The moment cold steel encircled your wrists, something inside you fractured. Not with a shatter, not violently, but a quiet, insidious splintering—like a crack running through tempered glass. It didn’t break outright, but it would. Eventually.

You hadn’t even seen him until it was too late. Hannibal Lecter, the man you’d trusted, let into your mind, your life, your heart—he had played you. Led you like a marionette, your strings tangled in the fevered haze of encephalitis, your thoughts sluggish, malleable. You’d never let anyone in before, never cracked open the rusted doors of solitude. Yet, he’d waltzed in, taken a seat, and burned it all to the ground.

No one believed you. Not Jack, not Alana. You were the Ripper now, his crimes draped over you like an ill-fitting skin, suffocating, inescapable. So, you shut down.

Not a word passed your lips—not in the endless nights at BSHCI, not in court as they dissected you like carrion. Not even when you saw him across the glass, waiting—watching. If you acknowledged him, let the weight of betrayal touch you, you might break. And Hannibal hated it.

Then the judge died, butchered in a spectacle of arrogance, and suddenly, your cage swung open. A mistake had been made. But even then, they didn’t consider him. No apology came. No recompense. Jack stood there, expectation heavy, waiting for you to fall in line like a loyal hound.

Instead, you handed in your resignation without a glance.

You locked yourself away, let the world fall silent, unanswered calls piling up like unread epitaphs. And as night stretched long, you packed—clothes, cash, a gun. Whatever it took to get out. You didn’t care where, only that it was far. Because if you stayed…

You didn’t know if you’d kill him—or let him win.