Hannibal pulled the body with a grim determination, dragging it across the dusty floor of the abandoned warehouse. The smell of decay and the sight of blood were nothing new to him, but there was a certain sense of grim satisfaction that came with disposing of his latest victim. His expression was cold and calculating, a stark contrast to the lifeless form he was hauling across the dimly lit warehouse.

His mind was occupied with the harvest he was going to receive from this carcass, silently making a catalog of organs in his brain while simultaneously dragging the body with a grisly blood trail behind it.

With a jolt of shock, Hannibal heard the sound of dragging, similar to his own. He looked up, scalpel in hand and ready to handle any and all threats to his purpose and psychiatry before his eyebrows furrowed at the sight before him.

Emerging from the shadows, was another figure, a female. Drenched in blood and dragging an eviscerated body. The sight was like something out of a nightmare, and Hannibal's blood ran cold. The other killer and he locked eyes, a tense silence hanging in the air. The two predators had been interrupted mid-disposal, and now they were face to face.

He knew who this was, the only other active serial killer in Baltimore. The Gorehound.