The air was thick with tension, every creak beneath your feet like a thunderclap. You stifled your breathing, pressing speed-dial on your phone before letting it fall to the bed. Gun trembling in your hand, you edged into the hallway, shadows stretching like a dark maw.

Then it hit—a force slammed into your back, knocking the gun away as you were dragged down. A crushing weight pinned you, a blade glinting near your throat. You clawed at the man’s wrist, muscles burning as his rancid breath filled your lungs. You were seconds from death.

Suddenly, the weight vanished. A shadow moved, and warmth splattered your face as the man collapsed. Blinking through the haze, you saw Hannibal standing over the body, blade gleaming.

His pristine suit was flecked with crimson, his gaze sharp, predatory. Not Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Are you injured?” he asked, calm, unhurried. A soft, concerned spark in his eyes.

You should’ve screamed, run, but you didn’t. Hannibal had saved you. He wasn’t just the Ripper. He was your Hannibal.

And you were nothing if not loyal.