"The boy's persistence will chase my immortality to the ends of the earth, Azmaveth," the god, Mortifico, drawled, gazing down at the earth. "Despite his revelations, he still continues to kill for me."

He sighed, catching his son's attention—a young boy reaching his early adulthood. He approached his father slowly.

"Is it Will Graham, Father?"

"My only admirer," he said.

Azmaveth blinked. "You brought his mother to peace."

Mortifico nodded with another sigh. "And he's been killing for us ever since. Let run the blood of his own kin."

"His own father."

A silence fell over them, and the two gods stared out over the clouds, lingering in the air's cool, gentle embrace. After a while, Azmaveth spoke up.

"Let me talk to him," he said.

"What?"

Azmaveth glanced over at his father, black eyes glinting. "I want to know this Will Graham. Understand his every movement—the reasons behind them." He leaned closer to Mortifico, midnight wings fluttering. "I want to know why he's so infatuated with our legacy. Memorize the itch beneath his skin that drives his mortal brain to kill in cold blood."

Mortifico stared down at his son, pride glimmering in his eyes. "Your talk promises dangerous roads, son."

"What good am I up here?" he breathed. "Allow me to extend our legacy. Make Death known for what we truly are."

Another silence fell over them, and Mortifico gazed at Azmaveth, examining his features—the fire of his eyes; the strength of his silent, deadly build. A true, sly embodiment of Death itself.

"You must build a reputation," said Mortifico, "down in the mortal realm."

Azmaveth straightened himself, listening to his father's every words.

"Humans have built their system on power. If your speak stands concrete, you must push your way through the ranks. Gain respect. Analyze every movement that those mortals make and learn their ways." Mortifico gave a slender, chilling smile. "But most importantly, you must harbor the trust of Will Graham."

"Yes, Father. I will do exactly as you say."

Mortifico nodded, staring back down at the earth. Azmaveth followed his gaze.

"You will not journey alone. Your four horsemen will accompany you." He glanced over at his son. "Let them carve their own paths. It is only when you truly see fit that they plot by your side."

Azmaveth nodded.

"Do not forget your duties," said Mortifico. Another pause fell between them, and he pat his son's head with chilling fingers.

"Make me proud, Hannibal."

Tension swam between Hannibal and Will as they stared at one another, silent after Will's confession. Despite the uncomfort brewing in the air, the ghost of a smirk flashed across Lecter's lips. Will Graham wavered.

"You're awfully fine about this," muttered Graham, eyeing him closely. "I just admitted I'm a killer, Dr. Lecter. A murderer."

"My reaction gives you pause, does it not?"

Will scoffed. "Obviously."

Another tense, charged silence fell between them, and Will shifted in his seat. He kept his eyes on Hannibal, perking up when he opened his mouth.

"I knew," he said quietly.

Will blinked, staring at Hannibal. "What?"

He smiled and stood, wandering over to the cabinet to fetch a bottle of wine. Slowly, while letting the silence cut through them unpleasantly, he poured two glasses of the thick, viscid liquid.

"I knew," he repeated, walking back over and handing a wine glass to Will. He reluctantly took it, searching Hannibal's unreadable features. "That you were a killer."

"H-how…"

"There's no need to discuss how, Will," said Hannibal simply, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "What's to know is that I embrace your nature."

"You're not gonna rat me out."

Hannibal shook his head, smirking softly. "Tell me, Will," he breathed, pausing to take a long, languid sip of blood-red wine. He set down the glass and licked his lips, staring evenly at Will, whose pupils had dilated. "What do you feel when you kill someone? What drives you to take another's life in cold blood?"

Will glanced aside, then stared at the floor, breaths hesitant. He stood and wandered around the room, aware of Hannibal's fiery gaze on his body. "I… feel numb, mostly," he started, keeping his eyes away from Lecter. "It's easy to click off my emotions when I'm about to make the kill."

He looked up at Hannibal, who sipped at his wine, listening closely. "Then the adrenaline kicks in. It's so energizing and intoxicating that, when I finish a kill, I can't help but wonder when I'll make the next." He stood by the tall, ceiling-high window, gazing through the translucent curtains. "Sometimes it's so hard to control, I fear I'll be caught."

Hannibal stood, slowly joining Will's side. His scent flared in Graham's nostrils, sending his mind spinning.

"What's your drive, Will?" whispered Hannibal, numbingly close. "The reason you kill?"

He stared at Hannibal, heart pulsing against his chest at their close proximity. Their eyes kept locked on one another—heated and intense.

"I want to meet Death," he whispered.

Hannibal's eyes glimmered, and he gave a chilling smile. He rested his hand on Will's shoulder, and his heart alarmingly skipped at the contact.

"You will," he breathed, lips brushing against Will's ear. He shuddered, swallowing when Hannibal gave a squeeze to his shoulder before letting go. "He is here—in this city—after all."

He glanced back at Hannibal, who smirked at him simply. His black eyes glinted with a playful knowingness. "Tell me how you killed Sonya," he hummed.

And he did.

After Will Graham's confession, their therapy progressed into paths he never could have imagined. Hannibal indulged in practices quite unorthodox to his psychotherapy, like proposing ideas or tactics to improve how Will chose his targets—how he could kill them. Even how to cover up his tracks and let the bodies melt beneath the FBI's radar.

At first, Will told himself that he should be concerned. That, perhaps, Hannibal could be a spy, whose task was to learn everything about him—gain such concrete evidence that, should he be caught and forced into court, he could never dream of finding a way out. But, as time progressed, Will found himself trusting Hannibal. Talking about his murders spilt from his lips so freely—so much so that it significantly reduced his stress from the FBI's recent cases of his old, infringed-upon murders.

Jack noticed these small, accumulating changes, and decided to approach Will when he examined a body for another's case. Price, Zeller, and Katz hovered around him, gazing at the body or fiddling with the computers or evidence.

"Dr. Lecter must be a great therapist," said Crawford as he walked into the glass-walled room, clapping a hand on Will's shoulder. He turned around and blinked out of his daze, eventually nodding. "You're much more relaxed these days."

"Yeah," he said, glancing back down at the cadaver.

"That's why I'm a bit hesitant to ask," continued Jack, and Will looked back at him. "There's been another body. The team down there says it's been marked."

"Another message," grumbled Will.

"That's what I'm thinking." Jack gazed at Graham, eyeing him carefully. "I don't want you coming with me if it's going to ruin your progress with Dr. Lecter. We can't have a repeat—"

"It's fine," Will interrupted, straightening himself despite his beating heart. "Take me there."

"Are you sure?"

Will glanced back at the other three, who still milled about the lab, and looked back at Crawford. "Positive," he said.

Everyday, Death was getting closer.

If only he knew how close.

ahh, insight on Hannibal's true self 👀 can't wait to reveal more in the future ;)

hope you liked it, and thank you so much for reading!

enjoy your day,

Felix.