Clarice Starling eased her car to a stop in front of a quaint home nestled in the peaceful woods of Wolf's Trap, Virginia. The towering trees stood around like silent sentinels, their leaves rustling gently in the warm breeze.
Gripping the steering wheel, she studied the cozy house before her. Anticipation settled in her chest, a mixture of eagerness and trepidation swirling inside. She craved the answers that had stubbornly eluded her, yet the heavy burden of her impending choice pressed down on her conscience like an iron weight. The thought of facing Jack Crawford's potential fury loomed large—it was a dangerous gamble. However, the promise of speaking with Will Graham beckoned enticingly, and she felt it was a chance she could not ignore.
The choice weighed heavily in her mind: Jack Crawford or Will Graham?
She envisioned the paths diverging before her, each choice unfolding into a labyrinth of consequences. The FBI's motto of Fidelity echoed loudly in her thoughts—a principle that once seemed clear but was now muddied by uncertainty. Did loyalty to justice and Jack Crawford carry the same weight? Or could integrity in the pursuit of justice reside with someone else entirely?
Memories flashed through her mind—hushed conversations that swirled around Will Graham's name, branding him both a prodigy and a monster. Although she had never actually read the Tattle Crime articles, the snippets and fragments that had reached her felt etched in her memory; she could almost recite them.
Jack Crawford or Will Graham? The question was both tantalizing and terrifying. She needed to make a choice, aware that doubts would cloud her mind forever if she didn't seize this opportunity.
Determined, she opened the car door and stepped outside. A rush of crisp, invigorating air enveloped her, filling her lungs with a sense of renewal. The ground beneath her feet sank slightly as she walked, each step releasing a satisfying crunch from the vibrant carpet of leaves scattered across the ground—reds, golds, and browns—a testament to the season's fleeting beauty. She took a deep breath, the faint scent of damp earth wafting in the gentle breeze.
A few strides later, she found herself standing before the entrance of Will Graham's home.
The absurdity of the moment sparked a peculiar sensation in her chest, like bubbles of anxiety rising to the surface. Her lips curled into an awkward smile, and an almost hysterical laugh threatened to escape. Taking another deep breath, she reminded herself to regain her composure.
With a slightly trembling hand, she pressed the doorbell. Its chime resonated in the still air, reminiscent not of the welcoming sound typical of a home but more like the harsh buzz of a prison door unlocking. Another nervous laugh escaped her as she shifted on her feet, waiting with her heart pounding.
But there was no answer.
A frown creased her brow as she fished her phone from her pocket, scrutinizing the screen. She recalled Zeller's quickly scribbled note, which she knew by heart. This was definitely the right address.
Just as she prepared to press the doorbell again, a distant sound sliced through the silence—a dog barking. It was loud and resonant, pulling her attention toward the nearby river. Instantly, memories of two of Zeller's comments flickered in her mind:
"Will could crack those cases in a day and still make it home in time to walk his hundred dogs."
"Tell me, Agent Starling, do you enjoy fishing?"
Her feet carried her toward the sound before her brain could complete the logical connection.
The tension in her spine tingled with a familiar excitement—the same thrill she felt when preparing to face dangerous offenders behind prison bars, ready for a challenge that would be equally hard and rewarding. Yet this feeling stood in stark contrast to the serene world around her. She wasn't confined within cold, grey walls; instead, she stood among towering trees and rustling leaves, the environment peaceful except for the rhythmic echo of her footsteps mingling with the occasional bark of a distant dog.
As she navigated the woods, nervous energy coursed through her, making her feel strangely out of place. She couldn't recall the last time she had strolled through nature—perhaps it was before attending university. Little did she know that to encounter the Agency's most brilliant profiler, she would have to traverse this wild, untamed forest.
The sharp bark of a dog drew her deeper into the thicket. She pushed through the lush undergrowth until she stumbled into a hidden clearing. The sight that greeted her was mesmerizing: a river wound lazily nearby, its surface shimmering brilliantly in the sunlight.
But it was the figure beside the water that truly captivated her—none other than Will Graham.
In that moment, the vision she had conjured of him shattered. Gone was the cold, calculating FBI profiler she had imagined; in his place sat a man radiating ease and contentment, perched on the riverbank and surrounded by a lively pack of dogs.
Clarice paused, blinking in surprise. The sight before her was so unexpected that it left her momentarily frozen, forcing her to rethink everything she thought she knew about him.
Will Graham, a man who had bravely navigated the darkest corners of the human psyche, looked every bit like a carefree fisherman enjoying a sunny day by the water. The skilled profiler who had faced some of the most dangerous minds in the world had transformed into a man in harmony with nature.
If she didn't know better, she wouldn't have recognized who he truly was. Only the faint scars etched across his forehead and cheek hinted at the past he had endured, serving as a bridge between the man he once was and the man standing before her now.
"Did Jack send you?" The voice cut through the air, making her jump.
Will Graham didn't even bother to turn around; his gaze remained locked on the water as he watched the lure he had cast dance on the surface.
Clarice stood at a distance, unsure how to approach him. She knew firsthand how deep the scars of law enforcement could run, and she could only guess at the burden Will carried. The last thing she wanted was to provoke any haunting memories lurking beneath his calm exterior.
As she began to close the distance, she felt like a naturalist creeping toward a wild creature in its habitat—each step deliberate, every movement measured. She took slow, steady breaths, mirroring the gentle rhythm of the forest, like a cautious hunter trying to approach a skittish deer in the woods.
"Mr. Graham, my name is Clarice Starling," she said, her voice steady and clear. "I work for the FBI."
He leaned forward slightly, finally turning toward her. His deep-set eyes, shadowed yet piercing, locked onto hers with an intensity that felt unsettling. In that moment, the carefully constructed facade she wore began to crumble, revealing the nervousness she tried desperately to conceal.
"That wasn't my question," he stated flatly.
Clarice inhaled slowly, carefully weighing her response. She studied his face for any sign of hostility, ready to pivot if necessary.
"No, Jack Crawford did not send me."
As her words settled in, something shifted within Graham. His shoulders relaxed even more, and the stillness in his eyes faded, replaced by a flicker of intrigue that shone like a match struck in the darkness.
"What do you want, then?" he asked.
"A consult," she replied, her words deliberate and concise.
He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms and exuding an air of casual defiance.
"Last time someone asked me for a consult, he ended up shooting me in the arm."
"I can leave my gun behind if it makes you more comfortable. I simply wish to have a conversation."
Will snorted, a sharp, derisive sound that echoed in the space between them.
"Last time someone asked me for simply a conversation, he ended up gutting me like a fish."
"Well, I wouldn't even know how to do that. I don't fish," Clarice replied, her tone a mix of surprise and apprehension.
She took a steadying breath, mentally pushing aside his haunting words as they echoed in her mind. Determined to maintain her focus, she steeled herself against the temptation to delve into the murky depths of Will Graham's… convoluted past.
"You're certainly fishing for something now," Graham shot back, a lively glint flashing in his intense eyes.
If Clarice hadn't been so tightly wound, she might have laughed—and perhaps even snorted—at the clumsy pun he had thrown her way. Instead, she found herself irresistibly intrigued by the man before her.
With his dishevelled hair and penetrating eyes, which held a slight, perplexing smile, Will Graham sent a ripple of unease through her. Typically, she prided herself on her ability to read people with remarkable accuracy—picking up on the subtlest clues, interpreting body language, and understanding the emotions behind spoken words. Yet, with Will Graham, she felt like a novice once again.
As she studied him, every small gesture became magnified—a twitch of his fingers, the tilt of his head, the way his brows arched slightly as if urging her to uncover the layers beneath the surface. Each word he spoke seemed to linger in the air, thick with unspoken significance. Despite the abundance of clues, he remained an enigma—like an open book written in a forgotten, ancient language, with each line utterly impossible to decode.
And here she thought Jack Crawford was difficult to read! Frustration bubbled within her as she struggled to find a strategic angle. But all that remained was raw honesty.
"I'm investigating the Phantom Killer. There have been a series of murders—"
"Eight murders, all strangulations, in just three weeks," he interjected, his voice glib. "No clear motive, no evidence left behind, and hardly any defensive wounds on the victims. There's one potential suspect—the wrong one. As for leads? Non-existent."
Clarice hesitated, her meticulously crafted narrative momentarily derailed. She had envisioned laying out the intricate details of the case to entice him, yet here was Will Graham, already steeped in the facts of the investigation. And he didn't just know the staggering number of victims; he also understood that Victor Boyd was a red herring.
Sensing her momentary lapse, Will's gentle smile widened, radiating a strange warmth that felt almost comforting against the chilling subject of their discussion.
"I may no longer be in the FBI, but I make it a point to stay in the loop. I follow the news—oh, and I must admit, I'm a somewhat reluctant yet avid reader of a particular blog that shall go unnamed. Do you have your credentials on you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your badge."
"Oh, right," she replied, flustered as she retrieved her FBI badge and held it out to him.
"You're going to have to step closer than that," he said, almost amused.
Clarice hesitated but eventually complied. As she began to move toward him, an unsettling unease radiated beneath her skin. By the time she took another step forward, a shiver danced along her spine, a visceral response. Her instincts kicked in, sharp and alert—a prickling sensation spread across her skin, a stark reminder of her extensive training. She steeled herself, ensuring her hands were ready and poised, prepared to reach for the gun holstered at her side if the situation demanded it.
The man before her transformed in her perception; he was no longer the timid creature she had initially conjured in her mind. With every heartbeat, the pressure in her chest tightened like a vice. The closer she inched, the more her senses screamed that she was not approaching a wounded deer but rather confronting a wolf—predatory and unpredictable.
Why was this swell of apprehension washing over her now, especially with Will Graham looking at her with a smile tugging at his lips—almost as if encouraging her? Was it all the chilling stories she had heard about him? Or perhaps the haunting echoes of the murderers he confronted lingered in his gaze?
Clarice took a deep breath, steadying her nerves as she locked eyes with him. She straightened her back, summoning every ounce of composure she could muster as his gaze weighed heavily on her, scrutinizing the badge and identification she held.
"That looks like it just came off the printer," he quipped.
An embarrassed flush surged to her cheeks as she stammered, "I… I became an agent not long ago."
"And you're already involved in a case like the Phantom?"
"Not in any official capacity. To be honest, I'm just here to gather more information and learn. Perhaps you can judge for yourself if I'm qualified to work on this case."
"You say that as if you think I'm qualified to make that determination," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
"I believe you're overqualified."
"Are you trying to soften me up with flattery?"
"I'm not trying anything. I have no hidden agenda here. I have a case and questions. I believe you're one of the only people who can answer them. Whether you choose to do so is entirely up to you."
Will Graham studied her for a long moment, a trace of something inscrutable flitting across his features—was it nostalgia or perhaps regret? She couldn't decipher it, and the nagging frustration burrowed deep beneath her skin.
"Do you have a file for me?" he asked suddenly, his tone shifting.
Clarice blinked, momentarily taken aback by his question.
"You'll actually help?" The words tumbled out, laced with disbelief before she had a chance to temper her surprise.
"The fish are particularly picky today. I have some time to spare," he replied, adopting a casual demeanour as his hand reached out with unmistakable eagerness.
Clarice's instincts kicked in, and she flinched at the quick motion, a pang of unease tightening her stomach.
'Why am I reacting this way?' she questioned silently, chastising herself. With a quick, almost frantic movement, she dug through her bag, her fingers scrambling until they grasped the familiar file, its edges worn and crinkled from many readings. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath to calm her racing heart, she broke the thickening silence as Will began flipping through the pages with a purposeful and almost frenetic precision.
"What can you tell me?" she asked.
"He frustrates you, doesn't he? Almost as if it's personal."
Clarice felt a spark of annoyance at his observation.
"I meant about the killer, not about me," she retorted, her tone sharper than intended.
Will's brow quirked, but he remained unfazed.
"Sometimes, understanding yourself leads to better insights," he replied, a knowing look in his eyes.
Her expression softened slightly as she considered his words.
"He doesn't act the way he's supposed to," she admitted at last, the confession slipping out before she could fully grasp its weight.
A glimmer of amusement flickered in Will's eyes.
"Did you send him the right script?"
Heat crept into Clarice's cheeks, her blush betraying her embarrassment.
"Traditionally, killers follow a discernible pattern," she elaborated, her tone firming with each word. "They tend to start with minor offenses, gradually escalating into unspeakable horrors. But this one? There's no record of prior violence that resembles the work of this killer. It's as if he blended in, living a normal life until one day he just… snapped. His victims? Completely random. There's no connection between them. Yes, he infuriates me. I would very much like to see him behind bars."
Will studied her, impatience etched across his features. "You believe he is human, and that is your mistake. If you cling to that belief, you will never truly have a chance of catching him."
"Is he not?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.
Just yesterday, she had shared similar thoughts with Jack Crawford, worried that she might have sounded overly dramatic. But now, speaking to someone like Will Graham, her fears felt validated— stripped of any absurdity. A wave of comfort washed over her, and she could feel her tense posture easing as she sank deeper into their conversation, surprised by how long she had been carrying the weight of her doubts.
Will's focus drifted to a small dog frolicking nearby, blissfully unaware of their heavy discussion. After a moment of contemplation, he spoke again, his voice low and deliberate. "Imagine him as a dog; that image will shed light on who he truly is."
"A… dog?" Clarice echoed, puzzled.
"Yes, something domesticated, yet still possessing its primal instincts," Will explained, his gaze steady.
"And by primal instincts, you mean… the predatory nature?"
"To hunt, to kill, to consume their prey. Deep within the heart of every dog lies a primal instinct, a deep-seated echo of their ancient ancestors, quietly waiting in the shadows of their being. This instinct lurks just beneath the surface, ready to awaken at the right moment."
"And what sparked this awakening in our Phantom?"
"He tasted blood for the first time." Clarice shivered at his words. "Whether by accident or fate, he tasted it and developed a craving. A dog like that has to be put down. Regardless of how well it was trained, primal instinct will ultimately prevail. This killer is the same; that instinct was always there, lying dormant and waiting for a drop of blood to awaken it."
"That's quite an intriguing insight..."
"No, it isn't. You've had similar thoughts, haven't you, Agent Starling?" His unwavering confidence sliced through the tension in the air. As Clarice's surprise shifted to realization, he continued, "It's almost as if you're nodding along to my words."
A shiver of discomfort coursed through Clarice, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable under his scrutiny.
"I may have described the killer more as a predator than simply as a human," she admitted, her voice surprisingly steady as she fought to maintain her composure. "But I wasn't able to articulate it quite as clearly."
Will's lips curled into a smile, one that barely reached his eyes, which were shadowed with an emotion Clarice couldn't quite identify.
"I spent a lot of time with someone who helped me articulate that kind of darkness."
"Who was it? Maybe I should seek those lessons myself," Clarice replied, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation.
A low, humourless laugh escaped him—a sound so chilling that it sent a cascade of goosebumps racing along Clarice's skin.
"I would strongly advise against that." His voice dropped to a menacing whisper, the weight of his words wrapping around her like a dark shroud.
As Clarice swallowed hard, she felt a peculiar sensation bubbling up within her. The apprehension gripping her heart began to intertwine with an unexpected thrill. The exchange with Will Graham felt like a precarious tightrope walk—exhilarating yet laced with danger.
"Well then, Agent Starling," he said, leaning in, "do you really have questions for me, or are we just engaging in a creative writing exercise with your thoughts?"
A warm flush crept up Clarice's cheeks, but she quickly steadied herself, standing taller despite the intensity of his gaze. Her eyes were drawn to the file in Will's hand.
"I'm struggling to understand his pattern. It's unlike anything I've ever encountered—he escalates, then de-escalates, and then ramps up again…" Her voice faltered, heavy with unvoiced questions.
"You might not know for sure, but do you have any theories?" Will inquired, his gaze probing and rekindling a familiar spark within Clarice. She felt almost as if she were back in a classroom.
"I suspect that something about the victims' behaviour triggers a shift in him, but I can't quite pinpoint what those behaviours are or why they affect him so deeply. After the first two victims, it's almost absurd that he would show hesitation—or even kindness—to the third. Then he swiftly reverts to his previous ways with the fifth victim and so on. It's puzzling."
"At times human, at times a predator," Will mused. After a moment of thought, he said almost wistfully, "Imagine someone imprisoned by shackles—constrained by the rigid expectations of society, the crushing demands of a work environment, the critical eyes of friends, and the stifling warmth of family love. Each time he attempts to break free to unearth his true self, those constraints tighten their grip, dragging him back into the depths of concealment. But just imagine—what if those shackles suddenly crumbled away?"
"He'd feel liberated. But why would he revert to those old restraints after experiencing that freedom?" Clarice asked, her mind racing.
"Funny enough, it's like experiencing phantom pain." Will's words danced with a wry humour, and Clarice couldn't help but let the corners of her lips twitch as well.
"A Phantom with phantom pain? How does that work?"
"Even without the physical chains, the echoes remain. He stumbles back into caution when shadows from his past appear. The victims who unsettled him… they must have said or done something that struck a nerve, resonating with the warnings he received from his jailers."
"Jailers?"
"Friends and family," he replied casually.
Clarice felt a mix of confusion and concern racing through her mind. What kind of friends and family does Will Graham have? If the rumours are true, his friends actually sent him to jail once. Perhaps some of his flippancy was justified given the circumstances.
"You really speak as if you have access to the killer's mind—perhaps even a comprehension that surpasses his own grasp of his thoughts and impulses," Clarice stated, admiration seeping into her tone.
"That happens to be my specialty, Agent Starling. Were you not briefed on that before your visit today?"
"I was aware; I had heard whispers and rumours, but experiencing it firsthand is something else," she admitted, her brow furrowing in thought.
Will merely shrugged, his posture relaxed and nonchalant, as if the extraordinary nature of his thoughts was merely commonplace. Clarice found herself captivated by the subtle flickers of emotions that danced like shadows across his face, each expression a riddle she desperately yearned to solve. Yet, the answers remained frustratingly elusive, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
Realizing she had been staring too long, she abruptly cleared her throat, hastily redirecting her focus to the case at hand.
"Have you ever encountered a killer like him before?"
"I have."
"Who was it?" she pressed, curiosity tugging at her.
"I don't think it would be wise for me to say. You are so impressionable that you might draw connections that simply aren't there."
"Impressionable?" she echoed, caught off guard.
"We began this conversation by viewing the Phantom Killer as an enigmatic figure, devoid of gender," he explained, his voice steady yet laced with a subtle challenge. "But the moment I referred to them as 'him,' you accepted it without question."
Clarice felt a sudden rush of heat flood her cheeks, a visceral reaction to his accusation.
"It... it's a fair assumption, considering the..." she fumbled for words, her mind racing to catch up.
"Yet it wasn't an assumption you made, was it? And assumptions are far from facts. It's precisely how innocent people end up behind bars."
Determined to stand her ground, Clarice held his gaze, every nerve in her body tingling under the weight of his scrutiny. Despite the charged atmosphere, an unexpected laugh escaped her lips—equal parts disbelief and amusement.
"You know, I've heard other stories about you too—about your teaching methods. You were the teacher everyone adored and resented in equal measure. Hated for your strictness and bluntness but adored for your brilliance. I think I understand now," she said, locking eyes with him. "If you had stayed at the Academy, you would have been my teacher too," she added, a wistful tone threading through her words.
"In some other world, perhaps," he replied softly, almost to himself, a trace of nostalgia flickering across his face. "But you'll be relieved to know that I have no plans to return to the classroom anytime soon."
"Actually, I was really looking forward to it. I was disappointed when I heard you resigned," Clarice confessed, a nervous smile breaking through her resolve. "Having you as my teacher would have been incredible. I still remember poring over your paper on the time of death by insect activity during my undergrad. I've been following your work ever since; I couldn't wait to learn from you..."
A wave of embarrassment washed over her, creeping up her neck as heat rushed to her cheeks. Had she revealed too much of herself, laid bare her admiration a touch too openly?
"Um, anyway..." she stammered, eager to shift the conversation, "You mentioned there was another killer, someone similar. What happened with that case? Did they ever catch the person?"
"That case... doesn't have an ending yet," Will's voice grew distant, revealing a peculiar detachment.
Clarice felt a tug of curiosity but chose to hold back, sensing that pushing him further might be a mistake—at least for the moment.
Her expression transformed, instantly blooming into one of urgent sincerity, as if the weight of the moment had anchored her resolve.
"We could really use your help," she breathed, almost in a whisper, the intensity of her plea surprising even herself.
Will's eyebrow arched, a flicker of intrigue igniting in his gaze at her unexpected fervour.
"With the case," she hurried to elaborate, her heartbeat quickening with each word. "I genuinely believe you could make a significant impact. Zeller keeps insisting how many more cases we could solve if you were on board."
He released a soft, bemused chuckle, a mixture of surprise and disbelief playing across his features.
"Funny. There was a time when Zeller would have thrown a party at the mere thought of me staying away," he said, shaking his head as if amused by a distant memory.
"Not anymore, I assure you. You should have heard them yesterday—Zeller and Price were practically ready to go for each other's throats. Zeller was actually the one who told me how to find you," she confided.
"Hmm, how things change," he mused. "Strangely, I kind of miss those two. I wasn't planning on it, but it is what it is."
"Seems Jack Crawford is the only one determined to keep you away," she added, sympathy seeping into her words.
"Like I said, how things change," Will replied, his tone growing reflective as his gaze drifted away.
"What really happened between you two?"
He hesitated, his brow furrowing as if wrestling with the right words.
"We just couldn't align on some fundamental aspects," he said finally, trailing off as if each word was a fragile thread.
"A clash of personalities?"
"More like a clash of natures," he countered, his words sharp.
"What does that mean? What's your nature, Mr. Graham?" she challenged, a newfound confidence surging within her that had been absent until now.
"Now, I wouldn't be much of a teacher if I simply handed you all the answers, would I?" His voice held a teasing note, leaving Clarice unsure if he was mocking her or inviting her into a challenge.
"But you aren't my teacher," she shot back, her voice steadier than she felt.
"No, but for what it's worth, I believe I would enjoy the chance to teach you," he replied earnestly, his sincerity wrapping around her like a warm blanket—stirring something deep within her, a flicker of recognition she rarely experienced.
"Alright then," she declared, her determination hardening her stance like steel. "Let's pretend you are my teacher. Let's imagine it's some other world. Teach me."
With renewed conviction, she pulled out another file—one she had covertly acquired from Zeller and Price just the day before.
Will regarded her with a look that was difficult to comprehend, a mix of emotions swirling in his eyes, feelings speaking that ancient language she felt utterly unprepared to understand.
"What is that?" he asked, his voice low and edged.
"His… the Phantom's," she quickly corrected herself, "latest victim—a 52-year-old male. This hasn't been released to the public yet. The victim was strangled, consistent with the pattern of all his previous victims, but the scene was even more chillingly calm than the others. There were no signs of a struggle whatsoever. Every wound found on him was inflicted after death. Well, to be precise, there was just one injury. Just a gush across his chest, revealing the heart."
She extended her hand with the file, an act that felt eerily reminiscent of passing a document to an inmate—careful and deliberate. Graham's sharp gaze caught the movement.
"No need to be so cautious, Agent Starling," he said, a wry smile curving his lips. "I promise I don't bite… well, I did once, but he wasn't a very nice guy." The last part slipped from his lips as a low mutter, almost self-amused.
Will's eyes flicked over the contents of the file, his focus unnaturally intense, as if he were peeling back layers of meaning hidden within. Clarice watched him with fascination igniting in her chest, almost visualizing the thoughts flitting around in his mind like fireflies dancing in the dark. One specific line seemed to anchor him, drawing him into contemplation.
"Dr. Chilton consulted," he murmured, a thoughtful air creeping into his tone. "How is Fredric doing? The last time I saw him, he looked a bit... brittle."
"I don't really know him," Clarice admitted, her brow furrowing slightly. "We've had only a few brief encounters. I know he's been through a lot—several surgeries in the past year alone. It's almost miraculous that he not only survived but is managing to thrive." She paused, glancing at Will, who wore an enigmatic smile, as if he were holding a private joke.
"Not surprised at all," he replied lightly. "It's been scientifically proven that a severed head of a cockroach can still wave its antennae if given the right nutrients."
Clarice blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Did you… know Dr. Chilton well?"
"We've met a few times," he said, his voice hinting at complexity, as if memories danced on the tip of his tongue. "We shared some pleasant conversations… and quite a few unpleasant ones."
But before Clarice could ask more about the situation, she noticed a change in Will's gaze once again. His eyes closed slowly, and when they opened again, they reflected a different man altogether—someone imbued with a sense of darkness, as though shadows from the depths of his mind had been summoned to the surface.
A chill ran down Clarice's spine as Will Graham seemed to vanish before her. That darkness shimmered in his piercing gaze, an unsettling mix of something both alien and achingly familiar, almost like a long-forgotten memory slipping back into consciousness.
"This one does not belong to his design," he murmured, his voice low.
"What?" Clarice blurted out.
"This murder was not part of the Phantom's design."
Just then, Will's hand reached for the autopsy photos. Suddenly, he recoiled, his body going rigid as if an unseen force had struck him. Clarice, caught in the moment, froze beside him.
Will Graham appeared… mesmerized. A warm, almost ethereal light flickered in his eyes as he traced the edges of the photograph, his fingers gliding with both tenderness and eerie reverence. It was as if he were caressing a treasured relic, starkly contrasting with the gruesome horror captured in the image. Uneasy fascination twisted in Clarice's gut.
"This..." Will whispered, his voice trailing off and his brows knitted together.
Clarice felt a rush of urgency swell within her, an uncontrollable impulse to share her thoughts, even as a cautious voice warned her to remain silent.
"This wound feels intimate," she let slip, her words barely audible.
She braced herself, anticipating the familiar wave of revulsion she feared would wash over him, the sharp reprimand she imagined would follow, or perhaps the bewildered expression that questioned her sanity for uttering such a thought.
To her astonishment, Will's response was not the judgment she expected. Instead, his expression bore a calmness that felt almost soothing. When their eyes met, she didn't see contempt; rather, she saw a reflection of her own thoughts—a deep, abiding understanding.
"Yes, it was inflicted with deep devotion, with love," he said, his voice steady and resonant.
Clarice's heart raced, each beat echoing her mixture of uncertainty and hope, threatening to overflow. There was no judgment in his gaze—no hidden disdain lurking beneath the surface. Instead, he truly understood her; he grasped the essence of her thoughts, and in that understanding, she found a glimmer of solace.
"You think there's a connection between the latest victim and the killer?" she asked, her breath hitching, yet her hunger for knowledge kept her pushing forward.
"No. This victim is merely a canvas. The killer was painting a picture for someone else."
"For whom?"
Will directed a penetrating gaze at her, his eyes intense enough to make her stomach twist in anticipation.
"Why do you think the Phantom kills, Agent Starling?" he asked, instead of answering her question.
Clarice took a deep breath to ground herself, pushing aside the rush of exhilaration that threatened to overwhelm her.
"I..." she started, clearing her throat. "I believe this individual"—she emphasized the words deliberately, avoiding pronouns—"is someone driven by a craving for more than just ordinary thrills. They find typical rewards painfully mundane, while a restless boredom plagues their thoughts. This person hungers for deeper experiences that ignite genuine fear and present real challenges."
As her words flowed, Clarice felt her heart racing faster than before, each beat echoing the urgency of her thoughts. She paused, searching for a reaction, and locked eyes with Will Graham.
The disappointment etched on his face struck her like a lightning bolt. It felt as if her heart had seized in her chest.
"Am I wrong?" she asked, her voice betraying a flicker of panic.
Will merely shrugged, his aloofness a chilling barrier, his silence a judgment that cut deeper than any words could.
"I suppose we'll find out once we catch him."
Rather than succumbing to despair, a wave of unexpected hope surged within Clarice, warm and invigorating.
"We?"
His reply was steady and confident.
"Yes, I'll help you track down your Phantom, Agent Starling, but I have two conditions."
"Name them," she replied, her eagerness evident in her tone, excitement thrumming through her veins.
He considered her for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his thoughts.
"First, I need the full autopsy reports on every victim—past and future. And..." he paused, his gaze drifting to the photograph cradled carefully in his hand, "I want to keep this picture."
Clarice felt a wave of confusion wash over her, a storm of questions brewing beneath the surface. Yet, underneath the uncertainty, there was an inexplicable willingness to comply, as if the warmth in his voice thawed any reservations. A strange sense of trust blossomed within her, compelling her towards agreement.
"That can be arranged. I know Price has already uploaded all the photos to the computer, so I'm sure he won't miss this one."
Will's lips curled into an enigmatic smile, the corners of his mouth softening his intensity and lending him an almost disarming charm.
"Thank you. Let's meet again tomorrow, Agent Starling," he said, his voice warm and inviting, like a promise wrapped in genuine sincerity.
In that instant, something profound shifted within Clarice. The familiar sting of being overlooked dissolved, replaced by a rush of recognition. She yearned to articulate the flood of thoughts and theories swirling in her mind, eager to share and discuss them with Will Graham, curious to see which ones held weight. No longer did she feel the same reservations that had plagued her interactions with Agent Crawford; with Will, she felt truly seen. A delightful anticipation bubbled within her, mingling with the thrill of possibilities.
Yet, amidst this excitement, she didn't feel the need to rush; she understood that the moment wouldn't disappear if she didn't seize it right away. She knew there would be other opportunities, and she could afford to be patient. Unconsciously, her gaze drifted to the lure bobbing in the water—motionless yet gently swaying in the breeze, just waiting to be taken. Will Graham sat nearby, calm and patient as well, though nothing was biting. His lack of impatience mirrored her own.
"I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Graham," she said, her voice a blend of resolve and warmth.
As she turned to leave, a drumbeat of adrenaline echoed in her chest, propelling her forward. Yet, just a few steps away, an insatiable urge drew her to look back.
Will Graham still sat there, his gaze transfixed on the photograph before him, his expression a rich tapestry woven with threads of nostalgia and yearning. Each detail of the image seemed to pull him in further. Meanwhile, Clarice found herself wrestling with an unsettling thought that slithered back into her consciousness—the gripping image of a lone wolf lurking in the shadows, its powerful form coiled with anticipation, nostrils flaring as it inhaled the intoxicating scent of something tantalizingly out of reach.
Will Graham sank into his well-worn armchair, feeling the soft embrace of the aged leather cradle him in the cozy shadows of his dimly lit living room. At his feet, three dogs sprawled lazily, their gentle breaths creating a soothing harmony that enveloped him and eased the solitude of the evening. Outside, the untamed wilderness stretched infinitely, surrounding his little home like a hidden gem—a peaceful refuge from the relentless chaos of the world.
He lifted a glass of rich whiskey to his lips, savouring the velvety warmth that coursed through him as he focused on the photograph he tightly clutched in his hand.
In that image, he recognized the chilling mark of someone profoundly familiar.
A smile broke across Will's face as he brushed his fingers over the photo's surface, tracing its grainy texture. A thrill of anticipation surged through him, sending a shiver down his spine—a sensation that had long lain dormant, now awakening a flicker of hope that danced within him. He had been preparing for this moment with steadfast determination, counting each day as if they were precious grains of sand slipping silently through an hourglass.
Will's lips curled into a grin, exhilaration flowing through him like an old, familiar tide; he was back.
Hannibal was back.