Dangerous Trio

The Hunt

Will tossed and turned all night, waking up in a cold sweat. The sun was about to rise and a hue of blue covered the room. It didn't matter the time, the day, or the hour. Will knew something about Hannibal he had been keeping a secret about. He expressed concern to Jack and to Alana, but the mere speculation about Hannibal's character was absurd to them. Despite this, Will felt a darkness envelope him. An immense amount of pain, horror and relatability that only shocked him. Will played scenes in his head in ways to kill Hannibal. Every way was different, meticulous and pleasurable. It would be another day for Will. He expected another death, and he knew who was responsible.

He put on a green coat and gloves. The weather was only getting colder. This was good, Will thought, as if there were crimes outside it would preserve the bodies better. He knew Hannibal did just enough, not to get caught.

Often they stood over the bodies, their conversations took on a macabre rhythm. Hannibal would state the facts, his tone clinical. Will would reconstruct the violence, piecing together the killer's intentions. And through it all, their gazes would meet—Hannibal's glinting with a silent gotcha.

It was a shared understanding, a twisted connection. Only they knew the truth. Only they played this game.

Will showed up to the office to meet with Jack.

"Good morning, Will," Jack greeted, his voice heavy with frustration as he hovered over a chaotic spread of papers on his desk. His furrowed brow and the tight grip on his pen hinted at his growing exasperation. Whatever he was studying had clearly gotten under his skin.

The office was unnaturally quiet, a silence that hung in the air like a warning. Will could already sense the reason. There had to be another killing.

"We've got another one," Jack confirmed, breaking the tension. "Down in Reston."

Will felt no surprise.

Jack slid a set of photographs across the desk. Four glossy images, each more haunting than the last. They depicted a man suspended by ropes, his chest grotesquely split open. Fishing wire, meticulously arranged, extended from the open cavity, forming what resembled wings.

Will studied the photographs intently, his gaze lingering on the intricate craftsmanship of the killer. But he knew better than to rely on the still images alone. To truly understand, to see the details others might miss, he needed to stand at the scene of the crime.

"Have you shown Hannibal yet?" Will asked, his tone cautious but curious.

Jack shook his head, the frustration clear in his eyes. "No. He's been busy all morning with patients," he replied curtly. Then, with a firm voice, he added, "I can't rely on him for everything, Will. Hannibal consults when he can, but I need you on this."

Will took a deep breath, steadying himself. His gift—a rare blend of empathy and sharp intuition—often felt like a curse. It made him nearly unstoppable, but it also burdened him with truths he couldn't escape. 

To Will, the murders were senseless, twisted, and profoundly evil. Yet, they bore Hannibal's unmistakable signature—acts of calculated artistry masquerading as chaos.

Suddenly, images flooded his mind: Hannibal's twisted process, each detail vivid and haunting. Will flinched, caught in the violent current of his own thoughts, the lines between his empathy and Hannibal's darkness blurring once again. Will knew what it would take to kill, in fact he longed for a chance to put an end to Hannibal. Will only thought it was right to kill Hannibal in the same style Hannibal used. Will went back and forth as to how much effort was Hannibal worth. Something easy, and quick, Will was suddenly imagining the process until Jack interrupted his stream of thoughts.

"We need to head over to Reston," Jack said, slipping on his wool coat

Will nodded reluctantly, feeling the familiar pull of duty clashing with his inner turmoil. He knew he had to go, but hesitation clawed at him. How much more could he take? Each crime scene stripped away another layer leaving more darkness to uncover.

Will couldn't shake the thought of Gaby, her presence a growing source of concern. The potential danger she faced around Hannibal gnawed at him, a  worry he couldn't fully suppress. Yet, Will also understood the calculated precision of Hannibal's mind. Gaby served a purpose for him—a purpose that, for now, kept her safe. But Will knew all too well how fragile such safety could be in the hands of a man like Hannibal.

The drive was steeped in silence as Jack focused on the road ahead, his expression unreadable. Will, on the other hand, was consumed by his thoughts.

Hannibal was responsible—of that, Will was certain. But proving it? That would be a complex and painstaking ordeal, a labyrinth of evidence and intuition with no clear way out. The certainty in his mind clashed with the impossibility of his task, feeding a cycle of frustration and doubt.

With every tree that blurred past the window, Will's anxiety climbed, ticking upward like a clock winding too tight. His heart followed suit, the steady beat growing faster as they neared their destination.

The car jolted slightly as Jack turned onto a desolate gravel road, the crunch of rocks under the tires breaking the silence. Police cars lined both sides of the narrow path, their lights flashing muted red and blue against the gray sky. Up ahead, the familiar sight of yellow crime scene tape came into view.

In the distance stood an old barn. This was it.

The car slowed to a stop. Jack turned to Will, his expression unreadable, though the question in his eyes was familiar.

"Are you ready?" Jack asked, though they both knew the answer. Will was never ready—not for this.

Will exhaled, the weight of inevitability settling over him like a shroud. "Let the hunt begin," he said, his voice steady but hollow. Deep down, he knew the truth—He knew who was responsible. Hannibal.