[ Krouse flexes his fingers, bandages wrinkling and stretching. He could close them into fists before he turns around. The thought comes and goes without any weight to it. He doesn't turn around. ]

That's a complicated question.

[ His voice scrapes dark and dry, his softness drained away like the water. ]

You know I've killed people. [ There's no point in pretending otherwise, anymore. ] You saw what I can do. That's not something you pick up at a shooting range. But that's not it. People get over that.

It's why I did it. It's because I had a choice between her, and anyone else, and I chose her. Every time. And I wasn't sorry. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again. The only thing I'm sorry for is that it wasn't fucking good enough.

[ It's the worst thing he's ever said. It slides out of him like a shard of glass from a deep wound, treacherously liberating. He makes a rough, unsteady noise like a laugh, tilting forward to lean on the edge of the sink again so he can press his forehead against the mirror. His eyes closed somewhere along the way. His thin tears don't make it farther than the shallow hollows underneath them. ]

Do many people feel like that, Dr. Lecter?