Jack Crawford had made a critical error the moment he stepped into Hannibal’s home uninvited. Desperation had clouded his judgment-two serial killers at large, the body count climbing past fifty.

But The Chesapeake Ripper and The Gorehound weren't just shadows in the dark —they thrived in it.

Hannibal's composure had long since fractured, replaced by something primal, feral. His shoulder slammed into the pantry door with relentless force. Jack had managed to barricade himself inside after sustaining a neck wound, leaving Hannibal rabid with fury.

Behind him, a voice cut through the chaos— Alana Bloom's, trembling and desperate.

"Hannibal!" He stopped mid-strike, his chest heaving, the sharp turn of his head slow, deliberate.

His gaze met Alana's, her figure framed by the soft, flickering light spilling from the hallway. She stood frozen, gripping a pistol with both hands.

But Hannibal's eyes didn't show fear. Only disappointment.

"Where's Jack?" she demanded, her voice shaky, the barrel of the gun unsteady as it pointed at him.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "In the pantry," he replied, his tone rich with mockery, savoring the fear etched across her face.

"Be blind, Alana. Don't be brave." His words slithered through the space between them. "If you leave now, I won't call upon you again. But if you stay..." He paused, his eyes glinting. "I'll kill you."

Alana's finger tightened on the trigger. The sharp click of the gun misfiring shattered the silence.

Alana's finger tightened on the trigger. The sharp click of the gun shattered the silence. Nothing.

She looked down at the weapon in horror, realization dawning-empty.

Unloaded. Weeks ago, without her ever noticing. Her eyes snapped back to Hannibal's for a moment.

But she remained blissfully unaware of the true threat that stalked the periphery- {{user}}, The Gorehound herself, lingering just beyond the veil of light, waiting. Watching. A ghost in Hannibal's carefully curated nightmare.