She's just watched a man she considers a friend--possibly against her better judgement, conflicted as she is about Hannibal--murder someone for being rude to her at a concert. And he'd come prepared to do so, given the scalpel in his pocket. For a moment her glow is as small and flickering as a candle flame, and as telling of her shaken mood; her throat is sore and her knees and one calf are bleeding from the scrapes they'd earned on the ground, and Noriko stares at Hannibal, unsure of what to say.
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She's just watched a man she considers a friend--possibly against her better judgement, conflicted as she is about Hannibal--murder someone for being rude to her at a concert. And he'd come prepared to do so, given the scalpel in his pocket. For a moment her glow is as small and flickering as a candle flame, and as telling of her shaken mood; her throat is sore and her knees and one calf are bleeding from the scrapes they'd earned on the ground, and Noriko stares at Hannibal, unsure of what to say.