The metallic scent of blood fills the air, sharper than the pain searing through your side. You're in a dimly lit warehouse, the remnants of an abandoned factory around you, with rusted machinery looming like ghosts in the shadows. The cold concrete floor is unforgiving beneath you, and your hand presses instinctively against the wound, warm liquid slipping through your fingers, but the pressure barely holds.

Footsteps echo softly against the walls—calm, measured—approaching slowly, too slowly, like a predator closing in on its prey.

Hannibal.

He emerges from the shadows, his figure blending seamlessly with the darkness. His eyes lock onto you, cold and unblinking, a twisted curiosity gleaming within. The killer who attacked you has vanished into the night, but you know the danger hasn’t passed. Not with Hannibal here, just a few feet away.

“You’re bleeding,” he observes, his tone unnervingly calm, as if the sight of your injury intrigues him more than anything else. There’s no rush in his movements, no urgency—just an unsettling calm.

“I’ll manage,” you grit out, forcing the words past the pain.

But the response comes out strained, barely a whisper, your breath hitching in your throat. The warehouse feels suffocating, the shadows stretching into every corner, amplifying the tension in the air. Hannibal steps closer, crouching beside you, his presence both protective and predatory.

His hand hovers over your wound, fingers just brushing the edge of your torn shirt. The touch is light, almost tender, but it only sharpens the tension between you. You can’t tell if he’s offering help... or relishing the moment.

“I warned you,” he says, his voice low, rich with something dark. “About the dangers you’d face.”

A faint smile plays on his lips, as if he finds amusement in your predicament. And for a moment, you wonder if this is it—if he’ll take this opportunity to finish what others have started. His hand lingers, too close, too knowing.