She had turned her attention to a small compact mirror in her hand, lightly powdering her skin before she regarded the doctor. “You might find this rude, but appearances are crucial.” Of course, she was also vain—but that wasn’t the point. “You’d be surprised how people are comforted by such a friendly face.”

And it lulled them into a false sense of security of course. Be the dumb beautiful object. Be the trophy wife. The beast still waited below.

“If you want me to be honest here, I don’t know what he did.” She shrugs. “I was called to… collect him.”

One of her hands graces a button at the top of her blouse before she returns to the doctor's side, the vibrant green of her eyes seems to dart toward the blood.

“Sometimes people are struck by misfortune,” Her tone is concise, but there is an intensity about her that isn’t unlike some sort of beast flicking its tail.

“Perhaps he wouldn’t have done so poorly if he carried a lucky rabbit’s foot.”

Astrid was accustomed to such gruesome sights but avoided messes whenever possible. Some in her field would consider it sport, but she thought it risky.

Stupid, even. Blood was traceable.

"You see this button?" She asks, "It's actually a camera. There's a microphone sewn into the fabric, as well." Her expression doesn't sour, and her tone remains remarkably neutral. It wasn't a threat, that would be stupid. "Neither are high-quality, but the evidence here is damning enough."

Her face grew wolfish.

"You helped me with something obviously illegal, and thus---" she doesn't finish her sentence right away, but the implication is clear. "You might find it more comfortable to think of this as... quid pro quo."

Mutually assured destruction.

He didn't like the implications of those words, nor did he like being duped into helping an anonymous person only to be written in as blackmail.

"Contingency plan?" He repeated the words, turning away from the body and her so that he rinsed and soaped up his hands in the sink. He reached for a dish towel, snapping it away from the ring and wrapping his forearms and hands up in the material.

Boredom.

Beyond this chain of events, her mind was elsewhere. She was still picturing her trip to Belize, where she would be sipping rum and trying her hardest not to acquire a sunburn. She could almost smell the suntan lotion and salt from the air.

To put it short, she was picturing the vacation that Mr. Tom was so rude to delay by bleeding out in the company Rolls.

"Company policy," she gave a wave of her hand that was more cordial than dismissive — not that it seemed cordial at all, camaraderie was never her strong suit — but the same hand fidgeted with the beautiful pearl button just beneath the hidden camera. "If we were going about our business on my dime, I would've been out of here already, and there would be zero knowledge of any recording equipment."

The tone of her voice didn't suggest any malice, but she wasn't naive. She knew exactly what the average person would surmise from the situation they found themselves in.

Well, of course, if the "average person" found themselves in this situation.

"When you get Mr. Tom's eyelids open, I will have a courier bring a cheque within the hour. Your time with me, wasted or not, is greatly appreciated." She smiled, but not with her mouth. Not a wrinkle crossed her face, but there was a split second where her humanity crossed the threshold of those predator eyes of hers.

She did little to mask her relief that the man wouldn’t bleed out. In a slaughterhouse, a slain pig would be forgotten among the masses. It was better that this one lived.

She watched his hands as he worked, her mind had begun to drift to the events that led her here, the drying blood on her knuckles—until he had mentioned recipes.

“I’m a vegetarian—I haven’t considered it.” Perhaps it was strange for the two to talk of food in such a place. But, as it was, Astrid didn’t seem to lose her appetite at such a grim event. “Though, I’ve heard there’s a Szechuan place down the street that has some sort of blood stew.”

She moved lazily away from the table, a hand reaching to a nearby sink where she had begun washing the blood from her hands.

“He hasn’t harmed me, personally. Gentle as a lamb.” She gave a light shrug of her shoulders before she continued, “But he has offended a generous benefactor of mine. It sickens my heart that he has come to such a state, of course.”

Of course, Hannibal is well aware of the advantages the human body adapts when stripped of proteins. While other doctors boasted about the benefits of such a diet, he never put much thought into adding his two cents. What works for one does not work for another, just like his appetite for choice cuts.

"Do they now?" he responds, his fingers finding the pulse of the man's neck. His thoughts formulate into an oriental bowl filled with the broth of blood intermingling; it bubbles to the beat of the man's flow of blood, which is faint but still steadily pulsating.

She had turned her attention to a small compact mirror in her hand, lightly powdering her skin before she regarded the doctor. “You might find this rude, but appearances are crucial.” Of course, she was also vain—but that wasn’t the point. “You’d be surprised how people are comforted by such a friendly face.”

And it lulled them into a false sense of security of course. Be the dumb beautiful object. Be the trophy wife. The beast still waited below.

“If you want me to be honest here, I don’t know what he did.” She shrugs. “I was called to… collect him.”

One of her hands graces a button at the top of her blouse before she returns to the doctor's side, the vibrant green of her eyes seems to dart toward the blood.

“Sometimes people are struck by misfortune,” Her tone is concise, but there is an intensity about her that isn’t unlike some sort of beast flicking its tail.

“Perhaps he wouldn’t have done so poorly if he carried a lucky rabbit’s foot.”

Astrid was accustomed to such gruesome sights but avoided messes whenever possible. Some in her field would consider it sport, but she thought it risky.

Stupid, even. Blood was traceable.

"You see this button?" She asks, "It's actually a camera. There's a microphone sewn into the fabric, as well." Her expression doesn't sour, and her tone remains remarkably neutral. It wasn't a threat, that would be stupid. "Neither are high-quality, but the evidence here is damning enough."

Her face grew wolfish.

"You helped me with something obviously illegal, and thus---" she doesn't finish her sentence right away, but the implication is clear. "You might find it more comfortable to think of this as... quid pro quo."

Mutually assured destruction.