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Summary
Will’s gun lies abandoned by the kitchen counter. Unreachable. The knife - a cruel, curved blade, made to tear rather than glide through flesh - is beside Abigail’s arm. Abandoned, like the other pieces of this sorry denouement.
In the doorway, a stag with raven feathers staggers. It’s bleeding, slit open from hip to hip - but it does not fall. It rakes its hooves over the floor and lowers its antlers. Challenging Hannibal’s retreating figure.
The handle is slick and he fumbles with it, scratching against the floor. “Hannibal!”
Hannibal stops. Maybe it’s the anticipation in Will’s voice that hooks him. He was expecting despair or desperation - and instead, the dark tenor promises triumph.
Will meets his gaze, hands shaking with the effort, and drags the blade across his own throat.