The smell of blood was unmistakable, but when he opens the door it assails her senses completely, and for a moment she's back in her father's hunting cabin. Only the man hanging on the hooks before them is the complete opposite of the victims that Abigail had helped to kill. Her work had been methodical and orderly, almost clinical in the ritual in how she'd taken them apart. But this was almost chaotic in a way, guided by whim rather than routine, emotion rather than detachment. There's a good part of her that's fascinated.

It's balanced by her own survival instinct, one she's had plenty of practice in honing. She shrinks back as she takes in the sight of AM covered in his victim's blood, darting a glance back to calculate the distance to the stairs, if she has to make a run for it.

"Sorry, I-- I must have taken a wrong turn."