I can't sleep. Or maybe I'm sleeping too much. When I'm awake I'm not really there, but when I'm not really there I'm always awake. It's not insomnia, this isn't fight club and last time I checked in the mirror I wasn't Edward Norton. But who am I?

Will's hands went into the basin as he inhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring slightly to breathe in the cold Virginian air. His eyes avoid the small framed mirror that hangs over the sink, very modern day cottage – like something from a new age magazine but merely there for convince. Not design. The person he catches glimpses of as he ducks his head down to wash his sweat stained face and as he pulls it back up again to get a breath in – this person is not one he recognizes. His eyes look like death should have claimed him long ago, laden with sleeplessness and secrets that were locked away beyond approach. He would have sworn just by meeting the gaze of this reflection that you could have bore into it's skull with a drill and found nothing. There was an emptiness to him and yet, as Will found himself holding the man's gaze on the opposite side of the glass, there was a fullness that he could never conceive. He wouldn't remember how long he held the gaze for when he woke up, nor would he recall why he woke up on the front porch in his coat, but he would recall that haunting gaze that lingered between him and the glass as an infinite staring competition that would end with no winners.

It is 9:40pm, I am in Baltimore, Maryland. My name is Will Graham and I am alive. I don't feel it, I don't think it but as I clutch to the anchor that is time I know it.

The man felt his teeth collide in his mouth as he chewed his current mouthful, the strong taste of meat dragging along his tastebuds and filling his cheeks with each grind his jaw made to pulverise its contents. Swallowing, the food snags in Will's throat if only for a second, enough for him to question his mortality and if the taste on his tongue is really there or if he's currently somewhere else. Back home, on his porch, in the cabin. But no, he is here. "Duck, did you say?" The man's voice airs as he peers through the thick glass that enables his vision to focus, his attention on his host who sits so highly opposite himself. "Pheasant, actually." The host replies, a small twinge of a half-smile tugging at the corner of his thinly pressed lips as he speaks. His words seem to echo in Will's brain while the brunette looks down and sets his gaze upon the dark meat nestled upon his plate between sautéed water chestnuts and scallops. Pheasant. Will continues to cut into the meat as the man before him keeps talking about the wayward little bird his butcher wrangled for him, how she fled through the thickets but was no match for the skilled hunter who ensnared her. His teeth knock once more – only then he realizes he has another mouthful, the meat still strong and thick with flavour as it slides across the insides of his mouth with each rotate of his hungry jaw.

I did not kill Abigail Hobbs. I have been framed and there is someone who has done this to me. This is not my design.

The ceiling has been the same for the past few hours – the pale bricks of the cell that Will found himself confined to. Time continued to pass, in and out Will faded as he tried to grasp a hold of his situation. So close, he had worked it out and he had been so close – so blind. His gaze is on the floor now, when he sat up he had no clue but the floor matched the ceiling as it was. Maybe he had been upright the entire time. He couldn't tell. "Will Graham." A voice piped up – the voice of the host, of the doctor, the wolf in sheep's clothing. His teeth collide as they pinch flesh between them at the sound of the voice, and uncomfortable sensation jolting through Will's cheek as he feels his feet disobey him. Before he can stop he's walking towards the barred door, staring the man in the face as he feels his own lips part and his tongue betray him. "Doctor Lector."