Do you ever just look at your hands?

Do you?

Probably not.

I mean, they're hands. Just hands, right? Just hands with lined fingers and nails and junk beached in the beds. Some are soft. Some are hard from labor, and I could go on, but this isn't some Dr. Seuss book for children, no, it isn't. Hands. Our hands. God, I know I'm rambling like I'm crazy, but isn't it funny how the little things, things that may occur every day in our lives happen one special time, one time a little different than the past hundred times, just once, and we remember that moment forever?

I think it is. Funny, I mean. I think it's funny how one instance can be so impactful, so impactful that time seems to slow when we experience it. It's sort of like magic.

Now when I look at my hands, I think about it all the time. My hands experienced a touch of magic once. I think of a certain touch that was different than the rest, and how it tickled the tip of my finger on a cool, rainy night.

"And here's your room."

She said it in a way that was meant to be presenting, as if the room was a gift to be judged by me and me alone. That's what I suppose hosting your home is all about though. Hoping and praying that what you have is good enough for the guest. It was a statement, but I couldn't help but detect the slightest hint of a question in her voice.

The room was quaint, but I was satisfied. With one window and a shabby bed that took up most of the room itself, my brother-in-law's study turned living space was just what I needed. The walls were a pale, sand color with pictures from their trip to Uganda displayed everywhere. Pictures of little children with bright teeth and sunshine eyes being held in the arms of my sister and other social workers. My sister loved that trip very much. Even though she went five years ago, she still mentions it at family gatherings. We tolerate it.

"I like it," I replied lightly as I set my bags on the bed. "It's got personality."

"Good! Part of me worried that you wouldn't."

"'Cause I'm so picky?"

"No, because I know you hate the color green," she mused, her eyes pointing to the comforter. "But, if you like it, then you like it. I'm just glad you're here, finally."

My eyes playfully rolled at her words as my fingers moved to unzip my luggage. Dominique, my older sibling, lingered in the doorway, her hazel gaze palpable on my skin.

"What?" I asked dully without meeting her stare. "Out with it."

"Nothing! Nothing. I'm just wondering if maybe you want to get more settled in tomorrow as well. You know, relax, sleep in-"

"And then what? Be bored?" I quipped. "I should be bored out of mind when I could be assisting one of the greatest doctors in the Midwest, who happens to be a woman, at a psychiatric hospital? Instead of immediately boosting my resume tenfold with an internship, a unique one, mind you, I should sit around and chill with my Netflix account all day on your couch like some jobless loser?"

"Hey, one, I'm not a doctor. Counselors are-"

"Same thing."

"No," she sighed. "They're not. And two, I'm not saying you should be bored. Nor am I saying that you should miss any of your internship. What I am saying is that you don't have to hit the ground running. I mean, you just got here. What's one day?"

A huff of air hissed past my lips as I stopped unpacking. My gaze met her own.

"I don't need any more days," I said. "I'm fine."

At first, I feared that my answer wasn't good enough. I saw her head tilt in the slightest and her fingers reach up to twirl a piece of her long, auburn hair. I frowned immediately. It's her giveaway, those two things. The head tilt and hair twirl combo. That's when I know she's in counselor mode, when she's using those observant eyes and engine of a mind to dissect me. Despite it, however, I pressed on.

"Everyone has been supportive. Really. They've been awesome and I appreciate all the love and stuff, but honestly, I just want to be-I don't know. I just want to start my internship. I just want to do something else, you know? I'm sick of simply existing."

When I finished, there was an unmistakable pause. It had some weight to it. It held the atmosphere of the room together as I watched my sister absorb what I said, process it in that type-A mind of hers, and then finding some conclusion that satisfied.

"Okay," said Dominique. "Alright. Whatever you say is best for you, we'll do it."

Slowly, I exhaled.

Then, with a smile she added, "But don't think that just because you're my sister I'm going to let you get away with shit, alright? I help run a serious hospital, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," I murmured. "Policy and whatnot. Where's Henry?"

"Business trip. He'll be in on Wednesday."

"Not here to greet me," I breathed in mock disappointment. "Well then, I guess that means you gotta divorce him."

"Yeah, I guess so. You good here?"

"Golden."

"Great. See you tomorrow, bright and early. Love ya, Al."

At last, my sister said goodnight and quietly shut the door behind her. Lying in bed that evening, I wondered about the next twenty four hours, wondered about the things that I may see, hear, and learn about. Sleep didn't come easy, and just when my eyes shut I felt as if they immediately had to open.

Arriving in St. Louis from my parents' house in Denver was a small culture shock, but overall a welcomed change. The architecture was pleasing to the eye with its iconic Gateway Arch yawning on the horizon, as well as the many carved buildings that lined the paved roads and sidewalks. I was promised a real tour by my sister and her husband, and I prayed that it would show off the city better than my commute to the facility did. The forecast called for a heavy downpour that morning, and though I was impressed by what I could see, as sheets upon sheets of rain fell from the sky, they muddled the view from the car window. In an odd way, however, the weather was sedating. My nerves tingled like the blue electricity that shot across the sky.

My commute ended at a large, aged building that rested in a less populace section of the city. Traffic eased and as I parked in the Visitors lot, my eyes marveled at the site. The reddened bricks of the building spoke of decades of battling the elements, and ambitious green ivy climbed up its walls. But, judging on the updated signs and neat, green lawn, the St. Louis State Hospital for the Mentally Ill was certainly not neglected.

It was eerie though. Between the rain and my anxiety, while I walked towards the front entrance I couldn't help but stare at the gray windows of the building, the itch of possibly being watched by someone on the other side unsettling me further. It only worsened my nervous state, and by the time I was cleared by security, I could hear my own pulse.

Within the walls of the facility lived a homey, tranquil environment. At least, I believe that's what the State was trying to project on its visitors. The furniture looked comfy, and the lighting dim. The doors were all made up of a beautiful stained wood, expensive. I dripped down the halls past ornate plaques with calming proverbs carved into them, my priority being to find my sister's office.

I didn't have to travel far. I heard her long before I saw the sign indicating her work space.

"No, I don't care who he is at all!" she bellowed. "He can shove his book up his ass if he thinks it's a good enough reason to let him into my wing!"

I chose to wait in the hall until she finished. I knew better than to throw myself into the hurricane.

"…only a little over a month," I heard her say in a lesser volume. "They said that he's much more stable than when he first came in, and that the rest should be a cake walk, but God, this one won't even look at me. It's like he's afraid or-Oh, shit. I have to go. My sister starts her internship today and I need-Okay, thanks."

Immediately after that conversation ended, I was called to come inside.

"How'd you know I was out there?" I asked with a cautious smile.

Without looking up from her desk, she answered, "I could see shadows under the door. Assumed it was you. Sorry, but today is going to be busy. You can hang your jacket there by the door."

Her hand was moving quickly across pages and pages of paper, her signature being the only consistent thing about them.

"What's all this?" I asked as I took a seat from across her desk. I eyed one page that appeared to be a case note.

She sighed dramatically.

"Would you believe me if I said that all this paperwork is for one single person?" she asked. "All of it! Just for one man. It's ridiculous."

"Who?"

Before responding to me, Dom glanced at her watch.

"Dammit," she said. "Don't have time to talk. Come on. Follow."

And without any explanation, my sister abruptly rose from her leather chair and crossed the office towards the door. I quickly followed close behind.

We moved down the olive green hallway, down two flights of stairs, across a foyer, through four card locked doors, and into a room that's walls were clearly made of concrete. My pulse was racing, but I asked nothing. I simply listened.

"You arrived at a great time," she commented as we moved. "My session with the hellion giving me so much damn paperwork starts in five minutes."

Almost as if chosen by random, my sister stopped walking and reached out towards the nearest door. She then held it open for me. I blinked.

"For you, my dearest Alexandra," she announced. "You get to meet the man responsible for all my latest migraines."

"Why are you talking like that-"

"Because with a job like mine where I deal with sick men and women coming from childhood trauma, young sibling of mine, you have to be a little weird or you'll go crazy like them. Please sit down."

I frowned and entered the room. It was dark, and sure enough, there were two folding chairs inside. They faced a clean, glass window that took up a whole wall, and it was then did I realize that I was placed in an observation room. On the other side of the glass was a simple table and two chairs facing across from one another, except these bits of furniture were bolted tightly to the cement floor. When I sat down in one of the seats on my end, my sister closed the door. Alone on the cool metal of the chair, I waited.

A door opened on the other side of the glass. In walked my sister, who winked at me through the window. Dom then proceeded to sit at one of the bolted seats and relax, her face smoothing into a neutral mask of indifference. A moment later, a loud buzzing sound sang out, and a door on the other end of the room loudly clanked open. Two muscled guards walked in, their expressions serious and intimidating, but their hard stares weren't aimed at my sister. No, they were directed at the being who came in after them.

"Hello, Francis."

Immediately, my eyes grew wide.

The man across from her didn't respond, which only added to how intimidating he appeared. With soft steps and the jangling of his chains that were fastened to cuffs on both his wrists and ankles, he slowly made his way to the table and proceeded to sit down. Even seated, it was clear that he easily towered over Dom, his muscled body and broad shoulders emphasizing the need for the restraints and guards.

If I didn't know any better, I would say that he had a handsome face. A nice jawline and short, dark hair, though it was a little longer than the mugshot from the news story. Smooth skin. Long lashes. The shadows of the room intensified his features, one in particular being a hair lip scar on the right side of his face. It was an imperfection, the reddened scar, but in my opinion, it wasn't too distracting. He had another scar, I noticed, a long one that cut across the left side of his throat. It was reddened, too, and still appeared to be healing.

To see him alive and in the flesh was surreal. The pictures in the news made him appear so normal, and to be frank, he wasn't ugly. The only unattractive thing about him seemed to be his sour mood as those piercing blue eyes of his glared into the surface of the table, his brow stern and furrowed deeply as he avoided my sister's own stubborn gaze.

"Francis," began Dom. He didn't look up. "This is our fifth session together, Francis. You know I'm here to help you, not harm you, and, just so you know, you have an audience today."

Again, not a word was spoken by the man in the white jumpsuit. I watched him glower into the table, his eyes not daring to raise away from it.

The man was clearly presenting nonverbal messages. Between his refusal to speak and how rigged he sat, the messages were loud and clear. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to be near my sister. My mind thought on what my sister was saying before I entered her office. She had said that he appeared afraid of her, but I didn't think that Francis Dolarhyde, the Francis Dolarhyde, appeared afraid of her at all. Not one bit. Hostile. Frustrated. Those words seemed more fitting to me.

After sighing, my sister said, "You know, there is a man who is interested in having a word with you very soon, a man that you probably have heard of, a Dr. Chilton? Your friend, Hannibal Lecter, is in his care."

At the mention of Lecter's name, the man's eyes instantly flickered up. My sister allowed a small smile to tug at her lips. I suppose she considered it progress.

"Dr. Chilton is very interested in speaking with you," she added. "But I gotta warn you, he can be very…aggressive in his methods. Unlike me, Francis, Dr. Chilton won't let you remain silent during your time with him. He feels that he doesn't owe you that."

Francis Dolarhyde narrowed his eyes at her last statement and returned his attention to the table. He didn't look away from it for the remaining of the hour.

Even though he never spoke, I was fully engaged in the session. The entire time that Dom was speaking to him, asking open-ended questions or discussing random news stories, I couldn't help but absorb every movement the man made. They were subtle. I knew that he wasn't tuning her words out completely. His jaw tightened and eyes blinked rapidly as he processed. His toes curled. His shoulders flexed, but something in particular interested me more than the other ticks. It was his fingers. Under the table, in his lap, he was fidgeting. Leaning forward and peering into the shadows beneath the table, I could make it out, the object of his unconscious interest.

"Well, that's all the time we have for today," announced Dom at the end of the hour. "Do you have any questions or anything at all to say to me, Francis?"

His fingers ceased moving as those intense eyes of his slowly lifted to look at the glass window. I swallowed. Though I knew he couldn't see me, I felt my skin crawl as his eyes lingered directly where I sat.

"Don't worry," she told him. "No journalists today. Just my sister. She's interning here for a few months."

I watched as his frame visibly relaxed, as his eyes faltered in their power. The guards then swiftly grabbed him by the arms, making him stand with a sort of unnecessary force. Francis Dolarhyde's face twisted into offense as they yanked him away from the table and towards the exit.

It was small, but I caught it. I caught him. With a hint of disappointment, I saw his eyes wander towards the floor beneath his place at the table, his brow, too, pulling together again in a fit of concern. My own eyes followed and saw in the shadows, something insignificant to the unobservant eye. In the next moment, the door buzzed again, and the notorious Tooth Fairy was escorted away from the room.

"Al, come in."

My sister's familiar grin replaced the mask as she quickly gestured for me to join her in the other room.

"Wasn't that exciting?" she breathed when I entered.

"God, yeah, it was! Was that really Francis Dolarhyde?" I said, my expression matching her own.

"Yep! I wanted to tell you, but I had to keep it a surprise! What did you think?"

"The man has a way with words," I mused while walking about the small room. "He doesn't seem to like you much."

Standing behind the seat in which Francis Dolarhyde sat was chilling. For so many months, families feared for their safety. For so many months, the FBI struggled to identify who the killer even was. I can easily recall such dark days. People took extra caution and news reels about at-home-safety played every other night. My parents would check on Dom and Henry frequently, my mother a wreck each time the news came on and mentioned the progress of the manhunt, or lack thereof. When he was at last captured, it was weird to hear how common of a man Francis Dolarhyde seemed. Quiet. Mild mannered. Respected in a sense by his colleagues. I thought of these things as I squatted down to find what I was looking for.

"That's the frustrating part," said Dom. "He's cooperative until it requires him to say something. Not once have we had an issue with behavior. His cell is spotless. The man even makes his bed every morning, but God forbid he say a single word to me."

I heard her, but I wasn't fully listening. That's possible, you know. To hear the words, but not process their meaning. I do that when I'm distracted, which isn't a strange thing to happen, especially when looking for something that was being played with by the fingers of the Midwest's latest serial killer. On the floor by the bolted chair was a strand of red yarn. Short, frayed, and with a small knot tied at the end, it was what I believe Francis Dolarhyde was toying with during his counseling session. It was his distraction, his escape. Or not. Maybe I was just romanticizing it. I didn't really know. Still, what I did know was that he appeared rather concerned about losing it when being dragged out of the interviewing room.

"I can't believe he hasn't said anything after five sessions," I told Dom, returning to the present moment. "Is that why a psychiatrist is coming in? To see if Dolarhyde will talk to him?"

"I guess," replied Dom with a tinge of disappointment. "If Francis doesn't respond to patient prodding, I'm scared to see what his reaction will be to Chilton's intrusiveness."

Rising from the floor, I tucked the string in my pocket.

"Francis," I mused. "I like how you call him by his first name."

"Yeah?"

We walked out of the room and back down the hallway side by side. Despite being in a mental ward, I felt oddly at peace alongside my sister. It was like we were bonding.

"I think it projects friendliness," she added.

"Do you think he sees you two as friends?"

She laughed.

"I don't know. I just don't want him to see me as an enemy. Now, we have a lot more to do. He's only one of many."

For the rest of the day, I observed and took notes on the daily workings of the counselors at the State hospital. Not all of the patients were criminal. Many were dealing with other forms of mental illness like depression, schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder. For those who had committed crimes and were seeking treatment, it was a rarity that they could see a counselor at all. Most were subjected to the attention of psychiatrists, a routine that my sister loathed. Her role as a counselor for the criminally "insane" was only called upon when such people were towards the end of their treatment, or, according to her, when psychiatrists felt that all the hard work was done.

Even though I was never bored by any of the other patients we saw, my mind couldn't help but think about Francis Dolarhyde and his string. It burned in my pocket, and multiple times I found myself twirling it around my finger as he had. I thought on how he didn't appear to like my sister, how uncomfortable he seemed after having some sessions with Dom already, like he didn't know her from Eve. Part of me pitied him. Part of me hated myself for it. Still, as the day dwindled and it was time to leave the hospital for the day, I settled on a mission.

"You ready?" asked Dom as she shrugged on her raincoat. "We're meeting Henry at that little Italian restaurant I was telling you about. I think you're first day calls for a celebration, don't you?"

"That sounds good," I said. "Text me the name of the restaurant and I'll meet you there. I need to use the bathroom real quick."

"Oh, I can wait so you can follow me."

"Nah, just go on and meet up with Henry. I'll be there in a few."

By that time in the evening, most of the workers in the hospital were heading home. Hallways were black save for an overhead light or two, and most of the facility doors were locked shut. The only people I did see were the security guards in the front foyer.

"Excuse me," I said to one of the men stationed near the doors.

A gangly man about my age with a greasy face and thin, oily hair looked my way expectantly.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Um, hi, my name is Alexandra Emme. I'm Dr. Ashe's assistant intern, and I was touring the facility earlier today and left something by patient holding and-"

"Follow me."

Before I finished my lie, the guard started towards one of the locked doors. Using his security key card, he opened it and kept on walking.

"So you're an intern, huh?" I heard him say as we walked.

"I am."

"How long will you be hangin' around here?"

"Um, a few months. Until December."

"Awesome," he then said with a lecherous look from over the shoulder.

I shuddered, my mind wondering if my experiment was even worth it at that point. Thankfully, the man didn't say anything else for a while as he escorted me through some more locked sections and hallways. After going down a couple of flights of stairs and reaching a concrete level again, the man stopped at another set of locked doors.

"From here there should be more men on duty," he told me. "If you have any issues, just tell 'em that Dillon sent ya'."

I forced a smile, even after seeing the crooked, yellowed grin on his face.

"Thank you," I said politely as he slid his security card through the holder.

Standing alone in a poorly lit foyer, I saw another desk station like where the guards upstairs were positioned by. However, unlike upstairs, no one was standing there. I blinked and shifted my eyes throughout the space, still finding no one to help me.

"Hello?" I called out awkwardly, praying that someone would step into the light and show themselves, or at least call back. Maybe I simply didn't see them. Maybe they were sitting behind the station napping or playing with their cell phone.

My legs took me further into the foyer, and unfortunately my hopes were dashed. I found that I was completely alone a few levels below the earth's surface within the belly of a state mental health institution. For a moment, I thought about turning around. Why did I even care? I shouldn't be down where I was. Especially, I thought, on my very first day. I wasn't thinking. I needed to leave. Just as I was willing my feet to turn me around, I felt it. The burning feeling in my chest, the instinct that my experiment might do some good, ate at my conscious. I might as well keep going, I then decided. I was already this far, and my sister had yet to text or call me. I still had time.

So, string in hand, I walked about the foyer looking for either a guard or a sign indicating where I needed to go next. I noticed that to the left of the desk station was a set of double doors. They didn't require any security clearance, and as I stepped through them I learned that the hallway past them had only one destination. As I approached the other end of the hallway, I saw a sign that read, "Patient Holding I-V." Finally finding what I had been looking for, I made my way down the hall and towards the door.

I stood before the entrance way to the holding room, my courage instantly faltering. My mouth felt dry, and I had to blink past some fear as it started to creep into my psyche.

I can still turn around, I thought sheepishly to myself. My sister might be getting worried.

As I fret, I noticed that one of the doors before me was slightly ajar. The moment grew even more ominous. I couldn't move. I couldn't will myself to enter, so instead of being a rational human being, which, let's be honest here, a rational human being probably wouldn't be in that situation, I decided to knock. With a hesitant fist, I knocked on the patient holding door like a dumbass.

"Hello?" I squeaked, berating myself the moment the word slipped past my lips.

I waited. I didn't hear anything.

Maybe I knocked too softly, I thought to myself. Maybe I wasn't bold enough. I tried again, this time with more purpose.

Knock. Knock.

I waited. Again, no response came from the other side of the door, but incidentally the door did creak open by about an inch more. Once again, I didn't move. For a moment, I simply stared at the gap, at the paleness of light past the metal threshold.

"Hello?" I questioned again.

No reply.

By that point, I felt beyond stupid. I thought of coming down to the cell block. Alone, and without anyone knowing where I was, not to mention I was probably breaking one or two rules by even standing where I was standing. There I was, just standing there and talking to no one for the last five minutes when I could be on my way to dinner with my sister and her husband. Plus, at the rate I was progressing with my stupid gesture, I would be there until my sister arrived the following morning for work.

Instead of waiting around any longer, because surely, someone was on duty, I decided to be brave and step through to the other side.

The room was quiet. I couldn't even hear the ventilation system humming above me like it seemed to do in every other part of the facility. The only noise that I was able to hear in the large, dark space was my own breathing. Even my steps, as soft as I made them, were impossible to ignore as I continued to carefully make my way into the desolate space.

Flecks of dust could be seen sparkling in the bright light above, the only light source in the entire room. It cast down on me as if the center of the room were a stage, instilling a greater sense of vulnerability. Shadows clung to the corners and walls of the room, making the size of it difficult to determine, but what I could recognize was a set of five cells all lined against one far wall. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that four of them were empty. One, however, clearly was not. There past the bars, I saw a dark figure sitting on the floor as far from the bars as possible.

"Oh, hi."

My voice was so weak that I hardly recognized it as my own.

The figure didn't move, nor did I receive a response.

"Um, are you Mr. Dolarhyde?" I said, my voice only a little less frail than my first attempt at communication.

This time, I saw that the person moved subtly, his head tilting in the slightest as he sat with his back to the wall of his cell.

"Well," I began, "If you are Mr. Dolarhyde, I came to deliver something to you."

Without taking my eyes off of the body in the cell, I extended my hand out so that the string could be in the light.

"It's not much, but I noticed that you had it during your talk with my sis-um, Dr. Ashe this morning. I thought that you might want it back."

For an entire eight seconds, I stood there with my arm out towards the darkness, towards the being that I didn't even know was the person I sought after. Just when I thought it best to turn around and never return, the body in the pitch slowly moved to stand.

Based on the silhouette alone, I knew that it was him. When he moved, I could see the outline of his long legs and broad shoulders as he walked closer to the bars of his cell, and when the faint light of the room touched his face, there was no second guessing who he was. Before me stood Francis Dolarhyde. Before me stood the Tooth Fairy killer.

His brow was as tightly knit as it was during his session with my sister, except instead of appearing threatening or hostile, Francis Dolarhyde wore a different expression. He looked absolutely confused, his eyes squinting at me while I squirmed under his scrutiny. Also, he raised his hand to his face, his palm cupping his mouth. It was a strange gesture, but I continued.

Twirling the string in my fingers, I asked "This is yours, right?"

I took a few steps closer to where he stood, hoping that he could get a better look at what I was holding.

"From this morning?" I added with a small smile.

I watched as his eyes glanced to the yarn.

"Mhm."

The sound was low and barely audible, but I heard it. It was definitely there. Without checking myself, my smile widened.

"Thought so," I said. "I saw that you dropped it when they carried you off, and I was on my way out and thought that I could come by and return it, if you don't mind me interrupting your night."

The man didn't make any effort to respond to me that time. He only kept staring, but it wasn't in a creepy way, nor like how that Dillon character ogled at me on my way down to patient holding. No, if anything, Francis Dolarhyde was looking at me like I wasn't even real, like I had manifested from out of the ground.

"Welp," I began. "Here it is. I need to go now, Mr. Dolarhyde. Thank you for your time."

With slow, careful steps, I approached his cell. Francis Dolarhyde held eye contact with me, the grip around his mouth tightening the closer I got. My hand was sweaty as I reached out towards the bars, and I dared not blink as I held the yarn out between two fingers for him, close enough so that he could grab it, but not close enough to where he could grab me. I waited. I watched as his eyes flickered between my face and my hand, as if debating whether or not to trust my intentions or not. Eventually, however, his other hand extended out through the bars and with great slowness, moved to take the string from my fingers.

And that was my moment. That was my instance of magic, that instance that was so different and peculiar than any other time that my hand had been touched before. In that moment when Francis Dolarhyde went to grab the yarn from me, instead of immediately retreating back to his cell, he lingered. His fingers, they hovered in the air around my hand. Suspended just within range, his hand moved so that his fingers gripped the tip of one of my own. Gently. Kindly, and with those ocean eyes of his gripping all of my focus.

"Th-Thank you," I heard a soft voice say behind his palm, the volume just above a whisper. "It was very swee- nice…of you to come."

His fingers were still holding me. Gently. Kindly. They were warm.

"N-No problem," I said back, finding my words. "It was my, my pleasure."

I then smiled, somehow, in all the fear that ate me up on the inside. Somehow, I felt that a smile was necessary in such a bizarre moment as this. And for a second, the tightness in his brow relaxed. I saw it. As he held my fingers and I stared into his fearful eyes, there was some form of a mutual understanding.

And then, the moment ended.

"What the hell!" cried a voice. "Back away from the cell!"

A man's urgent command cut into the tranquility, causing me to lurch and bump into a hard body behind me. Before I knew what was happening, two firm hands gripped the tops of my arms and moved me backwards. As they took me out the door, I saw one of the security guards step forward and swiftly bang on the bars of Dolarhyde's cell. The guard then yelled some profanities, but Dolarhyde didn't even flinch. His focus was elsewhere. He was still watching me, his face intense and brooding, yet his eyes were different. They had softened. I saw, too, that he had something in his hand. Something small and red.

And to this day, I swear on my life that I saw something that very, very few people on this earth had ever witnessed. Just as the door to the room was about to close, I saw a true rarity.

I swore I saw the man smile.

I don't own any rights to Hannibal.