moment, not responding verbally. Will frowned and was about to move on when he saw the young man’s eyes widen. He backed away a few paces, and Will’s stomach dropped.

The young man recognised him.

Just as he was about to bold, Will grabbed his arm with a reasonable amount of force. The young man tried to pull away, but Will’s grip tightened, “don’t,” he warned.

The young man’s eyes widened in fear and he tried to angle away from Will’s grip, but Will was stronger and quicker to react, “please let me go,” the young man said in heavily accented English, his eyes pleading.

Will’s jaw clenched, “let’s go somewhere a little more private,” he said, then, while keeping hold of the young man’s arm, walked him out of the main markets and down into the alleyway choke point they had confronted Baron in. Once they were in the alley, away from prying eyes, Will let go of the man, but stayed in front of him, blocking the exit.

The man was trembling, but trying to put on a brave face, “I won’t tell anyone,” he said slowly, “please let me go.”

Will’s jaw clenched, “you know me,” he stated, voice low.

The man took a half step back but nodded, “you are an American. A fugitive,” he said, “you are with the-the caníbal.”

Will stared at the man for a solid minute, the eight dogs crowding his feet, then the man’s, and sniffing around the alleyway like it was an adventure, “what’s your name?” Will asked firmly.

“What?” The man blinked.

“Your…” Will took a step forward, “name.”

The man gulped and glanced behind Will, trying to catch the attention of anyone who dared look their way, but after a moment with no luck, he looked back to Will, “Matías,” he said finally.

Will raised an eyebrow at Matías, “last name?”

Matías flinched but nodded, averting his eyes from Will, “Rojas,” he said finally, “my name is Matías Rojas.”

Will’s mouth twisted into an unkind smirk, “and where do you live, Matías?”

With no other choice but to comply, Matías told him. Right down to the street number.

Freddie’s research was hitting a dead end. Buffalo Bill was making waves around the internet and mainstream media, but he was slowly losing traction. She also couldn’t find anything new—no new reports of bodies, no strange skinning incidents, nothing. She let out a frustrated sigh and opened her emails, hoping at least one of her sources came through.

She clicked through the unread emails with a look of boredom and a tapping finger on her mouse like it was a chore. There was a lot of ‘anonymous tips’, a lot of people claiming to have seen Hannibal and Will, only for it to be some old European guy with a vague resemblance to Hannibal, and some scruffy-looking brunette man who definitely didn’t look like Will, but it was easy to mistake for someone who hadn’t met him. It was always the same, a lot of desperate followers of hers who believed they’d cracked a case, someone begging for anyone to cover their story, or just plain old fan—or hate—mail.

But there was one email that stood out among the others.

It was sent from an obviously temporary email address—a lot of random letters and numbers attached to a gmail domain—and the subject line read ‘I believe this may be useful to you’. Warily, Freddie clicked the email, and what she saw was nothing short of exactly what she’d been waiting for.

And yet, she felt her heart speed up not in excitement, but in dread, a pit forming in her stomach.

The email itself was short, just a ‘hello’ followed by ‘this person is worth looking into for the Buffalo Bill case, Miss Lounds’. What really captured Freddie’s interest, were the two attachments—a photograph, and a PDF file of what looked to be a scanned patient file, though one that had been redacted.

The photo was of a man in his early 30s, he looked happy enough, and was at a music festival, his wild, dark hair sticking up in all directions, his clothing an interesting mix of lumberjack chic and fashionable, adorned with colourful accents and pins. He was decently handsome, but there was something in his eyes that made Freddie’s stomach clench.

She then opened the PDF file. It was a simple patient file, handwritten with a pasted in image of the same man. The handwriting was elegant, sloping calligraphy with a very recognisable flair that had Freddie’s mind running wild.

The man’s name: Benjamin Raspail. From what Freddie could gather about Benjamin, he was being treated by a psychiatrist—a very specific psychiatrist—for anger management issues, impulse control problems, and overall quality of life.

Until he disappeared shortly after his last session, where he’d discussed—from what Freddie pieced together through the redaction—his tumultuous relationship with his boyfriend.

“Interesting,” she muttered. Freddie exited out the PDF and stared at the email for what could’ve been hours, her mind running different scenarios as she evaluated her choices…and the credibility of the information she’d been sent, especially when she was positive it had been sent by Hannibal Lecter.

Marnie’s head throbbed, her heart thundered in her ears, and her entire body was shivering involuntarily. She groaned, her eyes fluttering open as she gained awareness of the hard surface she was laying on. When her eyes met darkness, she jerked upright and scrambled back until she felt a wall. Her hands grasped at it desperately as she began panicking, breathing short and rapid, so much so that her head began to cloud and her body swayed.

All her hands met was yet another cold and hard surface.

“What is this?” She asked herself, speaking loud enough that if anyone was close by they’d hear. She didn’t expect her voice to echo, bouncing off the walls of her prison like a rubber ball. Marnie let out a sob, her hands coming up to her mouth as she fought the tears.

Then, like the heaven’s opened up, something above her head moved, and a shaft of light cast down over Marnie. She blinked rapidly at the sudden assault of light, trying to get her bearings once again, and looked up.

She was in a pit…or a well. Something deep, round, and solid.

Standing the opening at the top of the pit, was a man. His hair was wild, a dark mop seemingly atop a curly blonde under colour, and his body looked…wrong. It was shaped like a man, but parts were loose, like there was nothing behind it holding it up.

“Good morning, Marnie,” the man said sweetly.

Marnie flinched at his voice, “let me go!” She yelled at him.

He laughed, “no,” was all he said as he leaned down, closer to the opening itself.

It was then that Marnie could see why he looked wrong.

The skin he was wearing wasn’t his.

Chapter Text

Margot had been making phone calls going on three hours now. She spoke in practiced, but unfamiliar Spanish—fast and precise—and Alana couldn’t understand a word. Margot was standing in the hall just outside of the living room, her voice hushed but urgent, while Alana sat with Morgan on the couch as Morgan played one of his video games Alana couldn’t understand.

When Margot finally got off the phone, she walked up behind the couch and put a soft hand on Alana’s shoulder to get her attention. Alana glanced up at her wife, and when Margot gave a short gesture back out to the hall, Alana got to her feet.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” She told Morgan, running a hand over his dusty brown hair before heading out with Margot. Once out in the hall, Alana lowered her volume and spoke, “what’s going on down there?”

Margot bit her lip and fidgeted, something Alana noticed Margot only did when she was nervous or partaking in morally questionable actions, “I bought out some of the police. The head of the National Police stationed in Bogota will inform me of any developments related to Hannibal and Will,” she began, “he also notified me that Jack Crawford called him to ask questions.”

Alana swore under her breath, “so he knows that Hannibal and Will are in Bogota,” she stated, running a hand over her forehead, “that makes things more difficult.”

“What about Clarice?” Margot asked.

“Haven’t heard back from her,” Alana sighed, “she’ll come around, but she needs some time.”

Margot nodded and put a hand on Alana’s arm in a comforting gesture, “I’ve also put a few more of our people on the ground,” she added, “we have a team ready and waiting the moment there’s word.”

Alana stilled and met eyes with Margot, “a kill team?”

Margot shrugged, “it’s up to you what they are,” she said slowly, “but the point stands—we have resources, and with a little time and some strategic partnerships, we can find Hannibal and Will, and make sure they never hurt anyone ever again.”

Alana shrugged Margot’s hand off her arm and crossed hers over her body, almost protectively, “I don’t know if I want them dead, Margot,” she said softly, “Hannibal, I can live with, but Will?” She trailed off and looked away slightly.

“The man cut your fingers off,” Margot said firmly, “he doesn’t get to have sympathy.”

Alana bit her lip and glanced down at her left hand where bandages still covered the re-attached fingers, the nerves underneath firing like her hand was submerged in ants in some parts, and dry ice in others.

“I don’t have sympathy for who he is now,” Alana clarified, “I have sympathy for why he is this person.”

Margot sighed and deflated, “yeah…I get that,” she muttered, “a fly caught in the web of Hannibal Lecter, but he chose to stay.”

“Yeah,” Alana agreed, “but…if we get them captured, we can sort this out later.”

Margot gave Alana a half-smile, “and you’re okay with committing all these crimes?”

Alana quirked an eyebrow and met Margot’s half-smile with one of her own, “it’s for the greater good.”

Will entered the house, pack of dogs on his heels, with a loud thud. The heavy wooden door slammed closed behind him, and he didn’t even bother to remove his shoes before heading to the kitchen. He needed whiskey, and preferably the really expensive one Hannibal kept in the back of the top cupboard, knowing Will couldn’t quite reach.

As Will rounded the corner into the kitchen, he saw Hannibal standing over the counter, chopping fresh fruit to build a colourful platter of sweetness and acidity like he was hosting a neighbourhood brunch. Hannibal looked up for only half a second when Will entered, then went back to his task.

“You still have shoes on,” he observed, matter-of-factly.

“I know,” Will replied, without missing a beat. He walked over to the cabinet they held glasses in, pulled one down, then made his way over to the whiskey cabinet, “I want the whiskey, Hannibal,” Will said with a flat expression, turning to look at the other man.

Hannibal set his knife down, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and turned, an amused glint in his eyes, “and what is the occasion?” He asked without moving an inch.

Will glared at him, “the occasion is I’d like some whiskey,” he countered.

Hannibal let out a small snort but conceded with a nod, walking over to the cabinet to reach his hand back and pull out the whiskey bottle at the back of the shelf. While it was just slightly too far back for Will to reach without standing on something, Hannibal was only slightly able to reach it—but that height difference was enough.

The whiskey was a rich, vibrant caramel colour, The Macallan brand with it’s tall 700ml bottle, simple white label, and golden top. It was an 18 year old double cask, single malt scotch, and Will had, unfortunately, developed a taste for it. Despite their resources and Hannibal’s—and according to Hannibal himself, also Will’s—wealth, it was still an expensive bottle of alcohol.

Hannibal handed the bottle over to Will and watched as Will poured himself two fingers, “what has prompted this response, Will?” He asked.

Will downed the whiskey in one go, then set the glass down on the counter like he was doing shots at a bar, “I got recognised,” he said after a moment.

Hannibal stilled, “and how did you handle the situation?” He asked slowly.

Will glanced at Hannibal with an unreadable expression, “I have his full name and address,” he replied.

Hannibal hummed then retrieved a glass of his own to share in the whiskey, “he is still alive, then,” Hannibal surmised.

Will nodded, his body tense, “I scared him a little,” he explained, “but that won’t last.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed, taking a conservative sip of his own glass of the whiskey, savouring it in his mouth before swallowing, “so what shall we do about it?”

Will raised an eyebrow at Hannibal then went to pour himself another helping of the whiskey, “make sure he can’t talk to the cops,” he said after a moment of silence.

“There are many ways we can do that, Will,” Hannibal mused.

Will scoffed, but there was no malice behind it, then he took a sip of his second glass of whiskey, deciding to this time savour it, “whichever way doesn’t involve unnecessary suffering,” he clarified.

Hannibal gave Will a smirk, his eyes sparkling with something deeper, “very well.”

Jack had been sitting at his desk for long enough that his coffee had gone cold. He was pouring over everything he could find about Colombia, learning everything he could about the victim, despite the lack of cooperation from the Colombian National Police and Brigadier General Ortiz. It was becoming this ache at the back of his mind, tension in his jaw that wouldn’t go away, and he hadn’t slept properly the night before.

Knowing that Hannibal and Will were out there, and killing…it was a lot.

A knock at his office door snapped him out of his thoughts. Jack flinched and looked up, rubbing at his tired eyes with his hands so he could focus. Clarice stood at the door, eyebrows creased in concern, but an otherwise schooled expression.

“What is it, Starling?” He asked, words being cut off with a yawn.

Clarice stepped inside, a file in her hand. She glanced at the board on the wall of his office, jaw clenching as she saw it had been split into two sides—Buffalo Bill’s case on one side, and Hannibal and Will on the other, their photographs haunting her every waking moment, and clearly Jack’s as well.

“I may have something about Buffalo Bill,” she said slowly, “it’s…well, it’s a hunch, but I’ve done some research and I think we’re dealing with someone who’s extremely insecure about himself,” she said, slipping into the seat across from Jack’s, “that is…if you’re not too busy chasing ghosts,” she added, her words tinting with a bit of annoyance.

Jack raised an eyebrow, “I will do what I want to do, Starling. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Clarice scoffed, “with all due respect, sir, but you’ve been in here mulling over a faint lead in Colombia like it’s the holy grail,” she gestured to his person, “and you’ve been here since yesterday, judging by your clothes.”

Jack blinked and glanced down. Sure enough, he was wearing yesterday’s suit. His coffee was almost certainly not from that morning. Jack stiffened and looked back up to Clarice, “what do you have?” He asked, diverting from discussing his recent activities. Clarice sighed and put the folder down on Jack’s desk. He opened the folder, exposing a few hand-drawn diagrams that looked like random scribbles to him, “what am I looking at?”

“The rough outlines of the skin our killer took from his victims,” Clarice said, “I was trying to figure out why he’d be taking the skin, when Jimmy got me on to taxidermy—don’t ask—so I looked at the pieces he’d taken, and…they fit together. Like a puzzle,” she explained.

Jack flipped through her sketches and then deeper into the file, where Clarice had printed out research on sewing patterns, “sewing?” He glanced up at her.

Clarice gulped, “I believe our killer is making a suit out of the women’s skin.”

Jack grimaced and shut the folder, “Chilton did compare him to Ed Gein,” he sighed, “alright, so he’s using the women as fabric stores, and the skin is being cut according to the pattern…” he trailed off and raised his eyebrows, “so he can make a…woman suit?”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Clarice began with a wince, “but, given the evidence…it’s possible…and you and I have both seen worse, Jack,” she finished.

Jack sighed but nodded, “yeah…as much as I wish I haven’t, this would not be outside the realm of possibility.”

“So I started mapping the rivers he’s disposing the women in,” Clarice took the folder out from under Jack’s hands, flipped it open, and dug until she found a map of the area printed on A4 paper with fading ink, black marker tracing rivers, “I figure he’d need easy access to all of them to avoid being seen,” she tapped on the paper, “so his house or his kill ground should be somewhere near one of these points of convergence,” Clarice tapped on three points she’d circled on the map, “or somewhere secluded with easy access to one and knowledge of the current movements.”

Jack blinked and put his hands together in front of his face, elbows resting on the desk, “that’s a lot of ground to cover, Starling.”

Clarice nodded, “it is,” she conceded, “but it’s a starting point.”

Jack was silent for a moment as he thought it through. Clarice, like usual, was on to something. They had points on the board, but no thread yet to tie it together, “keep at it. Consult with Chilton to help narrow it down if you need it,” he began with a sigh, “but keep me in the loop.”

Clarice stood and nodded, “of course,” she went to walk towards the door but stopped abruptly.

“Anything else, Starling?” Jack asked, irritability creeping into his tone.

Clarice turned on her heel, a determined look on her face, “you can’t handle Hannibal and Will alone,” she said, “and we both know the FBI won’t sign off on an investigation in Colombia, so…if you need a second pair of eyes, or a second brain to bounce ideas off of, use me,” she made sure to stare Jack down, hoping to convey her conviction and not her hesitation, given the deal Alana and Margot had offered her.

Jack met her gaze with a resigned expression, “will I be able to stop you?”

Clarice smirked, “no.”

Jack sighed and waved her off with one hand, “I’ll keep you in the loop,” he said after a beat.

“Good,” Clarice nodded and turned back to the door, “and while you’re here, Jack, why don’t we focus on Buffalo Bill?”

She didn’t wait for his response before she left his office.

Matías Rojas lived in an aging apartment above a small grocer in the heart of Bogota. The building was two stories, yellowed paint peeling in the sun, red tile roofing like it came straight out of the concept art for a video game. It was almost uncannily stereotypical, and Will found he liked that.

“Come, let’s not keep our host waiting,” Hannibal said from next to Will on the street. He wore a deceptively leisurely outfit Will still wasn’t used to seeing on the man, and Hannibal looked just as at home in it than his three-piece suits.

Will, on the other hand, still felt like he was wearing someone else’s clothes sometimes.

“He’s not our host,” Will grumbled as they approached the building, “he’s a scared kid debating whether or not to turn two fugitives into the police,” he spat at Hannibal as they entered the small foyer of the apartments—a single room consisting of one set of mailboxes, barely any floorspace, and a staircase up to the second floor.

“And we would like to avoid that from happening,” Hannibal replied nonchalantly, “hence, our presence here.”

Will rolled his eyes but followed Hannibal up the stairs, “what the hell are we doing?” He muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over the back his head. His knife felt like a dead weight in his pocket, and his heart thundered in his chest, pounding out a rock concert in his ears.

He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so…anxious—that was it, wasn’t it? Anxiety—when he’d done this sort of thing plenty of times before. He’d talked to people, he’d manipulated plenty of people into doing things against their instincts or better judgement, Matías Rojas was no different—nothing special. And yet…Will felt like he could scream just to attempt to relieve the pressure in his head.

They reached the second floor landing, where three doors identified three separate residences. Will stepped in front of Hannibal and reached for the one adjacent to the stairs, and knocked. After a moment, they heard the scraping of locks being opened, and then the door followed. The moment Matías saw Will, he tried to shut the door, but Will wedged it with his foot, forcing himself inside.

“Por favor,” Matías scrambled back, falling to the floor as Will and Hannibal entered. Will advanced forward while Hannibal gently shut the door behind them, “no hablaré, lo prometo!” Matías exclaimed.

Will glanced back to Hannibal, “I only got ‘please’,” he said.

Hannibal smirked and fell into place beside Will, “he says he will not say anything,” Hannibal translated, “he promises,” he added.

Will raised an eyebrow and glanced back down at Matías, trying not to take notice of his slowing heart rate, “you know the danger you’re in, don’t you, Matías?” He asked slowly, his tone even but the slight smirk of his lips added an edge to his cadence.

Matías was crying, his tears leaving stains down his cheeks, “y-y-yes,” he stuttered, “w-will you…k-kill me?” He glanced frantically between Will and Hannibal, trying to plead with his eyes for a different outcome.

Hannibal let out a huff of laughter and smiled slightly, his gaze drifting from Matías to Will, and his eyes reflecting an affection he held for no other, “you should understand, Matías, that letting a murderer know you recognise them is…not very wise,” he said, looking back down at Matías.

Matías took in a shaky breath but kept his eyes open wide, “I did not mean it,” he said, trying to make his voice seem more confident, “I will not tell la policía!”

Will crouched down in front of Matías, “how much would you need to keep silent forever?” He asked slowly. Hannibal’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn’t intervene.

Matías blinked, eyes darting between Hannibal and Will, “how…much?”

“Pesos, American dollars, money—whatever,” Will said, waving his hand slightly as if to brush it off, “how much would make sure you keep quiet?” His eyes darkened and Matías flinched, “because the alternative is death, Matías. I may not do it,” he glanced back up to Hannibal, “but he will…he has no qualms about killing people who have…offended him,” Will explained, a slight smirk to his lips as he realised he was one of the few who’d offended Hannibal and lived.

Matías gulped and closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring something to himself under his breath. After a moment, his eyes opened again, resolve clouding the previously held fear, keeping it behind like the sun in rain.

And he said a figure.

Freddie pulled up to a nondescript house in Arlington that looked about the same as its neighbours. She glanced down at her notepad, and the address she’d scrawled on it when she’d dug it out of the ether, and double checked to make sure she had the right place. Once she was certain, she checked herself in the rear view mirror to ensure her lipstick was still perfect and her mascara hadn’t smudged, then she exited her car.

The porch wood creaked under her stiletto heel, splinters flaking off like it had seen better days filled with sun, but most days filled with the moisture that was Virginian weather in winter. She shook her heel off slightly as she approached the front door, glancing at the doorbell camera before she pressed the button, sending off a chime throughout the house.

Freddie waited for several minutes, glancing between the door and the world at her back, anxiety creeping into her mind like a noose. Eventually, the door opened, and a woman only slightly younger than Freddie herself answered. Her hair was dark and messy, shirt stained with what looked like baby vomit, and a toddler clinging to her leg.

“Can I help you?” She asked, slightly breathless from whatever child wrangling she’d had to deal with.

Freddie cleared her throat, “are you Emma Raspail?” She asked.

The woman—Emma—frowned, “Emma Logan,” she corrected, briefly flashing her hand adorned with a wedding ring.

“But you were Raspail,” Freddie pressed.

Emma raised an eyebrow, “So? Who are you?”

“Freddie Lounds,” she introduced with a confident smile, “I’m a journalist. You may have heard of my website and paper—TattleCrime?”

“I haven’t,” Emma deadpanned, “why are you here, Miss Lounds?”

“Your brother is Benjamin Raspail, isn’t he?” Freddie asked.

Emma’s complexion paled and she slowly peeled the toddler off her leg, “go find daddy, okay?” She whispered to the little boy, and like lightning, he ran off in a fit of giggles, “yes,” Emma said once she stood, “what about him? Do you know what happened to him?”

Freddie blinked, “no more than the police, I’m afraid.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Emma said with a frustrated sigh.

“Could you…tell me more about him?” Freddie asked.

“Why?”

“I have a source that says your brother, and his case, is connected to Buffalo Bill, the serial killer that’s been targeting young women,” Freddie explained.

Emma let out an absurd laugh, “why would my brother be involved in that?”

“I don’t think he’s involved,” Freddie said, her tone even but full of intrigue. Emma stopped and looked at her, “I think he knew the killer.”

Emma just stared at Freddie for a moment, then shook her head, a bitter smile creasing her lips upwards as she let out a huffed laugh, “I told that idiot,” she muttered.

Freddie frowned, “you told him what?”

Emma met Freddie’s eyes again, “my brother had a habit of always dating guys who were just as or more crazy than he was.”

Freddie smiled, “can I come in? I’d love to discuss this out of the cold,” she glanced back at the snow-covered lawn.

Emma hesitated, suspicion in her eyes, before she ultimately nodded, “come on in.”

Chiyoh didn’t make a habit of bending to every whim of Hannibal’s, but when he called her with an urgent task, he made it clear it wasn’t one he’d like her to refuse. Though Chiyoh knew Hannibal wouldn’t hurt her, not really, there was always that nagging feeling in the back of her mind that one day, he would.

“What is it, Hannibal?” Chiyoh asked as she approached the taller man in the Bogota park he’d asked to meet her in. He stood at the edge of a small lake, one hand grasped around a bag of frozen peas, the other tossing them leisurely into the pond for the ducks.

Hannibal didn’t even flinch at her arrival, “I need you to run an errand for me,” he said, as if he was telling her to get groceries.

Chiyoh stood at his side, eyes focused on the ducks just the same as Hannibal, “what kind of errand?”

“One that would ensure Will and I can remain in Bogota for some time longer,” Hannibal explained briefly, giving no further explanation.

“What would this errand entail?” Chiyoh put her hand in the bag of peas, pulled out a handful, and tossed it into the lake.

“A display,” Hannibal said, “one that would cause some confusion over Will and I’s location.”

Chiyoh raised an eyebrow, “you expect me…to kill like you?” She asked, looking over at Hannibal for the first time that meeting. He met her eyes as she continued, “I don’t have the same artistic ability as you, Hannibal,” she said, “or the same animal instinct as Will.”

Hannibal smiled fondly at her, his eyes crinkling at the edges, “you do not need it,” he said, “all you need is ambiguity to cast doubt on our location.”

Chiyoh hummed, “do you have something in mind?”

Hannibal glanced back at the ducks, “simply a request.”

“What is it?”

“Make it magnificent,” he finished, tossing the last of the peas into the lake with the ducks.

Marnie’s throat hurt, her voice hoarse as she had exhausted her ability to scream. Her eyes were dry as the tears stopped falling, and her body had started to get weak with exhaustion. The darkness of the pit was a void of despair, and she couldn’t climb out because the walls were too smooth. 

“Please…” she muttered, “please…”

The opening to the pit creaked as her captor pushed it aside. Marnie, from her crumpled place on the floor of the pit, glanced up at the man. He looked more normal this time—no skin suit—but there was a manic look in his eyes as he held something.

“I have something for you,” he said, his voice still that eerily manufactured high pitch.

Marnie barely had time to react as the man dropped what he’d been holding into the pit. It clattered to the floor beside her, denting the plastic bottle with a soft thud. Marnie slowly to to a seated position and picked up the bottle.

“L-lotion?” She stammered.

As Marnie looked back up at the man, she saw a flash of his teeth as he grinned, “apply it liberally,” he said, “I require the skin to be…flawless.”

Marnie shuddered and let out a sob as the man slid the opening closed, plunging her into darkness yet again.