Bedelia stood by the wide window, looking out at the rain, which had just begun to dribbled down from the black clouds that hung over Baltimore. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, momentarily letting her professional composure falter. Hannibal was heading down a dark path and dragging Ophelia right along with him. Everything he thought he felt, and everything that he insisted he was still feeling were dangerous and false.

"Hannibal," Bedelia turned away from the window, "I still stand by my assertion that you are unable to comprehend the kind of emotional attachment that you say you are feeling. I commend the imagination, and the effort, but it will not work."

"I must admit I am confused by it all," Hannibal sighed crossing and uncrossing his legs in his chair, "I feel as if a levee has broken somewhere in my mind. And I am not sure if I want to repair it."

"That 'levee'," Bedelia sighed, "Is your mind trying to process the things you are forcing upon it. And that Ophelia is forcing into it."

"I instigated the romantic gesture, Bedelia. Ophelia has done nothing but unintentionally cause me to doubt myself."

With a sigh, Bedelia sank onto the couch across from Hannibal. She thought about everything that had transpired between him and the Ophelia girl since their last meeting. Hannibal was clearly forcing himself to manufacture feelings; he surely did not have the ability to feel such strong, affectionate things for another human being. He had merely convinced himself that he could.

"What do you plan to do about it?" she asked.

Hannibal sighed, running his tongue across his teeth, "That is what I was hoping you could shed some light on."

Bedelia shrugged, quite at a loss, "I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I do not have all the answers. What I can tell you is that you would be wise to backpedal. Stop pursuing a feeling that just cannot exist. Stop pretending it can. And stop turning this into another Will-type scenario. You cannot presume to control everything."

He stayed silent for a moment, torn between believing her and refuting her claim. Every detail of the relationship he had revealed to Bedelia, even the events of the previous night at the opera and afterward. It was the first time he had even tried to feel something so authentic. But Bedelia was right about one thing: he was not in control. He had not been in control in the instance of Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs, and it had ended messily. Once again, the relationship that had blossomed between he and Ophelia was not something that he could see the endgame of. It was up in the air. Out of control. But, oddly enough, he liked it that way.

"I don't know what to say," Hannibal kept his eyes cast to the ground in front of Bedelia's feet, "This is something I have never experienced before, and I don't know how to proceed."

"Don't," she shook her head, her hair bouncing over her shoulders and her earrings jingling, "Don't proceed. Her case will be solved by Jack Crawford and his investigative team soon enough and she will be off creating a new life for herself. If this is something you are truly feeling, you won't have the opportunity to feel it for much longer."

"Perhaps you are right," Hannibal's face darkened considerably, "I am, after all, most inclined to do what I have always done. Being a solitary creature, I began to act on my original intent. But, alas, she has changed my mind. I truly know not how to proceed." He knew there was no use hiding it from Bedelia. She saw directly through his mask, almost as if it was not there at all.

"Don't do anything rash. Anything that you will regret," she pursed her lips knowingly, "I understand the appeal, Hannibal, I truly do. But think of what you are dealing with here. She is entirely foreign territory. Damaged goods, no less. No matter what path you choose, you must tread lightly."

"Of course."

"Where is she now?"

"At home," Hannibal shifted in his seat, "I left before she had even stirred."

"And what do you plan to do when the two of you are alone together again?"

He shrugged, the mask returning to its rightful place, "Business as usual, I presume. I had not given much thought to what was to come, only to what had already passed."

"Well, there you go," Bedelia flustered her hand in the air, punctuating her point, "You haven't thought. And when you do, I am sure you will begin to see reason."

"My intentions are-"

"Your intentions are entirely clear, Hannibal," she was suddenly stern, "The evidence goes to show that this cannot end well. Stay professional."

She watched as anger bubbled beneath his glassy exterior. It was a storm that had been brewing for as long as she had known him, and had been locked up in his mind-prison for the entirety of their professional companionship. But as she watched him, as the rain came down in a quiet rush, a crack in the foundation was formed.

Ophelia had stayed in her pajamas all day, which was a treat. When she had awoken, Hannibal had already left for the day; he was wise enough to anticipate her dreadful hangover. She had shuffled downstairs in an old t-shirt and her favorite purple wooly socks to find a plate of delectable breakfast waiting for her in the fridge and a full bottle of ibuprofen sitting conveniently on the counter.

She sat alone in the kitchen, twirling her ponytail around her finger, her headache subsiding rather quickly as the little red pills worked their medicinal magic. The grand music of the opera floated through her mind; she swayed in her chair to the songs of the ballerinas that had danced through her muddled dreams all night.

Her toes curling at the thought, Ophelia recalled the kiss. Stomach fluttering and head reeling, her fingers found their tentative way to her lips, where Hannibal's had been just the night before. She had thought about kissing Hannibal before in daydreams and outlandish fantasies, but in none of her dreams had he been so broodingly aggressive. She shivered, grinning to herself and kicking her feet giddily.

After cleaning up in the kitchen and successfully ridding herself of the headache, Ophelia felt oddly energetic. Perhaps she could see Alana again; their "girls' day" had been a smashing success. Ophelia had never pegged Alana Bloom as the type to be fun in any way, shape, or form, but she had really pulled through. Ophelia resolved to give her a call later on.

But as she reached the top of the stairs, something else caught her attention. Usually, the door leading to her room was the only one left open on the upper level, but today Hannibal's doors had been left ajar, and Ophelia couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly curious about what they concealed.

She slipped through the small opening and into the dark, cave-like room. Immediately, she was hit with a blast of cold air and the smell of paper and leather. Ophelia flipped on the light by the door, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open.

Hannibal's bedroom was enormous; it was almost a smaller scaled model of his office, only without the upper balcony. His black, satin sheeted bed was settled against the far wall, leaving a large desk, glass display cases, and a bookshelf to occupy the rest of the room. Dark landscapes hung in golden frames on the walls and a wrought iron chandelier dangled from the center of the ceiling. It was almost medieval; Ophelia thought it quite enticing.

She peered into the largest display case, cringing when she realized what it contained. A tiny bird's skeleton, completely assembled, was propped in the case. It appeared extremely fragile; perhaps it was a canary or a sparrow.

Next to the case was Hannibal's enormous mahogany desk. Its surface was completely covered with stacks upon stacks of paper, on which detailed drawings were penned. Ophelia slid into the chair at the desk and leaned over the drawings, her eyes widening at the masterful artwork.

The drawings themselves ranged from scarily realistic to surreal and abstract. Most of them were of people, random people that Ophelia had never seen before. She figured they were past patients, or more of Hannibal's eclectic friends that she had not yet met. A few of them, toward the bottom of the largest stack, were anatomical diagrams of the very same people who had been depicted in earlier images. Some of them were so eerily realistic that they made Ophelia's stomach churn.

And then, at the very bottom of the pile, was a drawing of Ophelia. She was sketched in the dress she had worn to the opera, laying back on the chaise lounge in the sitting room just downstairs. At first, she was flattered; she had always admired artists and their way of depicting human likenesses. She was flattered that Hannibal thought highly enough of her to draw her in such an intricate, detailed way.

But on the other side of the drawing was something much more gruesome. In the corner was a roughly sketched diagram like all the others, but the majority of the paper was taken up with a depiction of Ophelia, very obviously dead, on the chaise lounge in her opera dress. She was cut from chin to navel, a horrifyingly graphic detailing of her organs sketched in where her dress had once been. Each organ was labelled. Her face was smudged and distorted, as if Hannibal had tried to rub her out.

Below the image, in the bottom corner of the paper, was a small, scrawled note. Ophelia had to squint to read it: "Killing her would feel synonymous to sin. But aren't we made to sin?" She stared at the words, her face slowly dissolving into a grimace.

"What the hell?" Ophelia hissed, blinking furiously.

There was a bang downstairs and Ophelia dropped the paper, leaping to her feet. She pulled the hem of her pajama shirt down as she hurried from the room, flipping off the light and slipping through the doors to the hall.

"Hannibal?" she called, starting down the stairs, her hand trailing along the stone wall. There was no response.

And then, in a flash of frenzied movement, a pair of hands flew from nowhere, latched onto Ophelia's face, and smashed her head into the wall. She was unconscious before she hit the floor.

Hannibal returned home soon after he left Bedelia's office. He had driven around the block a few times, just to have the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts for a while. Though he knew not what he would do about his dilemma with Ophelia, he knew that he wanted to see her, no matter what the circumstance.

"Ophelia!" he called as he stepped through the front door, tossing his keys on the table and shrugging off his coat, "I do believe you owe me a day of film."

There was no answer. He waited a moment, half expecting to be greeted by a hug, a kiss, or at least an amicable handshake. But after what felt like an infinite silence, there was still nothing.

Then, there was a slap and a muffled groan from deeper in the house. Hannibal rushed into the sitting room, stopping short when he saw the scene that had been meticulously laid out for him.

Thomas Ford stood in the center of the room, dressed haphazardly in a torn and dirtied lab coat. He held Hannibal's largest knife in his grasp, pointing it directly at Ophelia's back. She was strapped to a dining room chair, duct tape over her mouth and the side of her head covered in crusted blood. Her eyes wheeled wildly and her chest heaved with muffled sobs.

"It's really you," Thomas stepped forward, the knife still pointed at Ophelia, "It's really the infamous Hannibal Lecter, standing right here in front of me."

"Hello Thomas," Hannibal remained calm, "I've heard so much about you."

He laughed and snorted, "Ditto, Lecter, ditto. Ya' know, you're a hard man to track. It takes a monster to catch a monster, huh. I finally got a good trace on both of you last night at the opera, though, and here we are now. Didn't my daughter just look stunning?"

Ophelia whimpered, and Thomas pressed the tip of the knife against her back.

Hannibal took a small step toward them, "Now, there's no need to be rash, Thomas. Ophelia tells me you are an intelligent man. Why don't we talk like we are both civilized? Over tea, perhaps?"

"No, no, no!" Thomas laughed, wiggling the knife, "I know how you work, good sir. I've heard things. I know people. I'd be dead in minutes if I let my guard down now."

"Alright then," Hannibal inched forward again, "Then we will just talk here. What would you like to talk about, Thomas?"

"Okay, first of all," Thomas sighed, "stop saying my name over and over. I know that's some psychobabble trick you mind people use to get chummy with your patients. But anyway, Ophelia is what I would like to talk about."

She whimpered, shutting her eyes tight as he sidestepped in front of her chair.

"Open your eyes," Thomas commanded, pressing the tip of the knife into her cheek. His hot breath blew tiny strand of gold away from her face.

Ophelia shook her head, a whimpering sob shaking her chest.

"Open your damn eyes or I'll cut off your eyelids and staple them to your forehead!" he roared, his face a breath away from hers. Ophelia sobbed through the duct tape gag, her eyes shooting open and darting down to the knife that was beginning to stick into her cheek.

"Okay," Thomas stood, turning again toward Hannibal, "So, the esteemed, respected, gift Hannibal Lecter. You were called a gift by a newspaper in Utica. Helped some bipolar kid solve her issues. I don't remember all the details right at this minute. But then another journal in Seattle called psychopaths a gift. Coincidence, right? Psychopaths! A lot of people agreed with that, surprisingly. You see the connection there, obviously. But what kind of gift destroys everything it touches?"

"Perhaps the gift is the balance that is struck when these psychopaths are in play. It is said that balance must be made between the innocents and the non-innocents for society to succeed," Hannibal suggested, his eyes following a bead of blood that was dripping down from Ophelia's cheek and onto her chest.

"Is that what we're doing here?" Thomas let his wrist fall slack, but the knife was still grasped firmly in his fingers, "Striking a balance?"

"You," Hannibal's voice was touched with poison, "are torturing your child for selfish gain. That is no balance."

"But, see, I'm using her for the monster she is, to get to another monster. It's genius, really. She's a monster, right? She's a monster!"

"No. I know what she is," Hannibal took another step toward Thomas, still collected, "She is not a monster. She is a victim."

Thomas rolled his eyes, "Oh come on Doctor. Your reputation in mind, one would think you could spot a monster when you were confronted with one. This bitch is the biggest monstrosity I have ever seen. Which is exactly why I knew she would fit in perfectly with you. By purifying her, I would purify you. Everything is purified by suffering."

"How are you purifying Ophelia?"

"Through my experiments! They helped her achieve clarity. By killing her sorority brats and then finding you, she achieved a higher purpose. My purpose. I've been watching you for years, Doctor Lecter. I know about you, sir. Sir Ripper. I know."

Hannibal took a step closer, "I don't think you do."

Thomas jerked the knife down toward Ophelia's torso, "Not too close, Ripper. Wouldn't want you doing anything crazy, now would we?"

"You wouldn't do anything more to her, Thomas. You don't need to. She's done her duty by getting you here. To me. Ophelia is out of the equation. You have only me to deal with now."

Thomas thought for a moment, then shrugged, "Ya' know, you're right. I don't need her." And in a blink, he turned and plunged the knife into Ophelia's stomach. She let out a strangled moan as blood splattered against the inside of the duct tape on her mouth and dribbled through the frayed edges. Dark crimson bloomed around the knife and through the fabric of her shirt.

Hannibal reacted immediately, lunging forward and latching his arms around Thomas's chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He threw the lean blonde man to the ground and pulled the knife from Ophelia's stomach, pointing it down at Thomas, who was struggling to his feet. Without thinking, Thomas lunged at Hannibal, his arms flailing wildly. The knife in Hannibal's hand glanced off of Thomas's side, catching on his lab jacket and whipping from Hannibal's hand. They crashed to the floor at Ophelia's feet, the back of Hannibal's head slamming into the ground. With a grunt, he threw Thomas off of him and lunged for the knife again. Before Thomas had a chance to react, Hannibal took the bloody knife in his hands and threw himself forward. The knife, holding all of Hannibal's weight, pierced Thomas's heart directly, killing him almost instantly.

Ophelia's head began to loll forward, her consciousness fading and blood streaming from her stomach. Hannibal crawled to her and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. She took a deep, ragged breath, flecks of blood splattering from her lips onto Hannibal's face.

"I will not fail you," Hannibal muttered as he hastily untied her, "I will save you, Ophelia, I will not fail you." He cast a glance over his shoulder at Thomas's lifeless body, rage boiling inside of him.

Ophelia fell limp, her body suddenly lifeless. Her heartbeats were weak and small, and her eyes rolled back as Hannibal pulled her into his arms. The warmth of her blood soaked the front of his shirt as he leapt over Thomas and hurtled toward the door. He had to save her. She was not a monster, as Thomas had said. She was a victim. Hannibal was the reason he had been there. He was the monster.

He would simply have to protect her, like the monster he was.