The first time Clarice Starling heard the name Hannibal Lecter, she was still at university. Sitting cross-legged on the worn carpet, she was surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and crumpled notes, while a battalion of empty coffee cups bore witness to her caffeine-fuelled late-night study marathons. It was the end of the winter term, finals were approaching, and her introductory forensic anthropology exam was in four days. Yet, she still could not name the ligaments connecting the atlas bone and the occipital bone.
She knew she desperately needed to study, but all rationale had left her mind as she kept staring at the tiny TV screen in the corner of the room, completely captivated by what she was watching. She was so immersed that she didn't even notice the soft jingle of keys, the creak of the door, or the sound of footsteps crossing the threshold until a voice came from right behind her.
"What are you watching?"
Startled, Clarice let out a squeak and spun around to find her roommate, Ardelia Mapp, standing in the doorway with an amused smile on her lips.
"Shit, don't sneak up on me like that!"
Ardelia raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't sneaking; you've just been off in your little la-la-land…"
"Okay, okay, whatever," Clarice brushed her off, her eyes darting back to the screen. "Have you heard about this?" she asked, urgently pointing at the TV, where Jack Crawford of the FBI stood under the flickering flashes of cameras, fending off questions from a horde of eager journalists.
Ardelia looked at the screen, her brown eyes lighting up in recognition.
"Oh, yeah. I heard some talk about it in the cafeteria. They caught the Chesapeake Ripper, huh?" she replied, her tone surprisingly muted, lacking the enthusiasm one might expect from such news.
"It's not just that!" Clarice exclaimed, her voice rising with excitement. "The Chesapeake Ripper turned out to be this high-society psychiatrist! He was treating all these rich, influential people while secretly killing… for years! He was right there among them, blending in perfectly with the elite."
Ardelia tilted her head slightly, a flicker of interest breaking through her cool demeanour.
"That's a textbook psychopath for you, I guess," she remarked with a shrug. "Honestly, if I found out my therapist was a cannibalistic serial killer, I'd feel a lot saner by comparison," she added with a chuckle. But Clarice felt a prick of irritation; Ardelia just didn't get it, did she?
Turning to face her roommate fully, Clarice pressed on. "It's not just some textbook psychopath. They've already interviewed some of his colleagues. This Dr. Chilton said that Lecter used to host these lavish dinner parties, bringing together people from every corner of high society—including members of the FBI! And he served them human meat."
Ardelia's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and disgust washing over her face. "Ew! Seriously? I did NOT need to hear that right after lunch," she groaned, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
"But don't you see?" Clarice insisted. "This isn't just some garden-variety murderer! This—this is something much darker… This is…" She faltered, searching for the right words. "God, I don't even know. Is there even a name for this?"
"That guy sure has a few names for it," Ardelia said, nodding toward the screen. Clarice turned her attention to Jack Crawford, who was seething with disdain as he spat the words,
"… He might think himself untouchable, but he's nothing but a narcissistic sadist—just another psychopath who will be brought to justice like all the others before him…"
"Geez, he's really worked up," Ardelia murmured, unable to stifle a grin.
"They said in the segment before that he might've been one of the attendees at Dr. Lecter's infamous parties," she added, cringing at the thought.
"Wow, poor guy. He does look oddly familiar… Do we know him?"
Clarice shot her a frustrated look. "He was one of the guest speakers in our Introduction to Forensic Psychology course during our first year. How could you possibly forget that?"
Ardelia shrugged, a carefree smile playing on her lips. "I have a vague memory of something…"
Clarice huffed in disbelief. "That's because you waltzed in half an hour late! It was an incredible lecture. That's when I decided I wanted to join his unit at the FBI. How can you not remember that? You want to be an agent too!"
Another shrug. "Sure, but I'm more into the lab work—way less interaction with, you know, people."
"Come on, people are what makes this field so fascinating!"
"Let's just agree to disagree on that," Ardelia quipped, her attention suddenly snapping back to the screen. "Wait, is that the cannibal doctor?" Her eyes widened as she pointed at the television.
Clarice turned, her heart racing as recognition washed over her. "Yeah, that's him! Holy shit, he testified during that Will Graham trial!"
And what a courtroom drama that trial had been! She had fervently followed it through news reports and on-screen footage for weeks while it was happening.
"Huh, he really does give off that unsettling serial killer vibe," Ardelia remarked, her eyes glued to the television. "I can't believe nobody caught on sooner." Unable to contain her amusement, Ardelia let out a snort. "Can you imagine having a cannibalistic psychopath as a character witness in a trial for the very murders that psychopath committed?"
"It's not like anyone knew back then," Clarice reminded her, shaking her head, still trying to process the absurdity of it all.
"Well, it looks like the good doctor has really gotten under some people's skin," Ardelia mused, a smirk playing on her lips. "I bet the trial will be quick. If there even is a trial. They might just throw him in a chair and call it a day."
"I hope not," Clarice blurted out, earning her a curious glance from Ardelia.
"Feeling a bit of sympathy for a cannibalistic serial killer, Starling? That's... quite an unusual stance."
Clarice rolled her eyes. "It's not that. It's just… it's so rare to catch a killer like that alive. A highly educated killer, a psychiatrist, no less? Imagine the potential! He could become the most compelling case study in American criminal history. I'd give anything for the chance to sit down and talk with someone like him. He has to be fascinating..."
"Fascinating? No. Scary and dangerous, definitely," Ardelia said, shuddering at the thought.
With another exasperated sigh, Clarice insisted, "Someone like him will be locked away in a highly secure prison with solid bars, reinforced glass, and every kind of restraint imaginable. It's not like I'd be inviting him over for tea or anything!"
Ardelia shook her head. "Yeah, I still think I'd pass and stick to the lab, thanks."
Clarice cast a lingering glance at her friend before turning her attention back to the screen. Ardelia simply did not understand.
The news broadcasts flashed one after another, each filled with images and videos of Hannibal Lecter. Some were from long ago, while others were recent, showcasing his rise to infamy. The broadcasts highlighted everything from his eloquent speaking engagements to elegant opera performances he attended, and even grainy photos from his consultations at crime scenes. He actually consulted on crime scenes!
In every frame, no matter the setting, Lecter radiated an unsettling charm, poised and confident, completely at ease—like a predator among prey.
A familiar thrill coursed through her. The idea of studying someone as complex as him filled her with giddy anticipation. She couldn't shake the hope that, somewhere down the road in her career, she might have the chance to request a visitation—or even just a simple questionnaire—offering a fleeting glimpse into the enigma that was Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Her fingers fidgeted, rubbing against each other in a steady, almost desperate rhythm. Time had dulled the edge of her frayed nerves, and a soft blanket draped over her shoulders offered a fleeting sense of comfort. Yet beneath her skin, an unsettling itch persisted, a reminder that all was not well; that something had indeed happened.
Her gaze drifted toward the stunning Italian murals adorning the walls—pieces she had admired just an hour ago—now cast in an eerie glow from the flashing blue lights of police cars outside.
Looking through the windows was blinding; she squinted against the brightness. She couldn't even count the number of responders gathered outside, but it was enough to line the entire street.
Amid the flurry of activity, she spotted the waitress—the one whose phone she had borrowed—being bombarded with relentless questions from the agents next to her. The poor woman visibly trembled, clearly disturbed by the sudden turn of events. Clarice felt a pang of regret in her chest. The waitress had probably been having a fairly normal day, maybe even a fairly normal life, and now she was thrown into this mess… kind of like Clarice.
"Alright," a commanding voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her gaze upward to find Jack Crawford standing over her. His eyes were wide, and he was breathing in quick, ragged bursts—likely a remnant of the orders he had been issuing for the last fifteen minutes: 'Check the premises! Search every building within a five-mile radius! Interview everyone!'
Clarice glanced around, seeing the agents and officers frantically running about; none dared to defy even the most outlandish commands from an angry Jack Crawford.
With a grating screech, Crawford dragged a chair across the floor and positioned himself directly in front of her, his gaze pinning her in place.
"Once more, but with details this time," he demanded.
Clarice sighed. "I received a phone call from an unknown number," she began, trying to steady her voice. "At first, nothing seemed unusual. But then he mentioned 'Uncle Jack'—I suspect that was directed at you, sir..."
"More specifics!" Jack interrupted sharply. "I want every detail, every word. Repeat it exactly as it was said."
A shiver raced down Clarice's spine as she locked eyes with him. There was nothing but urgency in his gaze, as if he were teetering on the edge of mania. Maybe she should just follow the lead of the people around her and comply with his request without question.
She took a breath and began to recount the conversation in full. It wasn't particularly difficult; although the beginning was a bit foggy, the moment she realized the identity of the caller was something that would stay etched in her memory forever.
Crawford hung on her every word, his expression shifting from focused intent to moments of narrowed eyes and twitched muscles.
A part of Clarice felt an absurd urge to laugh. So, this was the key to grabbing Jack Crawford's full and undivided attention: just become a target of a serial killer. Or, more precisely, this particular serial killer.
"…then, I believe he said something like, 'I wish to acquaint myself with the rest of the pieces on the board…'"
"Did he? How fucking friendly of him," Will Graham muttered, his words laced with a bitter edge.
Clarice's head whipped around, caught off guard by his tone—or perhaps by the simple fact that he was finally speaking at all.
There was something unsettlingly... off about Will, a subtle yet profound dissonance that set her on edge.
Called in by Jack Crawford the moment the initial police patrol arrived, Will had shown up even before Crawford himself. But, as soon as he heard that Hannibal Lecter was after her... Clarice couldn't shake the feeling that something within him had shifted. He became... distant?
She had so many questions for him, but Will was unwilling to answer any of them. Instead of engaging, he retreated, leaning motionless against the wall as if he wanted to merge with it—rigid and stoic. His eyes were tightly shut, and his breath was so shallow it was almost imperceptible. Even when Crawford arrived, rushing past with the rest of the agents, Will remained an unmoving figure: present yet utterly absent.
Clarice tried to reassure herself. Maybe he just needed a moment to gather himself; the thought of Hannibal Lecter being nearby might have triggered something in him. Clarice felt rattled herself, knowing only the stories about the man. Will had lived those stories, and she could only guess at the scars Lecter had left behind. Perhaps Will had a right to feel a bit unsettled.
But despite her efforts to remain calm, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling she got every time she looked at Will's motionless figure. It wasn't fear or shock that she saw in him. As she studied his clenched fists, knuckles nearly white, she knew;
It was anger.
She wanted to say something to him now that he finally spoke, but just as she opened her mouth, a pair of fingers snapped sharply in front of her face, pulling her back.
"Hey, focus up. I want every detail—don't leave anything out," Jack commanded, throwing a brief, pointed glare at Will, who still stood there with his eyes closed, oblivious.
She directed her attention away from Will and concentrated on her task, relaying what was said to the best of her ability. She felt she was doing well until…
"…and then he asked…" Her pulse quickened as she stumbled over her words.
'Do you love Will Graham?'
The very thought sent a chill down her spine. God, she couldn't repeat that question to Jack Crawford, could she? And in front of Will, too?
"He asked what my relationship with Will is," she deflected, noticing how Will's body tensed at her half-truth, his eyes still tightly closed.
"And then?" Crawford pressed, relentless.
"I... just froze. I didn't know how to respond. Eventually, he simply said, 'Well, that's unfortunate.'"
She heard a low huff escape Will's lips, far from amused and more irritated than anything else.
"And then he mentioned… that name thing?" Crawford said, his voice tight. Clarice nodded slowly, recalling the moment.
"Yeah. And as soon as I heard 'Clara', I thought of…"
"Chrysanthemum Clara Curtis," Will interrupted, his eyes still shut, pressed even tighter as if trying to block something out.
Clarice looked at him for a moment longer, feeling completely ill-equipped to interpret his facial expression, and finally sighed and nodded, "Yeah."
A low growl of frustration escaped Crawford's lips.
"He's toying with us! That bastard is doing it again—playing the same twisted game!" He fumed, not directing his words at anyone in particular, just unleashing his frustration into the air.
But in an instant, he turned his gaze to Will.
"And why the hell are you just standing there?"
Crawford's words seemed to snap Will awake. It was only then that he opened his eyes, and Clarice felt a shiver run down her spine from the icy fury burning in his expression.
"What exactly am I supposed to be doing, Jack?" Will replied blandly.
Crawford threw his hands up, exasperation radiating off him. "Anything! Anything you can think of! Anything that might help us catch that bastard—NOW!"
"You've got dozens of agents canvassing everything in a five-mile radius. I think you have things covered..."
"I thought you said you'd keep her safe!" Crawford's voice rose, the accusation sharp and echoing.
Clarice's eyes widened as she noticed officers around them turning hesitantly to watch the confrontation.
Will remained unfazed, his expression blank. But Crawford's gaze bore into him, filled with a mix of anger and disbelief. "What the hell happened with that, Will? It's only been a day!"
Clarice exchanged nervous glances between the two men. She had no idea what they were talking about, but whatever it was, it made Will's eyes darken.
"I didn't think Hannibal would take this path," Will admitted, his voice low and measured as he faced Crawford.
"You didn't think...? You didn't think for a second about what Lecter might do? You?" Crawford's voice dripped with scorn, disbelief punctuating each word. Yet Will didn't flinch; he held his ground with a disconcerting calmness that seemed to aggravate Crawford even further.
"I misinterpreted certain aspects," Will replied, his gaze unwavering. "I believed there was an understanding between us. Clearly, I was mistaken." The last words came out almost as a snarl.
"What the hell does that even mean?" Crawford snapped.
"It means there are critical issues that need to be addressed between me and him." Will's voice remained steady, but Clarice noticed the way his jaw clenched and how his fingers twitched. It was subtle, but for the first time, Clarice could see a clear emotion emanating from Will Graham; he was furious.
Agent Crawford seemed oblivious to Will's tension as he moved aggressively closer, looming over him instantly.
"You really think this is the time for your cryptic comments and games, Will? Is that what you believe? You were the one who insisted that the key to Hannibal's next victim was hidden in that last body, and it's painfully clear he intends for Starling to be his next target…"
"I know that, Jack. Back the hell off!" Will snapped, and for a moment, Crawford looked startled, completely caught off guard. He actually took a step back, as if his instincts compelled him to put some distance between them. In that fleeting second, Clarice could have sworn she saw goosebumps spread across Crawford's arms.
Holding her breath, she watched as Will's expression calmed, the dangerous glint in his eyes fading as he took a deep breath.
"…And she's one of the targets. If you want to be specific," Will added, much calmer now, but his tone still edged.
"What?" Crawford blurted out, clearly still thrown off.
Will shot Crawford an impatient glance. "There were three types of flowers there, Jack. Clarice represents only one of them. There are two more."
Realization washed over Crawford, his expression transforming into one of dawning horror. "So, he won't just stop at three victims this time? He plans to claim five?"
Will merely shrugged, an easy, dismissive gesture that drew a frustrated huff from Crawford. This time, though, he didn't snap at him. Instead, he looked at him expectantly, but Will seemed in no hurry to provide answers he hadn't been asked for.
Clarice watched with wide eyes, her attention flitting nervously between the two men. It felt like they were locked in an unspoken standoff.
With a resigned sigh, she cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "Do you have any idea who the other targets might be?"
Will finally turned to look at her, his gaze intense and filled with so many emotions that Clarice couldn't hope to sort through them all. She could only gulp nervously.
"Yes," he replied, his tone clipped. Then he pivoted back to Crawford. "That's why, Jack, I need you to assign the highest level of security for Molly Campbell."
"Who is…?" Crawford started but Will cut him off before he could finish.
"You knew her as Molly Graham."
Clarice immediately connected the dots. "The Allium moly flower… Is that for your ex-wife?"
Crawford let out a frustrated huff, his annoyance evident. "The poor woman divorced you and still can't catch a break, huh?"
Will shot him a sharp glare, irritation flashing across his face. "Just make sure she's under protection until we can sort this mess out."
Crawford rubbed his temple, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "Honestly, the best move would be to get them out of the country. And Agent Starling, too."
Clarice felt her heart sink, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Send her away? Out of the country…?
Before she could fully process what she was doing, she abruptly stood up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders and pooling on the floor.
"Sir! I really don't think—"
"Jack, that's not a viable long-term solution," Will cut in firmly before Clarice could finish her sentence. "No matter where you send her, he'll always find a way to track them down. Even if you were to hide her away in… oh, I don't know, Australia." His tone was casual, almost flippant, but Clarice could hear the edge in it.
She frowned. "...Why Australia?"
"Telopea speciosissima, the symbol of New South Wales," Will replied without skipping a beat. He then turned to face Crawford more squarely. "That's where Alana is."
In an instant, Crawford's demeanour shifted; he froze.
"Who's Alana...?" Clarice asked, confusion lacing her words, but she was met with a blistering glare from Crawford that silenced her.
"That's not for you to—"
"A mutual friend of ours," Will interjected smoothly. Crawford's sharp gaze whipped back to him, suspicion radiating from his expression.
"And how do you know exactly where that friend of ours is?"
"She told me before they left—just in case."
"Seems you know a lot of things that you're not sharing, Will. What else do you know?" Crawford leaned in, and Clarice could almost feel the room's temperature drop.
Will narrowed his eyes, his expression tightening. "I do not know where Hannibal is if that's what you're really asking."
"Did you hear me asking that?" Crawford's voice dripped with menace.
"You were strongly implying it," Will countered.
"Agent Crawford, I don't think taking your frustration out on Will is helping us right now," Clarice interjected firmly. The words spilled out before she could reconsider, provoking Crawford's piercing glare to shift toward her.
"My frustration?" he echoed, his voice low. "Your association with Will Graham has just put you in the gravest danger of your entire life. Where is your frustration?"
Honestly, Clarice hadn't considered it that way. She glanced at Will, who was also looking at her, an expectant expression on his face as if waiting for her to respond. A painful squeeze gripped her chest.
"It wasn't... it isn't Will's fault," she asserted with conviction. "Hannibal Lecter's actions are beyond his control. He shouldn't be blamed for that. Our enemy here is Lecter, not each other. I, for one, would like us to focus on putting him behind bars before he takes another victim."
'… before he takes me.' The thought remained unspoken, but the implication was clear, especially as Clarice's lips trembled at the end of her statement.
"That is exactly why I think we should send you far away from here…" Crawford began, urgency lacing his voice.
"That won't do any good," Will interjected.
Crawford clenched his fists at his sides. "Well, we can't just stand around doing nothing!"
"We won't," Will replied, and Clarice hoped he wouldn't roll his eyes at Agent Crawford, even though his tone strongly suggested he wanted to. "But we still have some time before Hannibal makes his next move."
Clarice couldn't help but feel a small spark of hope ignite in her chest. "We do?"
Will turned to her again, finally leaving his spot by the wall and walking over to them.
"He won't kill you right away," he assured her, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. "Hannibal thrives on theatrics. He'll take his time to enjoy the accolades of his latest performance."
But Clarice still felt a knot tighten in her stomach. "And after that?"
"He'll still draw it out," Will continued, his expression darkening. "When Hannibal feels… wronged, he can be frustratingly petty. He can play with his food for years without taking a single bite. He's perfectly content just pushing it around on his plate."
His words made Clarice's spine shiver. Surprisingly, it wasn't just because of what he said; it was his tone. As Will spoke, his anger shifted—not diminishing, but transforming. No longer was it the fervent indignation she expected; instead, it morphed into something like... a fond exasperation? No, she must be reading it wrong.
Crawford shot Will a sharp look. "I'm not sure that's making her feel any better, Will."
Will shrugged. "It was an observation, not a consolation."
"It is oddly reassuring, though," Clarice interjected, letting out a nervous laugh. "At least it means I have a few more days before, you know... ending up on a plate?"
"That's the spirit," Will intoned, causing the corners of Clarice's mouth to twitch.
"Wonderful, glad to see you're all chipper now," Crawford snapped, irritation creeping back into his voice. "What about more practical terms? What exactly is the next move here?"
At that, Will's jaw clenched again, as if the very thought of what he was about to say made him tense.
"Hannibal thinks things will be just as he left them. He believes we're going to play his game by his rules," Will stated, a hint of defiance lacing his voice.
"I assume we won't be doing that?" Jack grumbled.
Will shot him an impatient look. "No, we won't. We'll track down where Hannibal is hiding; we'll be the ones coming after him, not the other way around."
Crawford regarded him with a deep, thoughtful expression, something in his eyes tense. "So, we're not just fishing him out this time, are we? We're hunting him down?" His words dripped with deliberate intent, and Clarice felt there was some hidden meaning that she wasn't quite grasping. The way Will turned meaningfully to Crawford seemed to confirm it.
"The fishing expedition didn't work so well last time, did it?" Will said, a dark undertone in his voice.
Clarice felt a shiver run down her spine, unsure if it was out of fear or excitement—maybe both.
"And just where do you propose we dig up that information on his whereabouts?" Crawford challenged, crossing his arms defensively, his skepticism evident.
Instead of answering him, Will's attention suddenly shifted to Clarice, catching her off guard with an intense gaze that felt almost penetrating. "How are you holding up, Clarice?"
She blinked. "Me? I'm... fine," she stuttered, her voice faltering slightly.
Will maintained his piercing stare, clearly expecting a more sincere response.
Clarice swallowed hard, "I'm still a bit rattled, but I'm feeling better now," she finally admitted. "If you're asking because you're considering sending me home, please don't. Honestly, I'll go crazy just sitting around and doing nothing. I want to help."
It wasn't as if she could recuse herself from the case anymore. Hannibal Lecter had made sure that walking away wasn't an option.
Will watched her for a moment, his expression softening as a flicker of understanding appeared in his eyes, as if he could somehow read her mind.
"Great. Then we're going on a little road trip," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic, but his words fell flat against his gritted teeth.
"Where to?" Clarice asked.
She immediately noticed him tense up; his jaw clenched even more. His voice came out low and gravelly, simmering with frustration.
"We're going to visit Bluebeard's ex-wife."
The drive turned out to be unexpectedly crowded, becoming one of the most surreal road trips Clarice had ever experienced. Jack Crawford was at the wheel, his expression intense and focused, while Will Graham sat in the front seat, occasionally glancing back to check on her. She tried to respond with a reassuring smile, though it felt strained under the circumstances.
Trapped in the backseat, she was flanked by two FBI agents who seemed to have been chosen at random to act as her temporary bodyguards while they hunted down Hannibal Lecter—or, more precisely, while Hannibal Lecter was hunting her, though no one wanted to say it out loud.
Neither of the agents appeared particularly chatty; both were clearly unhappy about being assigned to this task but were too professional to show it beyond their rigid posture and blank expressions. The feeling of reluctance was mutual. Unfortunately, any protests she mustered against this arrangement had fallen flat against Crawford's steadfast resolve.
Clarice squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, earning a short, annoyed glance from the agents. Honestly, she felt more like a prisoner than a protected potential victim, especially with no clue about their destination. They had been on the road for 40 minutes now, with Will occasionally muttering directions like a reluctant GPS.
"Park here," Will finally instructed, pointing to a nondescript spot beside the road. "We don't want the car to spook her. Let's approach from the back."
Clarice perked up, scanning the surroundings with newfound interest. It looked like any ordinary suburban neighbourhood on the outskirts of Baltimore—bland houses and well-manicured lawns; nothing stood out.
"Starling, you're staying in the car," Crawford barked as he brought the vehicle to a halt.
"Really, Jack? Out of the three of us, she'd be the most welcome here," Will replied, raising an eyebrow.
"I have a feeling no one is welcome here," Crawford muttered, narrowing his eyes as he surveyed the area.
"Tough luck. We need those two at the other entrances in case she tries to bolt. Unless you want to leave Clarice alone in the car so Hannibal can abduct her more easily…"
"Alright, alright, I get it," Crawford relented, grumbling as he opened his door and got out of the vehicle.
Clarice sent a grateful look toward Will, who smiled back at her briefly. For once, it felt refreshing to have someone on her side, especially when it meant avoiding a clash with Jack over every little decision.
They moved in silence, their footsteps echoing on the pavement until they reached a house at the end of the street. It blended into its surroundings—not too big, not too small; not too extravagant, but not modest either—just an ordinary house that could easily be overlooked.
At Crawford's unspoken signal, the two agents fanned out to encircle the home, taking up strategic positions at the other entrances.
Will, Crawford, and Clarice approached one of the side entrances, where Crawford pressed the doorbell.
"Strange," Will mused, glancing skyward as if he were expecting to see something ominous. "I half-expected to see 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here' hanging from the eaves…"
"Will," Crawford warned, his tone sharp. "I need you to keep your cool in here."
Clarice couldn't help but look at him strangely. Was Jack Crawford telling someone else to keep their cool?
They waited a moment longer, but there was no sound coming from inside. Clarice's brow furrowed as she glanced at the darkened windows. "Looks like no one's home," she remarked, scanning for any sign of life and finding none.
"She's here," Will replied without a hint of doubt. "She doesn't go outside anymore." With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, glinting tool that caught the fading light. Kneeling before the door, he began to manipulate the lock with a deftness that made Clarice look at him in shock.
"What are you doing?" she whispered urgently.
"Just opening the door," Will said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
Clarice's eyes widened in alarm as the realization sank in.
"Will, this is really illegal," she said, incredulity lacing her words. She shot a glance at Crawford. "Agent Crawford…"
"Just look away, Agent Starling," Jack interjected, his gaze already wandering elsewhere, deliberately avoiding the unfolding scene with practiced ease.
Before Clarice could respond, a thud echoed. Will seized the ornate door handle and pushed it open with a swift motion.
"Oh, look, the door's open. We should probably go in and see if everything's all right inside," he said with a nonchalance that, under other circumstances, would surely have made her laugh.
As they passed the threshold, Clarice leaned closer to Will and whispered, "Is this one of those plans of yours and Crawford's that isn't exactly on the books?"
"Only if the homeowner files a complaint," Will whispered back.
They took only a few steps inside; their feet barely touched the polished marble floor when they heard the all-too-familiar clicking sound—the unmistakable sound of a weapon being readied.
In an instant, Clarice's hand went to her gun, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Crawford doing the same just as a new figure emerged from one of the adjoining hallways.
Clarice blinked in disbelief. A strikingly beautiful woman stood before them, exuding an otherworldly elegance that was almost daunting. Her golden curls tumbled effortlessly over her shoulders, and she wore a fitted black dress that hugged her every curve, contrasting sharply with the sleek prosthetic that replaced her left leg.
But it was the glinting handgun she held, pointed directly at Will, that captured Clarice's full attention.
"I wouldn't do that," Crawford warned, his gun already drawn and ready to use if necessary.
The woman seemed unfazed, barely acknowledging him, her gaze locked on Will as if nothing else mattered.
"Will," she said, the word dripping with unsettling familiarity. The way she pronounced it felt simultaneously like a caress and a threat.
"Bedelia," Will replied, using what Clarice assumed was the woman's name. However, the way Will spat it out suggested he saw it as profanity.
"You don't have an appointment," she stated bluntly, her voice sending a shiver down Clarice's spine.
"You don't have a choice," Will countered, his steely demeanour mirroring hers.
They locked eyes for what felt like an eternity, an unspoken battle of wills. Finally, the woman—Bedelia—shut her eyes briefly, a gesture of resignation washing over her features.
With a slow, deliberate motion, she lowered her gun.