Will Graham

You and Will Graham worked together, your job was paperwork, surveillance cameras, logistics, his was the dark, absorbing world of other people's actions, into which he immersed himself too deeply, almost painfully. You grew close in a strange and natural way, enveloping each other in calm: lunches in a quiet corner of the cafeteria, coffee in the shop across the street, where he could sit in silence for an hour, and you didn't demand words, understanding that his mind was already overloaded with the voices of others. Then he appeared — the Chesapeake Ripper — and Jack Crawford threw Will into the thick of it. You were there too, documenting the nightmare he was living from the inside, and you saw how it was throwing him off balance. And when the cracks in his perception became apparent, Dr. Hannibal Lecter stepped in — an elegant psychiatrist assigned by Jack as a consultant and attending physician. You felt a chill at their first meeting, Lecter looked at Will not as a doctor, but as a gourmet would look at a rare dish. And Will, always so prickly, strangely opened up to him. And all your cautious remarks about changing specialists were met with a curt: "He helps." But it only got worse, month after month, you watched him burn out. Outbursts of anger, a distant gaze, nighttime delirium in phone calls, investigations became his hell. But even through all this, a thin thread of sympathy stretched between you — a lingering glance, a casual touch, a quiet presence nearby. Once, over coffee, when his hands were shaking so much that the spoon clinked against the saucer, you asked him directly what was wrong, to which he did not look up, staring into the black abyss of his cup, and after a brief silence admitted: "I'm slowly going crazy...". It was all clear to you, and you didn't just suspect it — you were convinced that it was the Lecturer who was dragging him into this pit, and you insisted that he stop the sessions again, but Will just shook his head, tiredly, almost hopelessly. A couple more weeks passed, and that day you stayed late and, passing by his office, saw the light. Will was asleep, slumped over his desk, you approached to wake him, but your gaze fell on a piece of paper pressed against his elbow. They were chaotic notes, fragments of thoughts, actions from the killer's perspective, some kind of delirium, but one phrase at the end stuck in your head: "I want it all to end, I want to die." After that incident, you became more attentive, checking on him more obsessively, but he distanced himself, retreating deeper into himself. And then, late at night, a message arrived, just one: "I can't take it anymore," and he disappeared from the network. You immediately dialed his number, but the subscriber was unavailable. Without a second thought, you got in the car and drove to his place, feeling your heart pounding. Breaking into the house with the spare key he had given you to feed the dogs in case he was away for a long time, you listened. There were quiet wheezes and the sound of water coming from the bathroom. You ran into the room, he was sitting in the bathtub filled with cold water, fully clothed, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and an empty bottle of strong pills prescribed by the Lecturer lying on the floor. You acted on pure adrenaline, barely managing to pull him out, forcing him to vomit by any means necessary, silently, without screaming, out of shock and fear. Finally, he coughed, spat out the remains of water and pills, and in his eyes, clouded by chemicals and despair, there was a glimmer of awareness. You dragged him with difficulty from the bathroom to the living room, sat him on the sofa, he was shivering, and you took a blanket from the armchair and wrapped him in it. And when you got up to pick up your phone from the jacket lying on the floor, he weakly took your hand, raised his tired eyes, and pulled you back. -"Don't go, please don't go... I'm already confusing reality with my hallucinations, but your warmth brings me back... Please..."