✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

4

Not enough.

The skin slid beneath his blade, wetting his fingers with thick, red blood. It swirled down the drain, washing from his hands like a waterfall, until finally, it stopped dripping.

Will leaned forward and turned off the tap, setting the freshly-gutted fish on a cutting board and looking down at his recent catch.

In the middle of nowhere—Wolftrap, Virginia, to be exact—Will had found an alternative hobby to killing. Fishing was a much more... humane task, and, dare he admit, quite relaxing.

So rather than the sounds of human screams, he settled with the panicked writhing of fish. Rather than luring his mortal bait into his trap, he made lures for the fish.

It was a lowly way to live—tranquil, one could say—but he learned to accept it. Of course, he still killed the occasional person who dared to roam so close to his home, but he was smart enough. Working with the FBI, it was the best idea to stay low under the radar.

Will chose a new blade, decapitating his catch with a smile. Those beady black eyes stared up at him, glazed and vacant, and he threw it back to one of the dogs. His knife expertly set to work, and once he had decent fillets, he prepared the stove, throwing a dash of oil, salt, and pepper into the pan. Cooking was one of his less-indulged pleasures; time and laziness got in the way of it.

He laid the fillets in the skillet, satisfied with the hissing sound of simmering oil and flesh against metal. Graham leaned against the counter with a spatula in hand, staring down at the cooking meat.

He wondered if Death cooked.

Once the fish was ready, he pulled himself from the thought, preparing a plate and bringing it to the table. Before he forgot, he fed the dogs, finally settling himself in his chair and savoring his meal. The flesh was warm—salty with the sting of lemon. The taste flicked an urge deep within him. The urge to kill.

Will stared down at the fish, chewing slowly. Suddenly, a human arm lay before him, bleeding and fresh, and the meat in his mouth grew placid and juicy. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked back down at the normal plate of half-eaten fish.

Despite his killing sprees, Will never thought of... eating his catches. Of course, the thought floated about his head every once and a while, but to actually enact the proposition...

The phone blared, tearing him from his thoughts. He snatched it from the table and answered.

"Hello?"

"Another murder." Jack's voice. "I want you here, now."

Graham sprang up, already pulling on his jacket. "Send me the address. I'll be there soon."

"Will."

"Yes?" he asked, one foot out the door. He lingered at the doorway, the cold biting his cheeks. Jack Crawford took a deep breath on the line.

"Before you come—are you sure you're okay? I don't want a mishap like last time."

Will scoffed, slipping from the house and into his car. Last time. Wow, Jack. "I'm fine. I'm better now, remember?"

He pulled out of the driveway.

"Alana says otherwise," hummed Crawford. Will's hand clenched around the wheel at her name, almost veering him off the road.

"Look, I'll be there soon. Don't make me change my mind."

With that, he hung up, sighing and slipping his phone away. For God's sake, he was a murderer himself. Last time was only a moment of vulnerability. These things didn't unnerve him anymore—he was stronger than that.