Clarice stood in the cold FBI lab, excitement coursing through her veins. It had been ages since she had felt this way—too long, really. She couldn't even remember when her enthusiasm had begun to fade. All she knew was that it had gradually been smothered by an overwhelming amount of paperwork and bureaucratic red tape, like a slow boil that crept up on her, like a frog unaware of the rising temperature.
Now, she felt a flicker of that old passion reignite; it was as if she were waking from a long, heavy slumber.
Not even the meagre three hours of sleep she managed the night before could dampen her enthusiasm. Fueled by four cups of coffee, she propelled herself forward with no time to waste on trivial matters like rest—not when her mind was swirling with possibilities.
With renewed passion, she dove headfirst into the Phantom case, her thoughts racing as she intertwined the insights she had gathered from her conversation with Will Graham.
As she spoke to Zeller and Price, her hands moved animatedly through the air, emphasizing her words with fervour. She didn't even care that she was pacing back and forth frantically.
"... That's why we need to identify any inconsistencies in the victims' wounds—anything that disrupts the pattern. We need to delve deeper into these victims' lives—their personalities, movements, and speech patterns. I'm sure there will be some unmistakable similarities between them and significant people in the killer's life. If we cross-reference that information, we will finally be able to learn more about the Phantom's identity!"
Her lively presentation was met with silence as Zeller and Price exchanged worried glances. Clarice looked at them impatiently.
"What's wrong?" she challenged, a slight furrow in her brow.
Price raised his hands in mock defence, feigning innocence, while Zeller stood resolute with his hands stubbornly jammed into his pockets.
"Nothing at all. Everything you said makes perfect sense," Zeller offered, though his uncertainty was evident.
"Yeah, we're absolutely on the same page here," Price added, his eyes darting warily in Zeller's direction.
"Just… all of that doesn't really answer our question," Zeller pointed out, furrowing his brow as he fixed her with a searching stare.
Clarice blinked, caught off guard. "What was your question again?"
Zeller and Price exchanged another glance before Price finally asked; slowly and with emphasis,
"How is Will?"
Clarice blinked and responded a bit bashfully, "Oh, that—yeah, he's doing fine."
Zeller and Price exchanged glances, communicating yet another silent message. A prickle of irritation crawled over her. How many more of those silent exchanges could they have before it became ridiculous?
"Just to clarify…" Zeller began hesitantly, "When we ask how Will is doing, we're referring to both his physical and mental well-being."
Clarice frowned, folding her arms defensively. "As I said, he looked perfectly fine to me." Annoyed, she added, "Why are you two acting all…?"
"No reason!" Price piped up quickly. "Everything's just peachy. Just like you said, Will is fine, we're fine, everyone is fine."
Clarice shot him a flat stare. "I'm starting to think you're the one who's not fine…"
"Hey, did Will seem like he missed us?" Zeller asked, clearly trying to change the subject.
She paused for a moment before responding. "Reluctantly, but yes."
A grin broke across Price's face. "That's nice! Deep down, I always thought he saw us as friends!"
Zeller gave him an unimpressed look. "So first you call him Voldemort, and now you're best pals?"
"I didn't call him Voldemort! I said the situation was similar! It was just an analogy…" Price protested.
"And in this analogy, Will was Voldemort," Zeller quipped, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"No! It was just the situation that was comparable! Stop twisting my words! You always do this…"
"I'm not twisting your words; I'm repeating your words."
"Those aren't my words! I never said that!"
"Yes, you did..."
Their banter was abruptly interrupted by a new voice cutting through. "What's going on here?"
Clarice spun around; a few rebellious strands of hair caught in her mouth, and she did her best to remove them as inconspicuously and professionally as possible.
A chill of dread settled in her stomach as she took in the imposing figure of Jack Crawford standing in the doorway. His authoritative gaze swept over the room, radiating disapproval—which she wasn't entirely sure was directed at anyone specific, perhaps at the whole wide world.
"We're just experiencing a difference of opinions," Price said.
"Yeah, my opinion is right, and his is wrong—totally different," Zeller added.
Price shot him a petulant glare. "Why can't you just once...?"
"Can't you keep it at home? This is a professional workplace," Crawford rebuked sharply as he strode into the room and brushed past Clarice, seemingly unaware of her presence.
Zeller rolled his eyes. "Jack, I know you mostly see us together, but you know we don't actually live together, right?"
"Yeah, there are weekends when we don't even see each other!" Price said proudly, then paused to add, "But we do still talk on the phone…"
"Not helping," Zeller muttered.
"Neither of you is helping anything. Did you finish the autopsy report?" Crawford pressed, his eyes darting between them with barely concealed impatience.
"Yup, it's all here. Just needs some proofreading… and maybe a new folder; this one has food and blood on it," Price replied, eyeing one of the messy folders on the desk.
"Is that why you're here? Waiting for the report?" Jack's piercing gaze shifted to Clarice, sending a chill down her spine as she realized he was addressing her directly.
She swallowed hard; her throat suddenly felt dry.
"N-No, sir," she stammered, feeling the familiar nerves return. It was almost a Pavlovian response to Jack Crawford's presence.
"Then why are you here? Is there a new forensic development in your case? Because I could have sworn I just received a report this morning stating the case was closed, and the files were being sent to the prosecutor's office."
Clearing her throat, Clarice instinctively straightened her posture, trying to project confidence despite the weight of Jack's piercing gaze. "No, sir. I am not here about that…"
"Then what brings you here?"
"I… I had some new insights about the Phantom case, sir," she finally confessed, her voice quivering slightly as she forced the words out. "I wanted to share them with Agents Price and Zeller before I write my official report and submit it to you through the proper channels, as you so intently requested." Mortification washed over her as she realized her tone had unintentionally dripped with sarcasm.
Jack's eyes narrowed dangerously. "More invaluable insights that just couldn't wait?"
She felt a knot tighten in her stomach but managed to nod.
Jack leaned against one of the cluttered tables, crossing his arms in a deliberate show of dominance. "Alright, let's hear it then."
Clarice blinked, taken aback. "Sir?"
"I see no reason why I can't be a part of this presentation. Go ahead, Agent Starling. Say your piece." His voice was firm, almost an order, compelling her to comply.
Glancing toward Zeller and Price, she noticed their expressions had drained of colour, their wide eyes silently begging her to keep quiet. But what could she do when Jack Crawford was demanding an answer?
She cleared her throat and spoke as confidently as she could manage. "I believe we need to analyze the victims' behaviour more closely. Their actions seem to directly influence the Phantom's methods. Understanding these nuances could help explain the variations in how he operates. If we can pinpoint the behaviours that trigger deviations from his pattern, we might finally craft a more focused psychological profile."
"Why's that?"
"The behavioural characteristics of the victims should match the behaviours of people in the Phantom's personal life. That's why he is reacting this way. The victims remind him of people he knows."
Jack scrutinized her, his intense gaze pressing down like a weight. A flicker of condescension glinted in his eyes, and that simple glimmer ignited an unfamiliar irritation within Clarice—something she had never encountered in his presence before. It was as if he were dismissing her entirely.
"That's extremely speculative," he retorted, skepticism thick in his tone. "And it casts such a wide net that it's nearly worthless. How would those insights actually help us track down the killer?"
A knot of discomfort lodged in her throat as she wondered if Will Graham had ever faced this kind of derision from Jack. Gritting her teeth, she squared her shoulders, compelled by a sudden surge of defiance.
"It helps us because it also indicates that what we believed to be the Phantom's first kill is probably not his first at all."
"Is that so?" Jack replied, arching an eyebrow.
"Yes," she pressed on, her conviction growing.
"Why do you think that?"
"The primal nature would have been more rampant during his initial awakening."
The atmosphere in the room shifted before Clarice could so much as blink. Jack Crawford went rigid, every muscle seeming to lock in place. Their eyes met, and for an agonizing moment, the silence swirled around them. A myriad of emotions flickered across Jack's face—first confusion, then realization, and finally a chilling coldness.
"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice unnervingly flat, almost a whisper.
"I…" she faltered.
"Repeat what you just said!" Jack thundered, his voice reverberating off the walls and causing Price to let out a startled squeak.
Clarice froze, glancing at Zeller, who was shaking his head wildly behind Jack's back.
Jack's glare remained fixed on her as though trying to bore a hole through her.
"I don't understand what you—"
"Who did you consult, Agent Starling?" he interjected, his tone shifting to a stillness that was even more foreboding than his previous roar.
Oh… he knew.
Clarice fell silent, steeling herself under Crawford's intense scrutiny. She stood resolute, embracing the silence as her shield, readying herself for whatever awaited.
But as the seconds dragged on without a response, fury ignited in Jack's eyes.
"I know Will Graham's thoughts when I hear them!" he exploded, smashing his fist onto the table. The sound crashed through the room, causing all three of them to flinch in unison. The piercing noise echoed around them before slowly fading into a suffocating silence.
Clarice watched tensely as Jack rubbed his brow, weariness deepening the lines on his face. In those few moments, he seemed to age a dozen years.
"Did he contact you, or did you contact him?" he demanded, his voice sharp and probing.
Clarice nervously cleared her throat.
"I went to him."
"How did you find him?" he pressed further.
"I found a way," she replied, her words deliberately vague, but a hint of defiance shimmered beneath. Jack narrowed his eyes and shifted his attention to Zeller and Price.
"I have no idea how she—" Zeller started, but Price cut him off.
"It was Zeller," he blurted out.
Zeller's gaze snapped to Price, irritation creeping into his expression and darkening his eyes.
"You little weasel…" Zeller muttered, sharing an accusatory glance with Price, who met it with a sheepish shrug. Desperation took hold of Zeller as he turned back to Jack.
"I didn't tell her anything. I just gave her an address," Zeller insisted, his tone tinged with panic.
"Really? That's all you did?" Jack replied, skepticism dripping from his words.
"That is all he did, sir. I went there on my own," Clarice interjected.
"You would do best to keep your mouth shut, Agent Starling!" Jack's voice rose sharply, fury dancing in his eyes like flames. Clarice clenched her jaw, struggling to stifle her annoyance. Was he truly going to treat her like a child?
Her resentment grew, fueled by the pounding headache from a sleepless night and too much caffeine.
Jack Crawford had just discovered they held critical insights from Will Graham. Yet, all he seemed concerned about was his orders being disobeyed? He wouldn't even ask what they had learned?
Clearly, his focus was elsewhere as he redirected his anger toward Price and Zeller, leaving Clarice to wrestle with her rising frustration.
"I gave you clear instructions. I couldn't have made it more clear: do not, under any circumstances, contact Will Graham. How hard could that possibly be?"
An uncomfortable twist gripped Clarice's insides. How could this possibly matter? They were chasing after a serial killer—one with a blood-soaked list of victims that grew longer by the day. Who knew how many more lives hung in the balance? They had no clues or leads to bring them closer to finding the Phantom. And now, at last, they had a chance to connect with someone who might offer a glimmer of insight into the case, yet Jack Crawford was fixated solely on following his orders?
It was maddening! There was a potential victim out there, someone the Phantom might have already marked next, and instead of taking action to prevent another tragedy, they were sidelined by... what? Jack Crawford's personal grievances?
A surge of anger shot through her, shattering her fragile composure.
"You're being selfish, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Utter silence met her words. They hung in the air, heavy and charged, as if she had bellowed them at the top of her lungs.
Jack turned to face her, his movements deliberate and slow, his eyes narrowing. "What did you just say?"
"I find your behaviour egotistical, sir," she replied, her tone firm.
"Egotistical?" he echoed, disbelief written all over his face.
"I can think of no better word to describe limiting our resources because of personal feelings—especially when those resources could tip the scales between capturing a killer and letting them prey on more innocent lives."
"My personal feelings? That's what you think is stopping me from contacting Will?"
"That seems to be the only explanation. Unless you can provide a better one, we're left to assume your ego drives your decisions." The words slipped from Clarice before she could stop herself.
She heard the sharp intake of breath from Price while Zeller's eyes widened in shock.
Crawford regarded her with a new, unreadable expression as if he were unsure whether to be angry or astonished.
"You seem to have forgotten your place, Agent Starling."
"I think it's you who has forgotten yourself, Agent Crawford," Clarice shot back.
"I have reasonable reservations…" he countered, his tone measured yet tinged with frustration.
"Perhaps you are not the right person to determine their reasonableness, sir."
Silence fell again. Clarice felt her heart race.
Crawford's expression was unreadable—blank and calculating—until a harsh, ugly snort escaped his lips, utterly devoid of humour.
"One conversation," he seethed, his voice sharp as a blade, every word cutting. "One conversation with Will Graham, and you are showing open disrespect to your commanding officer. Ask yourself, Agent Starling: are my reservations unfunded?"
"In the grand scheme of things, I believe they are… sir."
They locked gazes. His eyes were a fortress of unreadable emotions, while Clarice's remained steadfast, anchored by conviction. Just when it seemed the tension would shatter, a flicker of painful resignation crossed Crawford's face, revealing a weariness that spoke of battles fought long before this impasse.
He looked tired—exhausted as if the weight of the world settled heavily on his shoulders.
"Agent Starling, I must formally ask you to recuse yourself from any involvement in this case." His voice turned cold and steely, a clear assertion of authority that left no room for argument. "Any further actions on your part will be seen as defiance against the FBI. Do we have an understanding?"
A loud heartbeat echoed in her chest—strong, insistent, almost suffocating. But she nodded, her voice flat.
"Yes, sir."
As Jack Crawford's eyes misted with resignation, she understood: this was just a formality, a performance he had to put on. The truth was glaringly clear—she was lying, and he knew it.
"Zeller, I expect you to be in my office later. We need to discuss a few things," Crawford said as he stepped toward the door, his intense gaze lingering on Clarice until the very last moment, leaving her with an invisible weight pressing down on her chest.
As the doors slid shut with a soft hum behind him, a shuddered breath escaped Clarice's lips—a release of tension that had built to an unbearable degree. It felt as though the string holding her resolve had snapped, and she leaned heavily against the table, afraid she might collapse.
"Holy shit, what was that?" Zeller's voice broke the silence, filled with disbelief.
"I don't know," she muttered.
"You just called Jack a selfish egomaniac... to his face," Zeller pressed, incredulity lacing his every word.
"I…" Clarice started, but the words lodged painfully in her throat. Oh God, she really had, hadn't she?
Disoriented, she felt as though she had temporarily floated outside of herself and was now returning to her own body, struggling to reclaim her voice, her heart still pounding a frantic rhythm in her chest.
A warm hand settled gently on her shoulder, and Clarice instinctively flinched, her body tensing at the unexpected touch. She looked up to find Price's gaze filled with genuine concern.
"Are you alright, Clarice?" he asked, cautiously stepping closer.
"I don't know," she muttered once more.
"Hey, do you want to talk about it?" His voice was softer now, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket, inviting her to open up.
A realization washed over Clarice: this was precisely what she needed.
"Yes, I do," she replied, her voice gaining strength as she stood up straighter, a spark of determination igniting. "See you later, guys," she called back, leaving a perplexed Price standing behind as she exited the room.
Clarice strode across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, each step purposeful yet strangely detached. The world around her felt muted; the sound of a soda can tumbling to the ground and the distant rumble of car engines faded into a blur of background noise.
She replayed her conversation with Crawford in her mind, still unable to believe the words that had slipped from her mouth. She should have felt a wave of regret crashing over her—should have felt the flush of humiliation and the sting of shame—but those emotions never came. Instead, a different feeling began to rise, one that was much more rebellious and unsettling.
She was angry with Jack Crawford; in fact, she felt disappointed in him—betrayed by him. The image she had meticulously crafted of him—strong, determined, and singularly focused on bringing down criminals—was crumbling before her eyes.
How could he ignore what Will Graham had to say about the psychological profile? If the stories of their past were to be believed, Crawford had sought Graham's help before—often! So why dismiss him now? Was he really willing to let a serial killer run free simply because of a disagreement? A mere "clash of natures," as Graham cryptically described it—whatever that was supposed to mean.
The stakes were far too high for this kind of stubbornness, and she couldn't help but wonder if Crawford had lost sight of what really mattered; if his pride was overshadowing the mission...
A sudden prickling sensation jolted her from her thoughts, freezing her in place. An instinctive chill crept down her spine, calling her to attention.
She spun around, her heart quickening... only to be met with the empty expanse of the sun-soaked parking lot.
A frown creased her brow as confusion settled in. She could still feel it—that unsettling notion that she was being watched. The prickling feeling was unmistakable, yet there was no one there. Nothing.
Frustrated, she shook her head. What was happening to her? Just yesterday, she experienced a similar sense of premonition while talking to Will Graham, and now she has this inexplicable feeling of being observed... Was her intuition failing her? Maybe she should be getting more sleep and drinking less coffee...
Lost in her thoughts, Clarice was startled when a heavy figure bumped into her. A stranger's shoulder slammed into hers, and she stumbled slightly.
"Hey, watch where you're going!" the man growled, his tone sharp and biting.
Clarice shot him a withering glance.
"I wasn't moving," she replied coolly.
The man shot her an irritated glare, reeking of disdain, before snapping, "Yeah, maybe that's the problem, huh? Don't just stand in the middle of the sidewalk like a lunatic. Stupid bitch" He tossed the last word over his shoulder as he walked away, still grumbling curses under his breath.
Clarice watched him in disbelief. What was wrong with people? She felt a strong urge to confront him but quickly pushed it aside—some battles just weren't worth fighting. With a determined shake of her head, she tried to dismiss the unsettling encounter and shake off the prickly feeling of being watched.
She really needed to get more sleep.
Clarice found herself once again parked outside Will Graham's house, her nerves and excitement swirling in her stomach; like a child on Christmas Eve.
Approaching the door, she could hear the commotion inside—the enthusiastic barking of dogs and the shuffling of footsteps. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.
"It's open, come in!" called a voice from inside.
Clarice felt her heart leap as she grasped the doorknob. As soon as she nudged the door ajar, three eager dogs burst out like a trio of furry projectiles, nearly knocking her off her feet. Their tails wagged furiously, wet noses eagerly seeking her hands for affection.
"Tsk!" A sharp command cut through, instantly silencing the trio. Like well-trained soldiers, they bounded back inside, lining up side by side, eyes fixed attentively on Will.
Clarice stifled a laugh, her eyes flicking to Will Graham. Gone was the rugged fisherman look he had worn the previous day; today he was clad in a cozy sweater, exuding a homely aura. In his hand, he held a tablecloth that looked like it had seen better days.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Graham," she greeted, a smile breaking across her face.
He waved a dismissive hand. "Please, call me Will. 'Mr. Graham' just sounds odd."
"Then you'll have to call me Clarice to keep it even."
"Fair enough. Come on in," he said, gesturing for her to enter.
"Just put your things wherever; I'm not particular about where anything goes," he added, moving toward what she guessed was the kitchen.
Clarice glanced around the room, taking in its bizarre layout. It was clear that Will Graham didn't care where his belongings landed. This was the strangest arrangement she had ever encountered; fishing gear elbowed for space with dog ornaments, while mismatched chairs crowded the room, their intended purpose lost, presumably more for the dogs than for humans.
A smile crept across her face at the thought; how could Jack Crawford have any reservations about Will Graham, the man who sets up chairs for his pets?
She slipped off her jacket and tossed her bag onto a chair, prompting the dogs to rush over, sniffing eagerly. She chuckled, patting the nearest dog before grabbing a bulky folder and walking toward Will, who was busy rinsing off utensils at the sink, fresh fish fillets lying neatly on a plate.
"So, the fish stopped being picky?" she asked, leaning against the counter.
Will turned to her. "They always do eventually. If you're hungry, I can cook some for you."
"Thank you, but I've already eaten," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "Besides, I'm not a big fan of fish; I prefer meat."
A small smile spread across Will's face. "Unfortunately, I'm saving the meat for another guest."
"Oh, are you expecting someone? Should I come back another time?"
"No need," he said, pausing as if in contemplation. "I doubt my guest will make it today."
Not knowing how to respond to this strange exchange, Clarice simply nodded. Perhaps she should simply accept some oddness in Will Graham and go along with it?
She watched with as Will, with an expert touch, covered the fish with aluminium foil and tucked it away in the fridge, which was packed to the brim with all kinds of foil-wrapped contents.
Clarice raised an eyebrow. Who would have imagined that Will Graham had such a passion for cooking?
"Want something to drink?" he asked, casually wiping his hands on the tablecloth.
"Just some water, please."
"Copy that," he replied with a mock salute, and Clarice couldn't help but smile.
Seriously, how could Jack Crawford act so strangely about Will Graham? Better yet, why had she felt such an unsettling tension about Will just the day before? She explained it to herself as faulty associations. Perhaps that was the core issue—perhaps it was difficult for everyone to separate the man Will was from the roles of criminals he had to adopt in order to catch them?
"You've come prepared," he said, handing her a glass of water, genuine appreciation warming his tone as he glanced at the neatly organized folders.
"It's what you asked for—all the autopsy reports from the Phantom's known victims," she replied, handing him the files.
She trailed behind as he made his way into the living room, where his dogs greeted him with enthusiastic wags and playful barks.
He settled down at the table, where a glass half-filled with amber liquid awaited him. He placed the files in front of him and gestured for Clarice to join him.
"Known victims?" he asked, his tone clearly encouraging her to elaborate.
Clarice felt a spark of eagerness, a refreshing contrast to the tension she had felt earlier with Jack Crawford.
"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday. The way you characterized the Phantom's actions as tapping into primal instincts that awaken during the act of killing… If we adopt that perspective and take a closer look at the so-called first victim, it just doesn't hold up. The scenario seems too calculated, too cold. A genuine awakening would unleash something far more chaotic and visceral—there would likely be a frenzy, an emotional intensity etched into the wounds. I think the Phantom's initial kill might have been someone else entirely."
Will nodded, his expression filled with approval. Clarice felt her heart flutter.
"My thoughts exactly," he said, a playful edge to his tone. "Are you sure you really need my help, Clarice?"
The hidden praise made her feel giddy and she fought to suppress a grin.
"Most definitely. I think with your help, we will be able to identify the killer soon."
"You're unusually chipper for someone chasing a serial killer."
"I'm just optimistic. I really think we'll catch him."
Will raised an eyebrow. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We still don't know if our theories are right. This is all speculation until it's backed by evidence. Do you have anything concrete to support this?"
A blush crept across Clarice's cheeks. "N-No, not yet…"
"Do you have any idea who the Phantom's first murder might be?"
"No… I don't."
"Then it's hardly a fact," Will replied, just as one of his dogs let out a soft bark. Will turned with a tenderness that made Clarice's heart skip a beat.
"See? Even Winston agrees," he chuckled, affectionately scratching the dog's head.
Clarice couldn't help but laugh as she rubbed a hand over her forehead in disbelief. "This is all so strange," she confessed.
"What is?"
"This entire situation… Everything's felt bizarre lately, and now I'm sitting here discussing serial killers with Will Graham and his dogs…" The words spilled out before she could stop them. "You're not at all what I imagined. I thought you'd be more... I don't know, distant? But here you are, a fisherman tucked away in this cozy cottage. Honestly, when I pictured you before, I definitely didn't envision a man with three dogs..." She gestured vaguely at the trio, suddenly aware of how flustered she sounded. Why was she rambling like this?
She took a sip of water to mask her embarrassment while Will eyed her with amusement.
"I guess it's a good thing you didn't know me before. I used to have a whole pack of dogs. I lost a few in the divorce."
Oh, it was definitely not a good idea to take a sip of water while hearing that. Clarice choked, sputtering and coughing, her face flushing with embarrassment.
"You were married?" she blurted out, struggling to mask her surprise.
The incredulity was evident; she could see Will raising an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
"I'll refrain from taking offense," he quipped, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Sorry! That came out wrong," she stammered, flustered. "I just... I didn't expect that... Um, was she in law enforcement too?" she added quickly, desperate for anything to say.
"Thankfully no."
"Oh… uh, why did you divorce?" she asked and immediately cringed, chastising herself. Why was she prying into his life? "I shouldn't have asked—sorry, it's really none of my business," she added quickly, trying to backtrack.
"It's fine," Will said, his tone surprisingly casual. He leaned back, as if comfortably settling into her inquiry. "There was someone else."
For you or for her? The thought lingered unspoken at the tip of her tongue, but she held it back, avoiding further awkwardness.
"Honestly, I feel like I'm overstepping," she admitted, glancing down at her hands.
Will shrugged nonchalantly. "Crossing lines is subjective. But for someone who came here to discuss the Phantom case, you're asking surprisingly few questions about it. I hope my personal life doesn't end up as evidence in your investigation."
Clarice shifted uneasily in her chair.
"Of course, assuming there will even be an official record of this meeting," Will continued thoughtfully, fixing her with a steady gaze that pierced through her. "Which I strongly suspect there won't be."
"Right…" she murmured. "So you figured out I wasn't completely honest..." Her heart thudded as she held his gaze, searching for any hint of anger.
Will took a leisurely sip from his glass, his expression contemplative. "You mean when you said you weren't investigating the Phantom case in any official capacity—that meant no capacity at all? Yes, I figured as much. Life has taught Jack a lesson about letting young agents dip their toes into cases like this one."
Her pulse quickened as she braced herself for his reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression..."
"Of course you did," he interjected smoothly. "But it's fine. I don't care if you're officially involved in the investigation or not. That's Jack's problem."
"Yeah, it's definitely Jack's problem," she said, unable to suppress the bitterness that seeped into her words.
Will raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of curiosity sparking in his eyes.
"Well then…" he began, rising from his chair with a languid grace that drew Clarice's attention. He strolled over to a cupboard, his movements deliberate and measured. "Since you're not here in any official capacity, I don't see the harm in offering you a proper drink." He revealed a bottle of whiskey tucked away in the corner.
Clarice blinked, momentarily taken aback. "It's a bit early for that," she objected, her voice wavering as she watched him pour a generous amount into a new glass.
"It'll pair perfectly with the conversation we're about to have," he replied, his tone light, almost dismissive.
She hesitated, acutely aware of her drive here and the hours she would need to spend sobering up afterward. Yet, she wasn't planning on leaving any time soon...
She accepted the glass with a slight nod, the clink of their glasses echoing in her mind. If he was drinking, why shouldn't she? As the whiskey burned a fiery trail down her throat, nearly bringing tears to her eyes, she remembered how long it had been since she had indulged in alcohol—not since her time at the Academy.
Will studied her as she drank, his gaze unhurried yet piercing, as if he were dissecting everything that flitted across her face.
"Did Jack find out you came here?"
Clarice nodded slowly, feeling an unwelcome weight settle in her chest. "Yes, just today. Right before I came here, actually."
"Can't imagine that went over well," he remarked, a knowing glint in his eye. "Was he angry?"
"Furious." Her voice quivered slightly, the memory of Jack's outburst still vivid. "I… I was actually ordered not to contact you again."
"And yet, here you are, defying Jack Crawford's orders," Will mused, a hint of approval in his expression. "Good for you."
Taken aback by his praise, Clarice blinked at him in confusion.
"It took me a much longer time to escape his grip," he added, a hint of something unidentifiable in his words. Clarice still wasn't able to read him at all.
She furrowed her brow and asked instead, "But I thought you two worked well together, at least in the beginning? I've heard he practically stalked you to get you involved in his cases."
Will snorted, an unexpected laugh escaping his lips. "At times, it sure felt that way. Back then, I wasn't seeing things clearly. But don't mistake our current problems as something more than they are. The truth is, I still consider Jack Crawford my friend, even if he feels differently."
She watched him intently, the emotions dancing in Will's eyes both baffling and intriguing. He was like a puzzle with missing pieces, just as he had been yesterday. But, today, there was a subtle shift. Something had undeniably changed since their last encounter, and although Clarice couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, she felt certain that something was different. Gathering her thoughts, she ventured cautiously, "You seem… different today—more open, if that's the right word, than you were yesterday."
"I suppose I am. Is that a problem?"
She shook her head.
"No, of course not. I guess... I'm just curious what changed."
Will shrugged. "I was fishing yesterday."
"And what are you doing today?"
His gaze shifted toward the pile of papers she'd brought over.
"Hunting," he stated simply, sending a chill down her spine.
Once again, Clarice caught a fleeting glimpse of something in Will's dark eyes—something untamed and chilling, as if she had stumbled into hidden danger. An instinctive warning flickered in her mind, urging her to stay alert and tread carefully.
She quickly bit her cheek, reminding herself firmly that these were just faulty associations.
Desperate to shake off the disquieting thoughts, Clarice refocused. Clearing her throat, she shifted the focus of their conversation.
"You know, I'm still a bit surprised you want to help with this. You've worked on so many cases; I wouldn't blame you at all if you wanted to distance yourself from it all."
"I tried that," Will replied, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "Separation proved futile."
Clarice hesitated, leaning in with a softer tone. "I hope this doesn't sound insensitive, but I'm glad you couldn't. Your insight could save lives. Just look at your track record… you've already done so much good."
Will snorted, a dry and humourless sound. "I could give you a list of people who would argue otherwise."
"I think I'd win that debate," she shot back. "I studied many of your cases at the Academy. Think about it: Garret Jacob Hobbs, Eldon Stammets, Abel Gideon, Clark Ingram. Without you, there were no solid leads. Who knows how many more innocent lives would have been taken if it weren't for you?" Her voice grew more fervent, but then she hesitated. "And also… they would never have caught Hannibal Lecter if it weren't for you."
Will's head snapped to her so quickly that she had to muster all her strength not to flinch.
Clarice swallowed hard. Maybe mentioning Lecter had been a mistake. Will must have many unpleasant memories tied to the Lecter case; she shouldn't poke at those wounds.
She braced herself for the withdraw into himself as people often did when faced with haunting thoughts from their past. Instead, Will met her gaze with an intensity that unsettled her. His voice took on a peculiar nonchalance that caught her off guard.
"No one ever caught Hannibal. He walked into that prison cell on his own will."
He fell silent after that, simply grabbed his glass and took a sip, then glanced into it, swirling the amber liquid almost hypnotically.
It was impossible for Clarice to interpret the emotion in his eyes, but it was clear this topic held a different kind of weight than she had anticipated.
She knew she should change the subject, but her curiosity pressed onward, stronger than her better judgment.
Biting her lip, she leaned in closer and whispered, "What was he like? Hannibal Lecter?"
Emotions flashed across Will's face, each one fleeting and difficult to grasp. They fell into silence for a moment as Will swirled the liquid in his glass, staring at it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"He was... a skilled potter," he began, the corner of his mouth twitching—was it disdain or amusement? Clarice couldn't tell. "He worked with humans as his clay, meticulously manipulating and molding them to his design."
Clarice leaned in even closer, a few stray strands of hair tumbling into her line of sight. With a quick flick, she tucked them behind her ear, desperate to capture every nuance of his expression, every fleeting change, like a student highlighting difficult passages in a textbook for later reflection.
Will took two deliberate sips from his glass, his gaze intent as he continued, "It was a long, tedious process. And when he was finished? He shattered his creation on the floor, finding beauty in its destruction."
Clarice furrowed her brow, deep in thought. "Was it always the same? With such a distinctive pattern, it's hard to believe he evaded capture for so long... Did he really do this with all his victims?"
"Not all…" His tone drifted into something wistful. "Some—those who caught his eye and proved to be particularly interesting—earned a more permanent place on his mantle. They remain unmoving, frozen in time, eternally aware that it's only a matter of time before they too become just a scattered mess on the floor."
"But you were different to him, weren't you?"
Will's gaze snapped to hers, sharp and piercing. She swallowed hard, clearing her throat nervously.
"I've heard about you two—there were rumours that you… knew each other on a more... personal level."
Will snorted, breaking the tension, and genuine amusement flickered across his face.
"That's tragically understated," he chuckled.
But as quickly as the laughter came, it faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression full of sentimentality. This was far from the reaction that Clarice had anticipated for this conversation. Once again, she found herself at a loss, unsure of how to interpret any of it.
"No… he didn't see me the way he saw others," he admitted quietly.
"How did he see you?"
Silence enveloped them and Will seemed to drift into his thoughts. Clarice bit back her impatience, allowing the moment to linger. Finally, he spoke again, his voice contemplative. "Have you ever heard of a term… Kintsukuroi?"
Clarice shook her head.
"It's an ancient art," he explained, his voice taking on a rhythmic quality. "It involves the meticulous process of repairing broken pottery, fusing the shards together with gold. The enticement lies in the realization that the resulting creation is often more beautiful for having been broken."
Clarice frowned, her mind racing. "So he…"
Will offered a gentle smile, but the warmth of his expression felt oddly out of sync with his words.
"He enjoyed breaking me…wasn't so great about putting me back together. It frustrated him endlessly when the fragments refused to conform to the vision he had in his mind. No matter how lavishly he gilded the edges, I remained a particularly challenging material, impossible to shape into the exact design he imagined. And so, he shattered again and again, each fracture yielding an outcome he must have found both tragic and hauntingly beautiful."
Clarice remained transfixed, her eyes locked onto Will as he wove his words, treating them like verses from a haunting poem rather than a grim recounting of his encounters with a serial killer. She tried to piece together the complexity of his speech, mentally cataloguing each line for later contemplation.
As a moment of silence settled in, a thought flickered in Clarice's mind—one she had longed to share with Will since the previous day but had struggled to express. The time had come. Taking a steadying breath, she squared her shoulders, feeling a surge of determination.
"You know, when I first started digging into the Phantom case," she started, her voice firm despite her racing heart, "the murders seemed so bizarre, so unlike anything I'd encountered before. I even wondered if... if the Phantom Killer could possibly be Hannibal Lecter…"
"It's not," Will cut in, his tone sharp.
Clarice blinked, caught off guard by his abrupt dismissal. "I... I see," she stammered, a wave of surprise momentarily robbing her of words.
Feeling uncomfortable, she shifted in her chair, the wood creaking softly in protest.
"It was just a thought," she defended, her words rising slightly in pitch. "I suppose you'd know best," she added with a hint of deference. "After all, you're the expert on Hannibal Lecter."
"Indeed," he replied with a touch of dry humour. "I've got it proudly listed on my CV under 'special skills.'"
Clarice honestly couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, worried that Will might think she had completely misread the case. The very idea made her dive deeper into her explanation, even though everything inside her screamed to retreat.
"I... I wondered if it could be him simply because there's really no one else with the capability to carry out such acts. But I suppose the Phantom murders lack that sadistic edge. Hannibal Lecter was undeniably cruel..."
"Hannibal wasn't cruel," Will interjected, a fierce conviction in his voice that left Clarice wide-eyed with disbelief.
"He wasn't?" she asked hollowly, "He removed organs from victims while they were still alive."
With a casual shrug, Will brushed it off, his expression betraying nothing—just a mask of indifference.
"Is it cruelty when a butcher slaughters his pig? Is it cruelty when you eat a steak? Cruelty is subjective. Everything below you on the food chain is simply meat. It all depends on how high on the food chain you place yourself."
He spoke so dismissively, so unconcerned. Clarice studied him intently, as if she could peel back the layers of his mind to uncover the truth hidden within. Despite her efforts, she felt the weight of frustration settle upon her. With a resigned sigh, she said:
"You killed him. That's… that's what the rumours say."
He leaned back, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he arched an eyebrow. "Well, if that's what the rumours say, it must be true."
Her heart raced. "Did you, then? Did you kill him?"
For a moment, he paused, his expression shifting to thoughtful, as if he truly needed to think about it, then replied, "I killed him; he killed me. It all depends on the lens through which you view it."
"What's your lens?" she pressed, her curiosity battling with the unease that crept in.
A mirthless chuckle escaped him, devoid of any real humour. "Blurred."
Clarice was truly at a loss on how to respond to or understand Will Graham.
His words seemed just out of reach, and with every question she asked, he appeared to slip further into a maze of his own thoughts, leaving her standing just outside its entrance.
A weary sigh escaped her lips; her intense focus on Hannibal Lecter had wandered into dangerous territory. After all, they had only met yesterday. Perhaps she was moving too quickly, too deeply, too soon.
She cleared her throat, shifting in her chair to mask her growing unease. "Well, since you're sure it's not Hannibal Lecter, maybe we should redirect our energy to the Phantom Killer," she proposed, her voice tinged with reluctance but determined to steer the conversation on the right track.
"Considering that's the whole reason you're here, that's probably a wise decision," Will mused, his tone ambiguous enough for Clarice to wonder if he was making fun of her.
With renewed focus, she turned her attention to the pile of files sprawled across the table, her fingers lightly tracing the crisp edges of the covers. Selecting two, she opened them to reveal gruesome photographs.
"I have some questions about the wound patterns of victims three and five," she began, her voice gaining confidence. A mental checklist of inquiries started to take shape in her mind. This was her area of expertise; here, she felt most comfortable.
As Will explained the details, his voice steady and methodical, a wave of contentment washed over Clarice. She felt at ease—maybe a little too at ease.
Without realizing it, she tucked one foot up onto her chair, her hair cascading forward as she leaned over the scattered files. The back of her pen became a casualty of her excitement, chewed unattractively—a habit she reserved for moments of solitude when no one was there to judge her professionalism.
But now, with Will, she felt a rare sense of freedom.
She somehow, instinctively, knew Will wouldn't judge her. He didn't seem like a person who valued appearances.
All he cared about were the answers and Will wasn't just handing them over; he skilfully nudged her with provocative questions, guiding her toward conclusions. With each insightful remark he made, Clarice felt a weight lift from her shoulders, enveloped in a sense of clarity. She craved the knowledge he possessed, and each word he spoke drew her deeper into his world.
It was intoxicating and all-consuming. At some point, she realized she was staring at him again, even after he had finished talking. Will's raised eyebrow and expectant expression jolted her back to reality, a clear sign that she had missed his question. Heat flooded her cheeks, and a blush crept up her face as she scrambled for her drink to hide her embarrassment. The liquid burned as it went down, triggering a fit of coughing that only fuelled Will's amusement.
Just as she felt the sting of humiliation creeping back in, a lifeline appeared in the form of a loud, insistent ringtone. Clarice's heart steadied as she fished her phone from her pocket, but a quick glance at the caller ID sent an icy chill racing down her spine.
"Is everything alright?" Will asked.
"It's Jack Crawford."
Will let out a soft snort, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "That brings back memories," he muttered, almost to himself.
But Clarice couldn't allow herself to get sidetracked; she pressed the answer button, a wave of anxiety washing over her as her palms turned clammy.
"Hello?" she spoke hesitantly.
What could Jack possibly want from her? Did he find out where she was?
"Agent Starling, you need to come to the address I'll send you. Immediately." His clipped, authoritative tone carried an undercurrent of urgency that made her spine tingle. This was not what she had been expecting.
"Sir, I don't understand. Why do you need me...?"
Crawford let out an exasperated huff, impatience evident in his tone. "There's a dead body. I need you on the scene," he said, almost growling.
Clarice's confusion deepened; Jack had never summoned her in such a direct manner. In fact, he usually avoided contacting her altogether. "I still don't understand—"
"And you don't need to," he snapped, his voice dripping with frustration. "Just bring him with you."
"B-Bring who?" she stuttered, her heartbeat quickening with dread.
Jack's voice brimmed with barely contained anger. "I know where you are. Bring Will Graham or don't come at all," he commanded, and just like that, the line went dead, leaving Clarice staring blankly at her phone.
As she sat there, her mind swirled in a confusing haze. How much had she actually drunk? Then her attention snapped to Will, and she realized with bewilderment that the chair across from her was empty.
Will was already on his feet, slipping into his jacket.
"I'll drive. You've been drinking," he stated matter-of-factly.
"And you haven't?" she shot back, arching an eyebrow at his nearly empty glass.
"It's apple juice." he quipped, striding toward the door.
Clarice's gaze dropped to his glass, and for the first time, she noticed the stark contrast. His drink was a soft, pale amber, while hers shimmered with a darker, richer hue.
"What's going on?" she questioned, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. Here she was, an FBI agent, completely clueless about the situation.
"You should prepare yourself, Clarice," he said, his expression turning serious as he glanced back at her.
"Prepare myself for what exactly?" she pressed, feeling uneasy.
"For the one thing in the world that would make Jack Crawford invite me back to the crime scene."
With that, he pushed open the door, his long strides confident and purposeful.
The drive to the scene was tense. Will had suddenly become tight-lipped, and Clarice, not wanting to reveal how uncertain and clueless she felt, chose not to press him. She drummed her fingers on her thigh, breaking the silence only to direct Will on where to drive.
Not that she really needed to. As they neared the area, police cars passed them one by one, rushing by at frantic speeds. When they arrived at the scene, the whole site was in chaos: a frenzy of police vehicles lined the street, their lights flashing brightly. FBI agents and local officers moved with frantic precision, darting among one another like ants swarming an exposed hill.
The moment Will turned off the ignition, Clarice flung open the door and stepped into the frigid air. A sharp breeze rushed to greet her, bringing with it the strange aroma of damp leaves laced with an unexpected hint of flowers. Curiosity piqued, she barely had time to contemplate the peculiar scent before her gaze caught a familiar figure in the distance—Jack Crawford, rigid and unyielding amidst the chaos.
Will strode purposefully toward Jack, and Clarice instinctively followed him, feeling like an eager puppy trailing behind. When Jack turned to face Will, a storm of emotions flickered across his face—frustration, concern, and an undercurrent of rage, all swirling together in a volatile mix that might have been darkly amusing under different circumstances.
"Will," Jack acknowledged, his voice thick with tension.
"Not now, Jack," Will shot back, brushing past him without a second glance.
Jack's expression darkened; irritation evident as he shifted his focus to Clarice. The moment she stood beside him, Jack's anger turned to disapproval, his nose wrinkling as if he had caught an unpleasant whiff.
"Have you been drinking, Agent Starling?" he questioned, incredulity seeping into his tone.
A flush crept to Clarice's cheeks. She stammered, "I w-was off duty."
With a sharp, disapproving glance, Crawford turned on his heel, muttering under his breath, "We'll speak later."
"Sir, I don't understand. You were so intent on keeping Will away, and now…," she protested, trying to piece together what was happening.
"Because Will Graham is the only one who can tell me if it's him!" Crawford's voice boomed, causing nearby officers to flinch.
The way he said 'him' was laced with such venom that Clarice recoiled.
"Who are you talking—?" she began, but before she could finish, Jack had already moved away.
Determined not to be left behind, she followed him, her heart pounding as they approached Will, who stood rigidly a few steps past the yellow police tape. Drawing closer, she finally glimpsed what had captured Will's attention. Her breath hitched, a rush of adrenaline sending her heart racing.
Oh, so that's where the scent of flowers was coming from.
There, on the ground, was a body—a scene unlike anything Clarice had ever encountered, both horrific and surreal.
The body was… twisted into a circle, the limbs stretched to make the display. Inside was an exquisite array of flowers, the most breathtaking sight Clarice had ever seen. The vibrant petals, bursting with colour and life, created a striking contrast to the grotesque materials surrounding them, making her stomach twist as bile rose in her throat. The body...the dead man... The expression on his face looked serene, surrounded by flowers that seemed to be growing from him.
It was… Wrenched. Perverse. Inhumane.
Clarice couldn't shake the image that filled her mind—a funeral wreath, both beautiful and steeped in sorrow. It echoed Will's earlier musing about finding beauty in broken things. She turned her gaze toward him, only to feel a wave of discomfort wash over her when she caught sight of his face.
Will stood with his eyes closed, a faint smile dancing on his lips, exuding a serene calm that almost mirrored the lifeless man sprawled before them. It was as if he floated in a sweet melody, enveloped in an aura of tranquillity that felt unsettlingly out of place.
Feeling uneasy, Clarice forced herself to look away. Her eyes drifted back to the body, and she scrutinized the man's face, a visceral recognition pricking at her thoughts—a fleeting memory that chilled her to the bone.
"I… I think I know him," she stammered, drawing the attention of both Will and Jack, their expressions snapping into focus.
"You know the victim?" Jack probed, his tone sharp with urgency.
Clarice shook her head, her mind spinning. "Not really, but... I think this is the man who bumped into me earlier today, near the parking lot."
"Was he rude?" came a question, and Clarice turned to Will, who was studying her intently. When she hesitated, he pressed, "Was this man rude to you?"
Clarice responded slowly, "Yes."
That single word seemed to trigger something in Jack Crawford. He let out what was almost a growl, filled with anger and frustration bordering on madness. Clarice watched in disbelief as he slammed his fist down onto the side of a nearby car, the metallic crunch ringing out as a dent blossomed beneath his wrath.
"Is it him?" Crawford asked, his voice coming out in ragged breaths.
"You already know the answer, Jack," Will replied.
At that, Jack Crawford's face transformed into one of exhausted misery.