Blood Pointe

6.

The only person more upset than Madeline, was Jack. Her being allowed onto the crime scene breached several codes, and definitely went against every moral code Hannibal should have stood by. Civilians weren't meant to be invited onto scenes like this, they didn't have the training or stomach for it.

She'd barely made it a few steps from the body before she ran to the toilets and vomited.

The retching was violent, her body convulsing as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the cold porcelain bowl. The stench of bile and half-digested food filled the cramped space, mingling with the lingering odour of disinfectant.

Madeline gripped the edges of the sink, her knuckles white as she fought to regain control of her body. The image of Monica's twisted limbs, her lifeless eyes, still burned in her mind. She rinsed her mouth with cold water, the metallic taste of blood lingering on her tongue. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The exhaustion, both physical and emotional, threatened to overwhelm her.

A gentle knock sounded on the door, followed by Hannibal's voice, soft and concerned. "Madeline? Are you alright?"

She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "I'm fine," she lied, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Just give me a minute." She heard him hesitate for a moment, then his footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Madeline leaned her forehead against the cool tiles, tears streaming down her face. She had thought she was prepared for the horrors of the crime scene, but the reality had been far worse than she could have imagined. The weight of Anya's death, coupled with the gruesome sight of Monica's body, had shattered her fragile composure.

Outside, Crawford was seething, the veins in his neck pulsing with barely contained fury. He watched from the doorway as Hannibal emerged from the bathroom, a flicker of concern marring his usual composure.

"She's not well," Hannibal stated simply, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the empty corridor. "The shock has taken its toll."

Crawford's jaw clenched. "She shouldn't be here, Hannibal," he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know that. This is a crime scene, not a therapy session."

Hannibal's eyes met his, a steely glint in their amber depths. "She's a witness, Jack," he countered, his tone calm but firm. "And a potential target. She needs to be close to the investigation, to feel like she's doing something to help. It's the only way she'll find any peace."

Crawford scoffed, his frustration mounting. "Peace? She's barely holding it together. You're playing with fire, Hannibal. And if she gets hurt, it's on you."

Hannibal's lips curved into a subtle smile, a hint of danger lurking beneath the surface. "I'm well aware of the risks, Jack," he replied, his voice a velvet caress. "But sometimes, the greatest rewards come from taking the greatest risks."

Crawford's jaw tightened, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He knew Hannibal was right, but that didn't make the situation any less infuriating. He had a duty to protect the integrity of the investigation, and Madeline's presence was a wildcard, a potential liability that could compromise their efforts.

"Just keep her out of harm's way," he growled, his voice a low warning. "I don't want any more casualties on my watch."

Hannibal nodded, his expression impassive. "You have my word, Jack."

With that, Crawford turned and stalked back into the rehearsal studio, leaving Hannibal alone in the hallway. He took a deep breath, the scent of antiseptic and death clinging to the air. He turned towards the bathroom door, a flicker of concern crossing his face.