Archive of Our Own ^beta

The conference room was suffocating in its stillness. Fluorescent light flattened every expression into something clinical. It smelt like burnt coffee and carpet glue—government air, stale and recycled. Jack Crawford sat at the head of the long table, hands folded, posture deliberate. Across from him, three members of Human Resources faced him, their binders open like little court dockets—though the real issue was what they weren’t saying yet.

“Special Agent Will Graham,” began the woman in the middle, glasses perched low on her nose, “is currently awaiting trial for multiple homicides. And yet, what concerns us just as much is the fact that by all accounts, his mental state had been deteriorating for months—possibly years—under your supervision.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Will Graham is—”

“Was,” another man interrupted, “your responsibility. Multiple colleagues—Dr. Hannibal Lecter among them—reportedly approached you about their concerns. Behavioral changes, erratic judgment, disorientation. We have documented accounts of him being visibly ill at crime scenes. What action did you take?”

Jack’s fingers tightened slightly. “I monitored the situation.” He paused, annoyed with the bureaucracy, acting like they would have noticed. “He was a grown man. Not a child. He didn’t ask for help. He did his job.”

“You monitored,” the woman repeated flatly. 

The man to her right leaned forward. “He couldn’t ask for help. You’re his superior—your role is to notice when someone’s not well. You had him in high-stress field situations, armed, working cases involving extreme violence. Meanwhile, he was—” he opened a folder and pushed it toward Jack, “—self-harming to such an extent that his entire torso, arms, even legs, were covered in scars and open wounds. Intake photographs, post-arrest.”

Photographs—taken after Will’s arrest—spilled in front of him. Shirtless intake shots. His torso, arms, even the ridges of his hips were a roadmap of deep, healed scars and fresh, raw welts. Some deliberate. Some desperate. All unmistakable.

What struck hardest were the bandages, bright white against mottled flesh. They clung over his arms, his thighs, even his side, concealing the freshest damage. The wounds they’d had to close before processing him. A patchwork of gauze layered atop scars, as though the violence was too relentless to keep up with, old and new stacked without pause. 

“How,” the woman asked, her voice low now, “did you not notice this?”

The photographs lay between Jack’s hands, but his eyes weren’t on the table anymore.

He was back in Minnesota, the winter air sharp enough to burn his lungs. The crime scene had been quiet except for the low murmur of agents and the brittle crunch of ice underfoot. Will had been kneeling in the snow beside a victim, head tilted in that strange, eerie way he had, as though he could hear echoes in the air.

Then Will flinched—just slightly—and shifted his weight. A thin line of red seeped through the denim over his knee, staining into the white snow below.

“You’re bleeding,” Jack had said, coming closer.

Will didn’t look up from the corpse. “Dog scratched me. Winston. It’s nothing.” His voice had been flat, like he was already somewhere else.

Jack remembered standing over him, thinking the man looked… off. Not just tired. Not just haunted. His skin was pale, damp under the winter light, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Will’s breath had come slow, as though every inhale was an effort, and his fingers trembled against the dead woman’s sleeve.

“Maybe you should sit this one out,” Jack had said.

Will shook his head once, sharply. “I’m fine. She’s still talking to me.” He had gestured faintly at the body, as if the words made perfect sense.

Jack had stepped back then, letting him work—because Will Graham got results.

Now, in the fluorescent hum of the conference room, Jack’s gaze dropped back to the intake photos spread before him. That same leg. A thick, purple scar just above the knee. He could see it clearly now, etched into Will’s skin like a permanent accusation.

“You had him in the field, in physically dangerous situations,” the man pressed. “He was self-harming severely enough to leave his entire body covered in wounds. You didn’t notice, or you didn’t look.”

“He wore long sleeves,” He said, his tone curt. “I’m not in the business of stripping my agents to inspect them.”

The woman arched her brow. “So he hid it, and you accepted that without question. You also missed the profile. Your own man was exhibiting behaviors consistent with the very killers you hunt. How does the head of Behavioral Sciences not recognize that?”

Jack’s eyes flickered, but his voice stayed sharp. “I recognized what mattered. Will caught killers no one else could. I had reason to believe his… instability was tied to that gift.”

The woman didn’t take her eyes off Jack. “You didn’t try to help him. This isn’t just about Graham, Agent Crawford. This is about your competency to lead this unit. If you can’t identify a mentally ill agent sitting across from you every day, if you can’t protect your staff from themselves, then perhaps you’re not qualified to protect them in the field.”

“I got him a goddamn psychiatrist.” Jack’s hands pressed flat on the table. “My job isn’t to coddle. It’s to get results. And I did.”

“Until,” the man said, “your best agent became your primary suspect.”

At Hannibal’s insistence, Will had told Jack—and Alana, for good measure—that he was taking the week off. Jack hadn’t argued. He only said it was fine, his tone clipped, his disappointment buried but obvious enough for Will to feel. Will sensed the frustration bubbling under Jack’s calm words, but ignored it. Pleasing Jack was not his job.

At five sharp he left, stopped at a liquor store on the way home, and bought a bottle of whiskey a step above what he usually settled for. Something he could sip and let burn slow in his chest.

He had plans.

Days with the dogs, each of them spoiled in turn: brushed, bathed, fed from his hand like they were children instead of strays. The house and yard cleaned, blankets washed, everything ordered as if order itself could hold him together. But when the sun dropped, something took over—checking locks twice, sometimes three times, yanking curtains closed until no light could slip through. Once or twice he dragged a chair against the front door, as though the extra barrier might matter.

Then the fire. Then the whiskey, until it hummed in his blood.

And then the knife, deliberate this time. Not the frantic, desperate gashes of a breakdown, but something slower. Methodical. Controlled. Deeper, yes—but safer.

He lingered by the fireplace, bottle in hand, debating where. The thought stalked him all day like an itch he couldn’t scratch. In the car, he pictured a neat slash across his shoulder. At the lab, a cut down his ribs, curious if he’d see bone. In therapy, while Hannibal’s voice washed over him, he’d imagined stealing the letter opener from the desk, stabbing it into his thigh and bleeding quietly into the Persian rug. Sometimes he thought of pressing his fingers inside, feeling himself from within.

By the time the fire settled into a low crackle, Will had worked through three glasses. The dogs sprawled across the rug in a warm pile, their breathing steady. He envied how they could just… exist, without thought.

He set the glass down carefully, aligned with the seam of the coaster, and rose. His movements were unhurried as he checked the locks again—front door, back door, the kitchen window. Each latch clicked home beneath his fingers. The chair still braced the door. No one would come in. Not tonight.

In the bathroom, the tile was cold against his feet. He switched on the warm light, opened the cabinet, and surveyed the collection. Knives, razors, pinwheels, Xanax, and weed—paired with—band-aids, steri strips, gauze pads, and medical tape. He plucked a razor from the bag. He had used it Tuesday. His fingers traced the edge, it was sharp, but not sharp enough to kill him. He sighed. 

He sat on the closed toilet lid, facing the tub. Rolled his sleeve back and evaluated the scars and ridges across his arm. He noticed a blank patch of skin lingered between scars. It was almost obscene, that stretch of unmarred flesh. A false testament to normalcy. He carried the knife to strip that away, to leave nothing unmarked, nothing to suggest there was a man left at all.

He pressed the blade down and drew it quick, never one to draw things out. His breath caught—not in pain, but in grim relief, as if something gnawing inside had finally surfaced.

Blood welled, tracking down his arm, sliding along the curve of his wrist to the floor of the bathtub. The blood dripped quietly, splattering on the white porcelain. He heard the dogs stir faintly but they didn’t move. 

He set the razor down on the end of the tub and dug the finger of his free hand into the cut, swiping the hot blood into the tub and looking at the cut. He could go deeper without it being fatal, so he grabbed the razor with fingers tacky from blood and angled it away from his radial artery and cut. 

He felt the heat rising before he noticed the blood, dripping quickly down his arm, hitting the tub with a quick, tap, tap, tap. He watched himself bleed for a few moments before grabbing an old towel from his bag and reluctantly applying pressure. 

He pressed the towel hard to stanch the blood, watching the fabric drink it in. It soaked greedily, red blooming across the cloth. His hands trembled—not fear, but the energy it drained.

He tossed it into the tub with a wet slap. He reached over and pulled gauze and tape from the kit, binding the cut quickly and carelessly.

He stepped back into the living room. The fire hissed, the dogs shifted, the house held its silence.

Will sat down on his bed, pressing his fingers into the wound. He felt hollowed out, emptied, as though the bleeding had siphoned off something heavy he couldn’t name.

But already, in the back of his mind, he was planning the next one.

The phone buzzed against the nightstand, dragging Will up from the shallow drift of sleep. He had no dreams, but it wasn't rest—just the heavy fog of his body forcing itself still. He blinked into the darkness, disoriented, the warmth of the dogs pressed along his legs like warm sandbags.

The screen glared at him. Jack.

He thought about letting it go. About rolling over and sinking back down. But the phone kept buzzing, steady as a drill in his skull. With a sigh he picked it up.

“Will,” Jack’s voice came sharp, no greeting. “You awake?”

“I am now.” His throat was thick, his words muffled against the pillow.

“Good. I need you in.”

Will closed his eyes. “Jack—no. I told you. I’m taking the week.”

Silence hummed through the line for a beat too long. Then Jack’s tone shifted, heavy, calculated. “We’ve got another one. Family of three. You know how this goes—we don’t have the time to wait for someone else to see what you see.”

“Jack—”

“You think I’d be calling if it wasn’t bad? You think I’d wake you if anyone else could do what you do?” Jack’s voice hardened, the weight of expectation slamming down like a gavel. “You’ve got a gift, Will. You don’t get to walk away from that just because you’re tired.”

Will sat up slowly, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. Pale light leaked through the cracks in the curtains, slicing the room into tired bands of gray. His arm throbbed beneath the fresh gauze, the sting blooming whenever he pressed down. He pressed harder anyway, grounding himself in the pain.

The bandage had gone rigid overnight, stiff with dried blood. When he pulled back the sheets, the dogs shifted around him, grumbling at the disturbance. He stared at the stain spread across the cotton—another night, another reminder. The gauze had bled through. The bed had too.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Will muttered, his voice gravel-soft.

“Yes, you can,” Jack shot back, unyielding. Then, quieter—almost kind, though iron lay beneath the tone: “Because people need you. And whether you like it or not, you’re all they’ve got.”

The words sank like a blade, disguised as encouragement but cutting all the same.

“I’ll tell Hannibal to meet us. He’ll bring you something to eat, I’m sure.”

Will’s gaze dropped to the dogs again, curled and snoring, oblivious to anything but the warmth of their pack. He wished he could stay folded into them, hidden, nameless. But the silence stretching from the phone pressed harder than the bandage at his arm.

Finally, he exhaled. “Give me an hour.”

Jack’s voice eased with relief. “I’ll have a car outside.”

The line went dead.

Will lowered the phone, staring at it as if it might still vibrate. Then he pushed himself up, coaxing the dogs off the bed with gentle nudges. The sheets came next, stripped and balled into his arms. Another sigh escaped him when he saw the dark patch seeping through the mattress protector. Another thing ruined. Another thing to replace.

The car ride blurred past him in streaks of color and light. By the time Will stepped out into the cold air of the crime scene, his body felt leaden, his thoughts crawling just half a step behind where they should be. The hangover hadn’t yielded to the meds, and beneath the gauze, his arm pulsed hot with every heartbeat.

Jack was waiting, coat collar turned up against the wind. “Family of three. Mother, father, daughter. No sign of forced entry.” He gestured sharply toward the house. “I need your read, Will.”

Will’s stomach turned. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t even have a grip on himself—how could he hope to crawl into the skin of a killer when he barely knew where his own edges were? But Jack was already striding up the walkway, and Will followed, the shuffle of agents parting to let them pass, camera shutters snapping like distant gunfire.

Inside, the house was stale with the sourness of grease and blood, the tang of metal rising over the ruin of a meal left half-eaten. Plates overturned. Drinks spilled into the carpet. The family sat slumped at the dining table, their bodies grotesquely posed, like broken dolls set upright for supper.

Will’s eyes darted over the scene, hunting for a foothold. Nothing came. The leap wouldn’t take him.

He shut his eyes, forcing himself to sink, to let the killer’s logic bleed into him. If he couldn’t make the leap, then he was useless. He pressed harder, but all that rose was static—his pulse in his ears, the throb beneath the gauze on his arm, Jack’s voice echoing in his head like a commandment: people need you.

“They knew the killer,” Will said finally, voice hollow. “Organized. Planned. He sat with them—maybe even ate with them. He wanted this to feel… familiar. Controlled.”

Jack latched on instantly, barking orders. The machine spun forward.

Hannibal, who had slipped into the room without a sound, moved closer until his presence was at Will’s back. His voice was low, pitched only for him. “You’re pale. Tremors, perspiration. I thought you meant to take time off. Jack must have sunk his claws deeper.”

Will didn’t answer. He dug a bottle of Advil from his pocket, rattled it open with clumsy fingers, and swallowed three tablets dry. His throat worked against the chalky burn.

Hannibal’s hand settled briefly on his shoulder. The pressure was steady, almost possessive. “And yet you still give us clarity,” he murmured. “That is remarkable, Will.”

The words lodged like balm against the raw space Jack’s expectations had carved into him. Will swallowed, clinging to the comfort. If this all fell apart, it wasn’t his ruin—it was Jack’s weight dragging him down.

Hannibal’s gaze flickered, appraising Will’s body. He pressed the back of his hand lightly to Will’s forehead. Will leaned into it—just enough—but the touch was gone almost as soon as it came. Like Will had imagined it. 

He opened his eyes again, staring at the father’s stiff hand, still clutching a fork. The room didn’t look controlled. It looked frantic. Wrong. The thought lingered, but the wheels were already in motion. Jack had taken his word and carved it into stone.

Two days later, the truth came crashing down.

The office table was littered with photographs, statements, timelines. No suspect. No pattern. Nothing.

Jack’s jaw was locked, his eyes rimmed with sleepless red. He slammed a folder shut, the sound like a gunshot. “We chased our tails on this because of your read, Will. Organized. Planned. That’s what you said.”

Will’s vision swam. The lights overhead stabbed into his skull. “I—I was wrong.”

“We lost time. A family’s killer walks free because you can’t keep your head clear enough to see what’s in front of you.” Jack’s words lashed sharp, each one deliberate.

“You can’t take everything I say as gospel,” Will tried, his voice low. His gaze dropped to his hands, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the table. The wound on his arm burned hot under the bandage. The fresh cuts on his calf and hip ached in counterpoint. He pressed his palm hard against his thigh beneath the table, forcing the pain to anchor him.

“I should be able to.” Jack leaned forward, his voice low, relentless. “You want to take a week off? Fine. But when you come back, you’d better be the Will Graham who catches killers—not the one who puts them two steps ahead.”

The words sank like stones into his chest, dragging him down. Will could only nod, shallow breaths catching in his throat.

Will parked crooked, the car still idling, hands clenched too tight around the wheel. His chest felt like it was splitting open—rage, grief, confusion bleeding together until he couldn’t separate them. His body burned with it, like fever.

He shoved the gear into park and stumbled out. The pharmacy door slid open in front of him and he moved like a sleepwalker, snatching gauze, tape, disposable razors. He dropped bills on the counter without looking at the cashier. No eye contact. No waiting for change. The bag rattled in his grip as he left, the parking lot lights swimming too bright, too sharp. 

He couldn’t wait. Not for the drive home, not for the safety of locks and curtains, not for the false idea of control. The pressure was clawing at him. He ducked into the gas station next door, shouldered into the bathroom, and slammed the lock shut.

The bathroom stank of bleach and piss. Lights buzzed overhead, their hum needling the back of Will’s skull. He checked the lock with a trembling hand and leaned against the door for a moment, breathing through his mouth. The bag crackled as he tossed it on the sink. 

He looked up at the cracked mirror—and froze. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t his reflection staring back. It was Garrett Jacob Hobbs, pale and blood-soaked, standing just behind him. His lips moved, whispering. See what you are. See what you’ve become.

Will spun around. Empty. Just the buzzing light, the reek, the slick floor. His pulse roared in his ears.

He turned back to the sink, head jerking down as if he could shut the vision out. He tore the bag open with his teeth, ripping into the razor packaging. They spilled into the sink, scattering. He lunged to catch them with his bare palms, the blades splitting skin and fingertips. Blood welled instantly. He didn’t care. He shoved the extras into his pocket and threw his jacket to the floor.

He pushed his sleeve up, popping the button on his cuff. He did the same to the other side. 

The first cut was brutal—across the forearm, jagged, too fast. Skin split, blood welling hot and quick, dripping into the sink. He dragged the blade again, harder, harsher. Another wound. Then another. Next, his dominant arm, awkward angle, blade snagging on scar tissue. The resistance made him press harder, cutting crooked, blood spattering the mirror with the quick jerks of his wrist.

He gasped at the pain, shoving himself against the wall, clutching at his arm like he could both open and close them all at once. His arm shook violently.

He looked up and the hallucination of Hobbs flickered, until it was only him, clutching his scared arm in his blood stained shirt. 

Will staggered forward, back to the sink, and cut again. Again. Until the razor slipped from his hand, clattering to the tile. He laughed once, sharp and ragged, before stooping to grab it. His bloody fingers dropped it into the trash.

The gauze slipped, useless in his shaking hands, soaked through before he even wrapped it. The tape stuck to his fingers, refusing to hold. He pressed the wad to his arm anyway, panting, the smell of iron overpowering the reek.

Breathing in time with the throb, he pressed his sticky hands against older cuts on his thighs, smearing blood across his jeans, the sink, his own mouth when he dragged his palm down his face.

The lights overhead seemed to swell, glaring, drilling straight into his skull. The air grew thick, dizzying, nausea roiling up his throat. He grabbed the hand sanitizer from the bag and poured it straight onto the sink, swiping at the mess, coating everything in the sharp sting of alcohol. His own arms burned as it seeped into the fresh wounds.

When he unlocked the door, he stood across from Hannibal Lecter, inviting him in for therapy. 

The conference room was the same: fluorescent hum, stale air, the faint tang of coffee. But where Jack Crawford had looked cornered, Dr. Hannibal Lecter looked entirely at ease. His hands rested lightly on the table, posture immaculate, gaze steady. If he felt accused, it did not show.

“Dr. Lecter,” the woman in the middle began, her glasses catching the light, “you treated Special Agent Graham over a period of several months. In hindsight, it appears his decline was both severe and sustained. Why was no formal intervention recommended?”

Hannibal inclined his head, voice calm. “Your concern is warranted. Will Graham’s suffering was evident to me, as it must have been to others who worked beside him. But he was also an extraordinary profiler. His gift and his ailment were… entwined. To dull one was to risk losing the other.”

The man to her left frowned. “So you’re suggesting you allowed his illness to progress untreated because it made him better at his job?”

Hannibal’s eyes lingered on the folder they’d slid across the table. He did not touch it. “I advised caution. I voiced my concerns to Agent Crawford. He chose to continue employing Will in the field. I am, after all, not his commanding officer.”

The woman’s tone sharpened. “You advised caution? So you were aware of the self-harm? Agent Crawford stated he was not.”

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, as though considering the wording. His voice, when it came, was smooth, without hesitation. “I was aware that Will Graham suffered. That suffering often manifests in ways that are invisible, even to those closest to us. But I could not ignore the evidence of his exhaustion, his fragility. I counseled restraint, yes—because restraint was warranted.”

The man to her right pressed. “But self-harm is not invisible. It’s deliberate. It leaves marks. Are you saying you suspected it, or that you knew it?”

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than was comfortable. “Suspicion and knowledge are not the same. A psychiatrist must respect what a patient chooses to disclose. Will was private. Guarded. His scars, if they existed then as you suggest, were hidden. And yet—his demeanor, his affect, his pallor—told their own story. A story I tried to share, delicately, with Agent Crawford.”

The woman interjected. “Delicately?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, softly. “Because harsh words can break trust, and trust was the only bridge I had to him. If I spoke too forcefully, Will would have retreated entirely. Then no one would have reached him. Surely you understand that a patient who feels cornered will only burrow deeper into their suffering.”

The man to her left leaned forward, pouncing. “So you’re saying Crawford ignored your concerns?”

Hannibal lowered his eyes briefly, as though weighing the fairness of the statement. When he looked up, his voice was calm. “I am saying only that I spoke. What was heard, or not heard, lies beyond my control.”

Silence, heavy again. The words hung there: not quite an accusation, but not a denial either.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Let me be clear, Dr. Lecter. You claim you advised caution. You imply you saw signs that Will Graham was unwell. Yet Agent Crawford insists he saw nothing. That discrepancy is troubling. Which of you is telling the truth?”

Hannibal inclined his head slightly, as though weighing his words. “Truth is not as rigid as you present it. I observed fragility in Will. Exhaustion. A vulnerability of spirit. Agent Crawford may not have perceived it, or may have interpreted it differently. Two men can look at the same wound—one sees a scar, the other a strength.”

The man on the right cut in sharply. “You’re dancing around the question. Did you or did you not tell Crawford that Graham was self-harming?”

Hannibal’s lips curved faintly, almost pitying. “Self-harm is rarely confessed in such blunt terms. I advised caution. I urged concern. I expressed, repeatedly, that Will was carrying more than any man should. If Agent Crawford interpreted my counsel as anything less than urgent, I cannot be responsible for his… selective hearing.”

The man to her left leaned forward. “So you’re saying Crawford ignored warnings. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“Interpretation is yours,” Hannibal replied, tone smooth as glass. “What I offered was care, and care is often dismissed when it is inconvenient.”

The woman pressed harder. “You keep speaking in abstractions. Did you, at any point, use the words ‘self-harm,’ ‘unsafe,’ or ‘unfit for duty’ to Crawford?”

Hannibal regarded her evenly. “Those are bureaucratic terms. Words to trigger paperwork, reports, liability. What I offered were human words—concern, fatigue, strain. I spoke as a physician to a man who valued results above all else. If I had said, ‘unfit for duty,’ do you believe Agent Crawford would have pulled his most valuable profiler from the field? Or would he have dismissed me even faster?”

A silence followed. The implication hung heavy: that the Bureau itself was complicit in choosing Will’s results over his wellbeing.

The woman’s jaw tightened. “You’re suggesting Agent Crawford sacrificed Graham’s health for the Bureau’s success.”

“I suggested no such thing,” Hannibal replied softly. “I merely recounted the truth of him. My role as psychiatrist was to preserve his autonomy, not to strip it away for the sake of bureaucratic comfort.”

The man on the right leaned forward. “Autonomy? He was hallucinating, disoriented, self-harming to the point of disfigurement. Intake photographs confirm this. How could you, of all people, not insist on removing him from duty?”

The woman’s tone sharpened. “You were his psychiatrist. You had the training, the insight, the authority to see what others did not.”

“I had the insight, yes,” Hannibal said, with a faint smile. “But authority? No. The Bureau decides who carries a badge and a gun. I merely tended to the man beneath it. And if the Bureau saw only the profiler and not the patient, is that truly my failure?”

The man to her left bristled. “You’re deflecting. This is about your responsibility. Did you or did you not recognize the severity of his illness?”

“I did.” Hannibal’s voice was serene. “And I recognized as well that the Bureau needed him. I believed I could help him bear the weight of his gift until such time as you—his employers—relieved him of it. That time never came.”

Silence stretched for a moment, heavy as stone.

Finally, the woman said, her voice low: “So in your view, this is our fault.”

Hannibal’s eyes softened, almost pitying. “Fault is a blunt instrument. But it is convenient, is it not, to sit in this room and demand explanations of me—when none of you demanded them of yourselves while Will Graham unraveled before your very eyes?”

The three exchanged quick, uneasy glances.

Hannibal folded his hands. His tone remained courteous, almost consoling. “I mourn his suffering as deeply as any of you. But let us not pretend this inquiry is about Will Graham. What troubles you, what truly unsettles you, is the mirror he holds up—to the Bureau, and to those who insisted upon his brilliance even as it consumed him.”

Will sat stiff at Hannibal’s table, the dogs of Wolf Trap replaced by candlelight and porcelain. The food gleamed under the soft glow: braised lamb, red wine glistening like clotted blood, herbs sharp in the air. It was too much. Too civilized. Every scrape of silverware against china made his skin crawl.

He thought he’d be more at home begging for scraps under Hannibal’s chair, or rooting through the man’s garbage with a pack. That at least would feel honest. Hannibal spoke often of embracing darkness, but what about embracing savagery? Will wasn’t meant for linen napkins and crystal stemware. He wasn’t meant to be tamed.

Hannibal poured wine into his glass and gestured to the plate before him. “You have a seat at my table whenever you choose. But you don’t eat, Will.” His voice was low, velvet, persuasive. Then, with the faintest smile: “You starve.”

Will’s jaw tightened. He speared a piece of lamb and forced it into his mouth. It turned to ash against his tongue. He swallowed hard, throat dry, and looked up with a flicker of humor sharp enough to cut. “Maybe I just don’t have the appetite for whatever it is you’re serving.”

Pinned beneath that gaze, Will felt flayed open. The intimacy, dressed as generosity, was suffocating. The air seemed too warm, the table too small. The dogs would never look at him this way. They would never demand gratitude or compliance. They asked nothing but presence. He set his fork down too quickly. “I should go.”

Hannibal inclined his head, gracious as ever, as though he hadn’t unsettled Will at all. “As you wish. You are always welcome here.”

The words clung like oil. Will drove home with the window cracked despite the cold, trying to breathe through the suffocation in his chest. By the time he reached Wolf Trap, the warmth of the fire and the wagging tails waiting at the door only deepened the sick twist in his stomach. He didn’t deserve any of it.

The intimacy at Hannibal’s table replayed in his head—You starve, you starve, you starve—until it became accusation, condemnation.

By the time Will shut himself in the bathroom, the words had become unbearable noise. He ripped off the button-up he’d worn to dinner, let it fall in a heap on the tile. His undershirt followed, then the rest—pants, boxers—peeled off until he stood stripped bare. He stepped into the bathtub, porcelain cold against his feet, and reached for a blade from the lined collection beneath the sink.

No hesitation. No thought. Just quiet. He dragged the razor across the fat of his thigh in one brutal line, jagged, too deep to mistake as anything but deliberate. Blood welled instantly, hot and thick, running in rivulets that soaked his skin before gathering in a shallow pool at the bottom of the tub.

His lungs expanded for the first time all night. The sting opened something in him, a pressure valve. He closed his eyes, exhaling against the pain. Finally. Finally silence.

But the quiet didn’t last. A new thought wormed its way in—Hannibal, watching, always watching. This wound, this release, was proof. Proof of his brokenness. Proof that he was becoming exactly what Hannibal believed him to be.

The shame coiled sharp in his gut. He pressed the blade again, harder, ripping another cut beside the first. A muffled groan tore out of him before he clamped his forearm against his mouth. He wanted to silence it, to hide it—but just as quickly, he ripped his arm away. He wanted to see. He needed to see. The blood came faster now, spilling over his fingers, running sticky into his palm as he pressed down and cut again, reopening the same wound.

This time the sound escaped raw, unfiltered, followed by gasping breaths. The slice widened into a red valley, the edges peeling apart. A glimpse of muscle flashed pale beneath the torn flesh. He stopped—barely—before he went too far.

Standing sent lightning up his thigh, the sting dizzying. He clutched the edge of the sink with a blood-slicked hand and tore open a packet of steri-strips. His fingers pinched the wound together, hating the necessity. He wanted it open, ugly, monstrous. Something that couldn’t be hidden under sleeves or pant legs. Something that would repel anyone who dared look too closely.

But no one ever looked. No one ever would.

The strips sealed the skin in a crude seam, and he pressed an adhesive bandage over top, hands trembling. The mirror hadn’t fogged; his reflection stared back at him, harsh and unforgiving. His body was a map of scars—crossed, layered, stretched until the skin had reshaped itself.

He traced one of his oldest with a fingertip, smiling faintly at its crooked line. This was the truth. This was proof he didn’t belong at Hannibal’s table. Proof he didn’t belong at any table.

The blinds in the conference room were half-closed, striping the table in slats of dull light. Jack sat opposite Beverly Katz, HR flanking her on either side. A recorder blinked red at the edge of the table.

The HR director gestured for Beverly to begin.

Beverly exhaled, crossing her arms loosely. “Look, I liked Will. We all did. He was… strange, sure, but that’s how his brain worked. He saw things no one else did.” Her gaze shifted to Jack. “But he was also clearly not okay. That wasn’t subtle.”

Jack’s voice came out sharper than intended. “You’re talking about hindsight. Everyone thinks they saw the signs after the fact.”

“Not hindsight.” Beverly leaned forward. “One time in the lab, his sleeve button popped off while he was reaching for evidence. I saw scars. A lot of them. Looked old, but they were deep. I asked about it. He said they were from before. Said it like it wasn’t my business.”

Jack’s mouth tightened.

“I respected that,” Beverly continued. “Didn’t press. Figured maybe you already knew. Or Hannibal did—God knows they were close enough. Thought if there was something serious going on, one of you would handle it.”

The man from HR spoke up. “You’re saying you assumed it had been addressed?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not his boss. I’m not his therapist. But when you work with someone in the field, you trust the chain of command to keep people safe. And Jack—” her voice dipped, losing some of its edge, “—I didn’t know the half of it until I saw him during intake.”

Jack’s head lifted slightly. “What do you mean?”

Beverly’s jaw flexed. “They had him strip for inspection. He was covered. Everywhere. Scars, fresh wounds. It wasn’t just old damage—he’d been hurting himself for a long time. Seeing that… I was angry. Not at him. At the fact that it got that far without anyone stepping in.”

Brian Zeller let out a dry laugh from further down the table. “I knew it. I goddamn knew it. The guy was a mess, Jack. Everyone acted like he was some kind of genius savant, and sure—he closed cases—but I kept saying something was off. You brushed me off every time.”

Jack’s jaw worked, silent.

Zeller leaned forward, eyes hard. “He’d come into the lab sweating, shaking, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. Half the time he was white as a sheet, the other half he was zoned out like he was somewhere else entirely. That wasn’t subtle either. I said it. I said he wasn’t fit to be in the field. And you—” he jabbed a finger toward Jack, “—told me to worry about my slides.”

“Brian,” Beverly muttered, but he didn’t look at her.

HR scribbled something down. “So, in your professional assessment, you did raise concerns?”

“Repeatedly,” Zeller shot back. “No one wanted to hear it. And now? Now he’s exactly where I said he was headed.”

Jimmy Price cleared his throat. “Okay, hold on. Let’s not rewrite history. Will was… yeah, odd. Always off in his own world. You’d ask him a question, sometimes he’d answer like you weren’t even in the room. But I figured that was just him. Brilliant, but eccentric. Like, ‘absentminded professor’ eccentric. I never thought he was dangerous.”

“Not dangerous?” Zeller snapped. “He’s sitting in a cell for multiple murders.”

Jimmy winced. “Yeah, now. But back then? He was… nice. Quiet. Always polite with me. He seemed lonely more than anything. I didn’t see—” he gestured vaguely, “—all the stuff Beverly’s talking about. Guess I just thought that was part of his whole… Will Graham thing.”

The woman from HR leaned in, eyes narrowing on Jack. “So your staff saw glimpses—scars, erratic behavior, fatigue. They spoke of it, even if informally. And yet none of it translated into action. Why not?”

The table fell silent, all eyes on Jack.

Will reached out to shift the victim’s arm, looking for track marks. His sleeve snagged against the edge of the table, and the button at his cuff popped loose. The fabric rode up before he could stop it, exposing the pale, ridged skin beneath. Old scars, layered and uneven.

His breath caught. He jerked his hand back immediately, fumbling with the cuff, trying to fasten it shut. But the button was gone.

“Will?” Her voice was careful, not confrontational. More like she was making sure she’d really seen what she thought she did. 

Beverly had seen. Of course she had.

He kept his eyes on the corpse, pretending to study it harder, jaw tight. “It’s nothing.”

She didn’t buy it. He could feel her staring at his arm, at him. Not judging, not yet—just seeing. That was worse. “Those scars—”

“They’re old,” he cut in, too quickly. His voice sounded harsh even to himself. “From before. Doesn’t matter.”

Silence stretched. He risked a glance; Beverly’s arms were crossed, her weight shifted, like she was standing guard over something unsaid.

Will shoved his sleeve down and reached for the evidence kit again, hands unsteady but forcing control. “Not your business,” he added, quieter this time, almost a plea.

Beverly’s mouth tightened, but she nodded once. “Okay. Not my business.” She bent back over the body, as though the moment had passed.

But Will knew better. The air between them was different now, thick and unsettled. She hadn’t pressed, but she’d filed it away. She was too sharp not to.

He worked the rest of the case with his sleeve tugged tight around his wrist, his skin burning with the ghost of her eyes on it. Every scrape of pen on clipboard, every click of camera shutter, grated against his nerves. He wanted to leave, to lock himself in his bathroom at home and carve away the part of him she’d glimpsed—erase it before it could spread.

By the time Will got home, the dogs were already restless, circling him like they could smell the tension in his skin. He bent to scratch Winston behind the ears, but his hand shook, clumsy and uneven. The image of Beverly’s face wouldn’t leave him—the brief flicker of surprise, the way her gaze had snagged on his arm.

She hadn’t pressed. She’d said, “Not my business.” But Will knew her too well. Beverly Katz didn’t just let things go. She stored them, catalogued them like evidence, until the right moment came to lay them out.

Would she tell Jack? And if Jack knew, then Hannibal would know.  And Hannibal—God, Hannibal wouldn’t ask. He’d watch. He’d see.

Will’s stomach twisted. He could already imagine it—Jack pulling him aside, voice tight with that fatherly disappointment he wielded like a weapon. Hannibal, leaning closer than he should, pretending it was concern, but really dissecting him. Maybe they’d corner him together, an intervention wrapped up in protocol. Maybe they’d make him stop.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He shoved the thought down with whiskey and noise—radio turned up, fire crackling, the dogs padding across the floor—but it only grew sharper. His skin itched, buzzing under his sleeves. They’d seen too much. He had to get ahead of it.

Will dragged himself into the bathroom, already unbuttoning his cuffs with jittering fingers. He tore his shirt off and let it fall in a heap by the sink. He opened the drawer and stared at the razors lined up, waiting.

The more recent wounds stared back at him: brown scabs crusting at the edges, a pale, glassy sheen where a scab hadn’t yet formed. One had clung to the fabric of his boxers and bled when he’d ripped them away; another had healed down so tightly by the knee that the skin was puckered into a shallow divot. He tried to remember making each one, but he couldn’t, his body became a collection of nights he could no longer account for. 

He picked a blade and sat on the edge of the tub. His hands trembled as he pressed the blade into his thigh, quick and decisive, dragging until blood welled. Then again. And again. Not careful, not methodical—just sharp, ugly strokes. The sound of his breath filled the room, ragged, half-whimpers he couldn’t swallow back.

Blood trickled down his leg, soaking into the towel he’d dropped beneath him. He pressed his fingers into the cuts, smearing it, making sure it was real. His heart slowed. The buzzing dulled.

When he finally wrapped the wounds in gauze, his hands sticky and clumsy, a strange calm settled in. He’d made sure. If they forced him to stop, at least he’d already gone further—stockpiled enough pain to carry him through whatever was coming.

Will leaned back against the cold tile, eyes on the ceiling. For a moment, it felt like relief. But beneath it, panic still simmered. Beverly knew. And he couldn’t cut that out of himself.

The conference room felt even smaller with Alana Bloom in it. Her posture was upright, but her hands were folded in her lap, fingers tightening every so often. Across from her, the HR panel watched her as if she were under a microscope.

The woman in the middle began. “Dr. Bloom, you had a unique vantage point. Both as a colleague and as someone with psychiatric expertise. Tell us about your observations of Special Agent Graham outside the office.”

Alana’s throat worked once before she spoke. “I visited Will at his house once. He’d been missing work—ill, he said. I knocked. He called out from inside, told me to wait because he wasn’t dressed. I said it didn’t matter—I grew up with brothers, I wasn’t easily scandalized.” Her gaze dropped for a moment. “But he insisted. Almost panicked. When he opened the door, he was covered, buttoned up to the throat.”

The man to her left leaned forward. “And what did you make of that?”

Alana inhaled slowly. “I had access to his file. I knew about his history—the sexual abuse. His standoffishness, his guardedness, his dissociation… I assumed the modesty was connected to that. A need for control. A way of protecting himself.”

The man on the right flipped open his notes. “Did it occur to you that he might be hiding something else? Evidence of self-harm, for example?”

Her eyes flickered. “Yes. It crossed my mind.”

The room went still. The woman’s pen tapped once against the folder. “And what did you do with that suspicion?”

“I treated him,” Alana said quietly. “Not officially. Not with notes or records. But I approached him as I would a patient—carefully, with boundaries. I asked questions. I tried to offer steadiness. I thought if I pushed, if I confronted him with diagnoses and labels, I’d lose his trust. And without trust, there’s no help to be had.”

The man to the left spoke again, sharper now. “You’re telling us you suspected self-harm, yet you chose not to document it, not to escalate it, not to intervene formally?”

Alana’s eyes hardened. “Because Will Graham is not a danger to others. He never was. I don’t believe he is guilty of what you’ve charged him with, no matter how much evidence you think you’ve gathered. What I saw was a man in pain, turning it inward. A victim, not a killer.”

The woman’s brow arched. “That’s not your determination to make. The Bureau relies on its psychiatrists to protect both agents and the public. Instead, you chose to treat him unofficially, privately, off the record. Do you understand how that appears?”

“I understand how it appears,” Alana said, her voice tight. “But appearances don’t change the truth. Will Graham doesn’t belong in a prison cell. He belongs in care. And if you’re asking me whether I failed him—” her eyes flicked toward the door, then back, “—I’ll say yes. But not in the way you think. My failure wasn’t believing him capable of what you’ve accused him of. My failure was believing this system would ever protect someone like him.”

The recorder’s red light blinked steadily in the silence that followed.

Alana had insisted on walking him out after the case review, her heels soft against the corridor tile, her tone deliberately lighter than the meeting they’d just left. Will could already feel his patience thinning—he hated being shepherded.

When they reached the doors, she lingered. “You’ve been… more withdrawn lately,” she said gently. “Not just tired. Something deeper. I worry you don’t let anyone care for you.”

Will gave the practiced half-smile, the one that said don’t push me. “You worry too much.”

She folded her arms, eyes narrowing just enough. “I don’t think I do. You’ve carried more than most people ever will. And after—” she hesitated, then went on, her voice even lower, “—after what you went through when you were younger, I just want to make sure you’re not shutting down.”

Will stopped dead, the door handle cold under his hand. He turned to her, throat tight. “What did you just say?”

“Will,” she said softly, as if soothing him, “I know. It’s in your file. You don’t have to pretend.”

He stared at her like she’d struck him. His file. His file. The information should have been redacted, something locked away, not for her to say out loud, not for her to put voice to. “That’s none of your business.” His voice was sharp, louder than he meant.

“Will,” she murmured, reaching like she might touch his arm, “I only mean—”

He recoiled before she could get close. “Don’t.”

The word came out raw, bitten-off. He shoved the door open, the night air rushing his face—cold, stinging, merciless. Her voice followed him down the steps, calling his name, softer, then fading as he strode faster, fumbling his keys with trembling hands. His pulse hammered so loud he could barely hear the crickets.

By the time he made it home, he couldn’t breathe past the feeling that his skin had been stripped away, every nerve exposed. He slammed the bathroom door shut hard enough to rattle the frame and dropped to his knees, dragging the kit from beneath the sink with shaking hands.

Alana’s voice still played in his head, gentle, caring, and cutting him open all the same. I know. It’s in your file. 

The bag split as it hit the tile, supplies scattering—razors, gauze, tape. They clattered across the floor like spilled teeth. 

This wasn’t about quieting anything. It was about proof. Not something she could read off a report, not something Hannibal could tuck into a case history. Flesh, torn open, undeniable. Not a memory, not a rumor, not something Alana could cradle in her careful voice. Something real.

He took a razor, pressed hard to the skin of his hip, ugly, shallow but long, and then again on his thigh. His hand slipped, blood smearing across porcelain. He gritted his teeth, dragging another line, jagged and furious. His blood dripped straight onto the tile, some streaking onto his wooden cabinet. 

His palm clamped over the wound, pressing, widening the gape, his pulse slamming against his own fingers. His breath came rough, echoing in the cramped room, too loud against the silence. 

The blade carved across the fat of his thigh in a furious slash, the pain jerking a sound from his throat before he could choke it down. Blood surged hot, running in rivulets that stained his legs, his shirt. He slashed again, harder, until his muscles trembled, until the pain was undeniable. The proof was there now. Not a line in a file. Not a conversation she could soothe. Something deeper. Something no one would ever see—because he wouldn’t let them.

When he finally dropped the razor, the cuts burned, his pulse loud in the silence. He pressed his palm over one of them, forcing the ache deeper. 

Now she didn’t have to wonder. He would never let her see, but the proof was there, etched into his flesh, real in a way a file could never be. 

The room pressed in with its humming vents and too-bright lights, the leather of the restraints creaking each time Will shifted. The HR panel had grown bolder now, their pens scratching more urgently across their notes.

The woman in the middle leaned forward. “Agent Graham, earlier you described Dr. Lecter’s influence as a shadow—sometimes comforting, sometimes suffocating. We need examples. Specific ones. Can you tell us about an incident where you felt that duality?”

Will’s eyes lowered, the strap across his chest tugging as he inhaled. “There was a night… I was unraveling after a case. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut it off. Hannibal—Dr. Lecter—called me. Or maybe I called him. I don’t remember. He came to my house. Late. Sat with me in the dark until morning.” 

The man to her right pressed. “Sat with you? Do you mean he encouraged your breakdown?”

“No,” Will said quickly, then faltered. “Not in words. But he… never stopped me either. When I talked about how heavy it felt, how the killers got inside me, he listened. Too well. It was like he wanted me to keep going deeper. To see how far I’d go.”

The director glanced at his notes, then looked up. “And did that make you feel safe? Or endangered?”

Will’s jaw clenched. “Both. That’s the problem. He made the darkness feel survivable. But in doing that… maybe he was letting it grow.”

The woman interjected. “What about outside therapy? Were there moments where he blurred the lines between professional and personal?”

Will’s gaze flicked upward, wary. “Once, after a case, I went to his home. He cooked dinner. Said I needed nourishment. But when I left, I realized I’d told him things I’d never said to anyone. Things that weren’t about cases, weren’t about profiling—they were about me.” He paused, swallowed. “It was so perfect, I needed a minute. And there were razor blades just sitting out.” His voice thinned, the last words nearly breaking. “I bled on his sheets.”

The man on the left sat forward, pen tapping the folder. “So he knew about the self-harm.”

Will’s face shuttered. “I don’t know what he knew. He didn’t… he didn’t report it; didn’t tell Jack; didn’t insist I stop.” Will’s hands itched at his restraints, wanting to run a hand over his face or through his hair. “I don’t even know what I thought then.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint buzz of the overhead lights.

Finally, the lead agent spoke, voice measured. “Agent Graham, what you’re describing suggests Dr. Lecter’s involvement in your care may not have been entirely… therapeutic. Do you believe his influence contributed to your deterioration?”

Will’s eyes closed briefly, as though the question itself hurt. When he opened them, they were steady, haunted. “I was already drowning. Hannibal didn’t throw me a rope. He just made me believe the water could be home.”

There was a pause, a small, clinical silence. The woman asked, “Do you think he intended that?”

Will shifted in the restraints, eyes slipping to the table. His voice lowered, as though speaking to himself as much as to them. An image of Hannibal flashed in his mind but he couldn’t hold onto it, he couldn’t see what was there. 

“My—” He stopped, as if testing the sound. “I think he wanted to see. I think he watches.” The sentence came out small, almost embarrassed. “But the encephalitis…my memory’s bad. I can’t be certain.”

He took a breath, searching for steadiness. “Sometimes I think he was trying to save me. Sometimes I think he let me fall to see how far.” He swallowed. “He noticed everything. Always. If there was something to miss, I don’t know he would.”

Will’s hands flexed once. “He’d pour more wine, keep me talking. Keep me company. I let him. Part of me wanted the doctor—someone to fix it. Part of me wanted the friend—someone who wouldn’t judge.”

He looked away, voice thinning. “That’s what I mean by the line blurring. I don’t know if he was saving me…or letting me sink.”

Sometimes Will noticed cuts he didn’t remember making. Not the small, shallow ones he could explain away with a shrug, but the kind that seemed deliberate—long, diagonal slices across his arm, fat peeking through faintly. He would study them in the mirror, furrow his brow, search his memory until his temples throbbed. Nothing. Just blankness where an explanation should have been.

He hadn’t known how Abigail’s ear ended up in his throat, either. That, more than the blood, had unmoored him. So when Jack came to arrest him, Will didn’t fight. He wasn’t a killer—not consciously. But if the law said he was guilty, then maybe he was. Maybe his nightmares were confessions he didn’t understand, spelling themselves out on his body and in his sleep.

He remembered thinking, with a bitter clarity, that it would be his own colleagues who did his intake. Not strangers. Not faceless officers. But people who knew him—who had talked with him, worked with him, trusted him in some way. That humiliation gnawed at him more than the handcuffs.

They led him into the lab—their lab—and sat him down at a steel table. Zeller was already waiting with the clipboard. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“Empty your pockets.”

Will gave a tight smile, as though he found it all grimly funny. He dug into his pockets: a few aspirin tablets rattled against the table, gum wrappers crumpled and flattened, two receipts, lint. From his jacket he pulled out a gauze pad and, almost carefully, set down a razor blade—used, stained.

Zeller’s pen scratched furiously across the intake forms. He didn’t say anything, but his lips pressed into a thin, sour line before he waved Will toward Jimmy Price.

“Hey, Will,” Price said softly, eyes downcast. His voice carried a sad, apologetic note. “I’ve got to scrape under your nails.”

Will nodded, extending his hands. Through the latex glove, he could feel the heat of Price’s palm steadying his wrist. It was awkward—someone he knew, close enough to feel his pulse, scraping dirt and blood from under his nails like he was just another suspect. The intimacy of it burned. Price worked quickly, gently, and clipped his nails down into a sterile envelope.

Beverly stood by the camera, meeting Will’s eyes. “You know what comes next,” she said quietly.

The dread pooled in his gut. “With all these people watching?”

“You know we can’t make exceptions,” she answered. Her tone was firm, but her eyes softened just a fraction.

From the corner, Will heard Zeller mutter to Price, low but not low enough. “Bet his dick’s scarred too.”

Price gave him a sharp look, but said nothing.

Will swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

Beverly’s voice didn’t waver. “You can keep your undershirt and underwear.”

It wouldn’t make much difference, he was already on trial for murder—that’s what he told himself. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, each pop of the button a quiet countdown. His shoes thudded dully on the floor as he toed them off, then socks, then pants. When he pulled the shirt off completely, he noticed a strip of blood soaked through the hem of his undershirt. He should have expected it.

He stepped into the taped square where the camera waited. Beverly lifted it, then froze. Her mouth parted before she pressed her lips tight again.

“Will…” she whispered.

The movement drew Zeller’s eyes. His pen stopped mid-scratch. “Jesus Christ.”

Price looked over and winced. “Oh, Will…”

Scars covered him like an unfinished map. His arms were a latticework of jagged lines, some fresh and red, others pale and sunken. His torso bore deep grooves, long-healed wounds pulling the skin into warped valleys. Bandages clung to his thighs, already spotted through with fluid. 

“Let’s just get this done,” Will said, voice flat.

Beverly lowered the camera for a moment, stepping closer despite the security guard moving to block her. She shot the guard a glare until he eased back. “You’re bleeding now,” she said softly.

Will glanced at the crimson blooming on his undershirt. “It happens.” He shrugged.

“We’ll need to collect that shirt,” Zeller said briskly, tone clipped, professional to the point of cruelty.

Beverly cut him a sharp look, but Will complied, peeling the undershirt away and setting it with the pile of clothes. Beverly’s eyes darted across his chest, then away quickly.

His shoulders were almost grotesque with scar tissue, layered and knotted. His back carried long slashes, some healed to thin white lines, others still angry and red. Scabs crusted over his ribs, his sternum, his stomach. Not a patch of skin was untouched, except for a neat strip along his collarbone and upper chest where a shirt would normally sit—like a mask of normalcy he’d preserved for their benefit.

Beverly’s voice cracked, quiet, almost to herself. “We need to take care of this.”

“Obviously he doesn’t care,” Zeller muttered.

“He’s standing right here,” Price shot back gently.

“I mean ethically,” Beverly said, steadier now. “He needs a nurse. Some of those cuts need stitching.”

Will stood silent in the taped square, arms limp at his sides, gaze fixed past them all. He wasn’t ashamed—not anymore. Just resigned. They finally saw what he lived with. And there was no going back from that.

The silence was only broken after the faint shuffle of the security guard repositioning himself. Then the door opened, and a nurse entered with a small cart of supplies.

Will let out a breath of relief when he saw it was a woman.

“Sit,” she instructed, tapping the edge of a steel stool. He obeyed, lowering himself stiffly. He felt Beverly, Price, and Zeller watching, cataloguing his damage like it was evidence bagged and tagged.

“Can I refuse?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

“No,” the nurse replied flatly, snapping on gloves. “You’ll be a ward of the state soon. And you’re obviously not in a condition to decide.” The words struck like slaps: not in a condition.

She inspected him briskly. “You’re going to need stitches here, here… and here.” Her gloved hand pressed against the soaked bandage on his thigh. He flinched, and she frowned. “That’s infected. You’ll need a course of antibiotics. Hold still.”

The needle went in with a sharp burn, tugging his skin together in brutal, jerking pulls. Will locked his eyes on the floor, refusing to look at anyone. He shook his head when she offered lidocaine.

“Suit yourself,” she muttered.

She pinned his arm in place, harder than necessary. He watched as the needle dipped into his skin and slid through. The thread tickled, foreign, as if his body rejected even this attempt at repair. The scar tissue fought back, his skin buckling unevenly as she pulled tight. Each stitch felt less like healing and more like graffiti over old scars.

Price shifted closer, his voice soft, apologetic. “You know, uh… most people don’t watch. Doesn’t make you weaker if you look away.”

Will didn’t answer.

Zeller leaned against the wall, arms crossed, tone clipped. “He likes watching. Don’t you, Graham? This isn’t new.” His pen scratched across the intake forms like a judge marking down sins.

Beverly’s jaw tightened. “Brian. Enough.”

Will thought Zeller was right. He did like watching—because it proved the blade had been real, that it had been his choice. Maybe he should’ve let it slip deeper, end it before all of this. Better that than watching them dissect his private pain in a fluorescent-lit room. His eyes flickered to the old razor blade sealed in evidence. That was honesty. This is humiliation.

The nurse yanked the final knot tight, wiped the blood with sterile gauze, and taped the bandages down. “Try not to tear these open again.”

Will dressed under the weight of their silence, folding his stained undershirt in on itself, a crude attempt at privacy. Beverly’s gaze held on him, not pitying, not condemning—just present. For that, he was strangely grateful. The others’ silence, though, felt heavier. Like a sentence already passed.

When he woke, the pain in his arms and legs was a dull throb, stitched flesh tugging whenever he shifted. The cell was dim, hospital-like, too sterile to offer comfort. His bandages felt like declarations. Tagged. Labeled. Sewn up like a specimen.

The footsteps came first, deliberate, echoing down the hall. Then the voice. “Agent Graham,” Frederick Chilton purred as he appeared at the bars. “Or perhaps… patient Graham?”

Will sat up slowly, wincing at the pull of sutures. He said nothing.

Chilton’s gaze lingered on the bandages, eyes glinting. “They stitched you well. Fascinating, isn’t it? The body insists on repair even when the mind begs for ruin. Every mark is a message. You’ve written a diary across your skin—whether you intended to or not.”

Will lowered his eyes. “You don’t know what they mean.”

“Oh, but I do.” Chilton stepped closer, his tone sliding toward intimacy. “Self-harm is violence rehearsed inward. Inevitably, the trajectory reverses. It always turns outward. The line between victim and killer is thinner than a razor’s edge.” He tilted his head, studying him like a pinned insect. “And you, Will Graham, are balancing on it.”

Will finally looked up, his stare steady, voice flat. “At least when I cut myself, I know who’s bleeding.”

For a heartbeat, Chilton’s smile faltered. Then he recovered, smoothing his face into practiced amusement. “A tragedy in the making,” he said lightly. “Or perhaps a monster learning to recognize his reflection.”

His footsteps retreated, deliberate as before, echoing until they vanished.

Will lay back on the narrow mattress. The ceiling swam above him. Every stitch pulled tight, a reminder not just of what was closed, but of everything still festering beneath. The encephalitis was being treated now, the fever receding, but he felt no more whole than before. If anything, he felt more assembled—stitched together from broken parts.

Frankenstein’s monster, he thought, only this creation wasn’t God’s or man’s. It was Hannibal’s.