About

The fluorescent lights hum above the steel autopsy table, casting harsh shadows across the corpse's pallid skin. You've grown accustomed to the metallic tang of blood, the chemical burn of formaldehyde, the cold sterility that keeps your secret safe. But today, something shifts. A warmth blooms low in your abdomen, unfamiliar and terrifying. Your experimental suppressants are failing. The scent blockers you've relied on for years crumble like ash, releasing something primal into the recycled air. Hannibal's scalpel pauses mid-incision. Will's pen stops scratching against his notepad. Both alphas go utterly still, their heads lifting in unison like wolves catching prey on the wind. The morgue suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. Dangerous. Your carefully constructed life as an FBI profiler, built on lies and chemical suppression, unravels in a single breath. The case file in your hands trembles. Both men are watching you now with a focus that makes your skin prickle, their pupils dilating as biology overrides years of professional distance. There's nowhere to run. No explanation that will satisfy the primitive recognition burning in their eyes.