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[strings0fcontrol]

A note from the author

Dear Esteemed Reader,

I regret to inform you that I am currently facing a challenging bout of pneumonia, which has made simple tasks, including breathing, an arduous feat. Despite this setback, I am resolute in sharing the Halloween chapter with you, albeit in a more condensed form.

Unfortunately, this will mark a temporary pause in our narrative journey. My immediate focus will be on prioritizing my studies and allowing my body the necessary time to recuperate. Once my exams conclude or an opportunity for recovery emerges, I will eagerly resume sharing the remaining chapters. However, at present, my physical condition requires my full attention.

Your understanding and patience during this period are greatly appreciated.

With warm regards,

Dominus

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (21)

Even after completing breakfast and wandering through the labyrinth of his mind's museum, Will couldn't shake the feeling that something was awry. The memory had metamorphosed into yet another splatter of paint, and another fragment of the mosaic had been added to the gallery of his thoughts. But why hadn't it revealed the central piece, the very moment Garret Jacob Hobbs had met his end? Why had it omitted the most traumatizing fragment of all? And why had it not shown him Abigail? He glanced at Miu, and its gaze shifted toward one of the dimmer corners in the rear, where the feeble light barely penetrated. As he drew nearer, he discerned that this was a distorted memory, bearing a colder hue and exuding a menacing aura.

This singular sensation defied familiarity, akin to a searing blaze entwined with an icy, chilling touch. Will fixed his gaze upon Miu, poised to reach out and make contact with the recollection. However, his hand remained frozen in midair—suspended. The demon had a firm grasp on his wrist, its eyes fixing him with a penetrating, intent stare that concealed a veiled warning behind their sharpness. He withdrew carefully. “Why not?” That wasn't a question Miu was inclined to answer, but as he peered once more at the image, he couldn't deny its menacing quality. He could discern a grotesque silhouette within it, shifting and giving the impression of a sardonic smirk directed right at him. “Dangerous?” He cast another probing glance at the feline. Dangerous. For he had carried something home with him. His gaze drifted to the floor and his lips fell slightly agape as he nervously bit at his lower lip, sensing the gravity of the situation. A demon. His eyes rose to meet Miu's, a faint, sly smile dancing on his lips.

And then his gaze shifted to one of curiosity. The protagonist, bound by the classic 'Chosen One' narrative, diligently navigates the quests set forth, in this case with memories and tasks designated by an enigmatic force—the cat. However, what if he rebuffed the preordained journey? What if, contrary to convention, he took a direct path toward what he perceived as the ultimate adversary, the 'end boss'? Is it plausible that, as the central figure in this theatrical performance, the storyline would naturally accommodate such a deviation, ultimately resolving itself? The notion of taking a shortcut appeared as a tempting and feasible alternative. Particularly when he found himself allied with the devil. Miu was undeniably powerful.

So, why had it prevented him from accessing that particular memory? Was it motivated by fear? No, not for its own safety. But perhaps for Will's? It was impossible to discern. The expression on Miu's face was too cryptic, laden with information that defied easy comprehension. Naturally, if the devil was in his corner, it would strive to steer the narrative back onto its intended path. Should he adamantly refuse the role of the chosen one, the ‘cat,' would likely employ various methods to 'encourage' his compliance, or fate itself might intervene through other means. It was evident that Miu strongly dissuaded him from delving into that particular memory. Perhaps it was due to his status as a mere level 5 novice attempting to confront a formidable level 500 boss. One thing was unmistakable: he wasn't yet prepared to confront whatever lay on the other side of that memory. If that were the case, it was probably exceedingly perilous, and it seemed Miu had every intention of adequately preparing him for it.

Will pondered deeply. If this other entity was akin to Miu, how potent could it be? And in what precise way was it perilous? Would it shatter his mind, or perhaps inflict physical harm? Could it even go so far as to end his life? What circumstances would lead something as formidable and aggressive as Miu to approach a situation with strategic restraint? He desired to unravel the mystery. They locked eyes for a significant period. Will wasn't particularly inclined to comply. While he trusted Miu's judgment, he also perceived an opportunity to maneuver it into a position where it would be compelled to divulge information. Should he truly be the chosen one, endangering himself might compel the cat's intervention if it sought to ensure his safety. In effect, he could manipulate the situation, compelling the cat, symbolizing the narrative's orchestrator, to thwart what he perceived as the ultimate adversary. This maneuver could deceive the narrative's design, essentially coercing its 'editor' to shield him, thereby circumventing a direct confrontation and effectively outwitting his way through the climactic battle.

Miu wouldn't permit his demise; it would abruptly conclude the ongoing theater of events. His confidence in this assurance was notably high.

A diplomatic exchange transpired between their gazes. And neither side was willing to concede. "Miu, what will happen if I open that memory?" Will pressed, fully aware that he couldn't anticipate a response.

He raised his hand again, hovering it close to the memory, as if trying to exert more pressure in his argument.

Miu didn't waver.

And Will's hand inched even closer, nearly making contact with it. Miu's gaze shifted briefly to Will's quivering finger before returning to lock eyes with him. An imperceptible, enigmatic smile crept across its thin lips, as if silently conveying the certainty that Will dared not partake in whatever sinister game it proposed. However, it was that very expression that compelled him to engage in the unholy game. The stakes were established, and the wagers confidently accepted. Graham touched the memory.  Suddenly, he was seized by a cataclysmic force, as if struck by bolts of abyssal lightning, plunging him into a realm of sheer chaos. It was as though he had been unceremoniously cast into an endless sea of ink, where every facet of reality dissolved into a bewildering symphony of iridescent black and shimmering blue, resembling ethereal smoke and resonating with the distant rumble of thunder. Amidst this maelstrom, bolts of scorching purple lightning seared through the haze, engulfing him in an otherworldly tempest. Perhaps, Miu's warning held more wisdom than he had initially credited. Regret washed over him like an overwhelming tidal wave, colossal in its immediacy. A profound sense of remorse gnawed at his conscience.

What perilous abyss had he willingly descended into? The world around him began to coalesce into colorless forms, sounds reverberating and gradually molding themselves into a coherent tableau, as the shadow of Will's recollection unfolded before him. This spectral memory materialized hazily, threatening to engulf him entirely. Graham had to lunge to the side, though it transpired in a dreamlike slow-motion.

A pistol ascended, rounds were discharged, ultraviolet vitae sprayed, and lifeless forms stirred. The macabre scene played out with an eerie serenity, akin to a carefully choreographed dance within the flickering embrace of shadows. In the absence of Miu, the air resonated with the cacophony of gunshots, while the world seemed to sway in an inky, disorienting dance around him. Disoriented and stumbling, he retreated against the unforgiving kitchen counter, struggling to make sense of the unfolding chaos. His eyes witnessed the bullets piercing flesh, and the blood that erupted seemed to illuminate in an eerie, almost ethereal shade of pale purple. It was as if he beheld the blood through a prism of ultraviolet light, a surreal and unsettling spectacle. Resembling the hues of Miu's flesh, this realm felt like a negative rendition, prompting the realization that the cat had likely been ensnared within one of these fractured nightmares.

Amidst another deafening roar of thunder, another bullet was discharged, and then another, until the sinister figure in the corner succumbed to stillness, and its fallen accomplice lay prone upon the ground. Only Will remained, his form a disorienting blend of motion and glitch against the backdrop of the chilling scene.

Details eluded his sight, and in a cruel twist of fate, clarity arrived through sound with unsettling precision.

"See?"

The solitary utterance cleaved through him like a frigid dagger, its icy resonance lancing into his heart. From within, a gnawing coldness began to consume him, radiating outward. It transpired so swiftly, catching him unawares, that he had neither observed its approach nor discerned its manifestation. He beheld the nightmarish silhouette of fresh blood, eerily ultraviolet, seeping from his own wounded form. His collarbone wound. The cruel revelation unfolded in the span of a heartbeat. What cosmic irony.

He gazed into the lifeless countenance of Garret Jacob Hobbs, struggling to discern the rising knife's ominous trajectory before it descended once more. Yet, the blade never met its intended mark. In the tempestuous symphony of that moment, Will registered the booming thunder, felt the swiftness of the air cleaving around him, and bore witness to the explosive impact that hurled the assailant far across the suddenly expanded, vacant expanse encircling them. Will's gaze ascended. Miu. In response, the entity cast him a glance marked by faint disapproval, narrowing its eyes momentarily, before swiftly redirecting its attention back to its adversary. The feline had scarcely a moment to react, but it moved with swiftness and certainty, seizing both of the other demon's wrists, and abruptly halting the gleaming knife's perilous advance toward its core. He had blinked into existence. The once diminutive adversary had now swelled in size, matching Miu's imposing stature. Though he still bore the semblance of the same face, his form had contorted into a more infernal, grotesque, and menacing visage. Undulating, tumultuous flesh. Demons lurked within these fractured recollections, malevolent entities whose awakening posed a grave peril. Miu's earlier warning had been frighteningly accurate.

Indeed, Miu had been profoundly prescient, for it stood far from its full might. As the opposing demon's maw yawned wide, exuding a malevolent and toxic intent, all Will needed was a single, wide-eyed glance from the feline to understand the urgency. Without hesitation, he leaped for cover, propelled by the instinct to distance himself from this impending danger as swiftly as his limbs could carry him. Even if the typically invulnerable devil wore an expression akin to ‘oh, shit,’ that singular reaction was sufficient to prompt him to flee, ideally at the swiftest pace possible.

He perceived it, a sound akin to a sibilant and menacing 'S,' so dreadful and potent that it sliced right through him. His ears rang, his reality quivered, and his very sense of orientation was ruthlessly dismantled. He could only fathom the agony it inflicted upon Miu, whose sensitive auditory faculties were positioned far closer to the heart of this dreadful auditory assault. Despite sealing its ears and tightly pressing them against its skull, the excruciating torment must have been so unbearable that it would have driven any human to the brink of unconsciousness or even madness.

Will attempted to roll over, desperate to catch sight of the cat and assess their actions. Miu, however, writhed in agony, its eyes bulging as if on the verge of bursting from their sockets. The torment it endured must have been excruciating, a searing agony that was nothing short of paralyzing. This was far from his expectations. Given the cat's immense power, he had assumed it would effortlessly vanquish the other demon. Unless there were underlying rules governing these memories, resembling domains where the owner held omnipotent control, and any intruder was at a disadvantage. The thought of such limitations hadn't crossed his mind until now. Or consider this: what if these memories were akin to prison cells? Miu remained adorned with the collar, whereas the other demon was not.

No amount of contemplation yielded the answers he sought.

"ATTACK!"   Will screamed, his voice reduced to a mere, unheard whisper beneath the relentless auditory assault. He clamped his ears shut, but the sound penetrated every fiber of his being, shaking him like a helpless fly trapped in a glass jar.

Had it been any entity other than Miu, this ferocious onslaught might have proven fatal. Yet, the creature endured, permitting the demonic assailant to advance to the second syllable. The deeper 'E' sound resonated like the relentless strike of a sledgehammer to the skull, sending Will sprawling to the side, utterly flattened, while it inflicted near-kneeling agony upon Miu, its very eyelids quivering in anguish. The devil's resilience was unwavering; it descended gradually, yet adamantly resisted allowing its knee to touch the ground. It vehemently rejected the notion of defeat. Despite the tumultuous surroundings, he observed the taut, straining muscles, every vein and artery etched against the tensed sinews, showcasing their extraordinary effort to resist yielding. It unveiled to Will the feline's true muscular prowess as he witnessed the sinews engaged in full exertion. It was as if the very muscles had been hewn from stone, each defined contour etched with remarkable precision. Particularly striking were the abdominal muscles, upper arms, and legs, manifesting their finely honed strength and splendid definition. The veins, traversing the lower arms, hands, and neck, held a mesmerizing quality. Will longed for a camera to capture and recreate the image in a drawing. But he currently had diffferent problems. The sound clamped onto his heart, a grip that constricted, as if it were intent on squeezing the very air out of his lungs, subjecting him to a strangling force that threatened to crush him entirely. His throat constricted, suffocating as if under an immense weight pressing down on his sternum. Every vein and artery seemed etched upon his forehead, pulsating fiercely across his body—throbbing in his throat, belly, hands, even down to his legs. The escalating blood pressure teetered on the brink, ready to push his blood vessels beyond their limits. The taste of copper already tainted his tongue, signaling an impending system-wide rupture.

His eyes dangled on the verge of blinding white, were it not for the abrupt interruption—a respite in the relentless assault. The image of Miu delivering a headbutt resounded like a thunderous revelation, a deafening crack that cleaved through the agony, ushering in a moment of blissful silence. Ultraviolet blood spattered from its fanged maw, trickling down its visage. Miu bled from its eyes and nose, the proximity to the source of the sound meant it was exposed to a higher level of lethal pressure, causing further bleeding. Due to its inherent density, the creature bore the capacity to withstand deeper tones more resiliently. Yet, it wasn't the bass that inflicted such harm upon it. Oddly, the sharper 'S' sounds appeared to render it more vulnerable, slicing through its defenses like sharp glass. He witnessed their forms contort and more blood spatter, as Hobbs found himself compelled to arch backward beneath the weight of Miu's skull. Its feet shuffled, propelling one knee upward with brutal force, delivering a traumatic blow to the sternum. Its malevolent maw unfurled, revealing glistening blades that sparkled like stars for a fleeting instant before they commenced their eerie, bone-jarring vibration, accompanied by the unsettling sound of merciless steel meeting unyielding chalk. At last, he witnessed the formidable display of those terrifying teeth, and indeed, they surpassed all expectations. Beside them, a wood chopper would appear utterly benign. It bore down with clear intent, zeroing in on its target—the throat—and showed no hesitation as it tore through the jaw as though it were a trivial impediment, an insignificant afterthought. A flash of lightning illuminated the gruesome tableau, and the demon swiftly withdrew from Miu's proximity, vaulting several meters away, the once-ultraviolet shimmer marred by the grim remnants of his shattered, dripping jaw.

In a mere split-second, the havoc wreaked was profound. The demon bore the grievous toll—losing half his lower jaw and a significant portion of his facial structure. He was exercising far more caution in his approach toward Miu, particularly wary of the lethal threat posed by those formidable teeth. However, the teeth were effective only at close range, signifying that if the demon strategized his attack from a distance, staying beyond Miu's blast range, he could maintain the advantage.

The oscillating teeth ceased their reverberation, and its intense gaze fixated straight ahead, forming a grin that aligned the numerous razor-sharp teeth into what could only be likened to the world's most lethal mirror.

The great feline remained motionless, a sentinel, observing the unfolding chaos. Why did it not seize this prime opportunity to strike? It was unmistakably in the superior position. Will cast a quick glance at Miu, comprehending the truth behind its hesitation. It wasn't fear that gripped the entity; it was sheer exhaustion. The weight of the chain around its neck bore heavily upon it, sapping its strength and resolve.

Miu emanated a spectral glow, streaked with eerie shades of blue, its pulsations coursing throughout its entire form. It was as if an unseen force held its strength in a merciless grip. It appeared the cat struggled to maintain its balance, particularly now, likely undergoing severe internal trauma from the reverberating sound. The notion of sound inflicting such extensive harm was intriguing, although he couldn't dispute its potency, given its impact on him. Fortunately, he managed to distance himself considerably and wasn't the primary focus of the assault.

"Miu," Will implored, attempting to rouse the entity to action, even as he weighed the perilous decision of darting toward it. He sensed the opposing demon charging up, on the brink of a teleportation leap into the cat’s vicinity. And so, he pushed himself up and sprinted toward the feline, fully aware that he might not reach it in time but determined to position himself directly within the impending blast radius.

"MIU!" The cat cast a pleading gaze toward him, silently urging him to halt, but before he could heed the unspoken plea, a tempestuous thundercloud materialized, heralding the oncoming demonic onslaught. In an instant, the malevolent demon descended, his shadow eclipsing the very fate of Will. A radiant purple streak sliced through from the periphery, and the entire scene succumbed to a shroud of darkness, hidden beneath the billowing smoke of the two figures locked in a ferocious clash.

When the fragments of the scene coalesced once more, Will found himself returned to the realm of memories, a place of bewildering confusion, and a solitude that weighed heavily upon him. Whirling around, his frantic gaze scanned the surroundings, desperately seeking the memory fragment that had flickered behind him. Had Miu transported him elsewhere? Had Miu met its demise, leaving the scene in disarray? The prospect of confronting the malevolent entity alone loomed, should he re-enter. Uncertainty gripped him, and he grappled with the weighty question of his next move. Yet, if there lingered even the slightest chance that Miu still clung to life, he knew he had to seize it. However, before any action could be taken, he needed to engage in thoughtful deliberation. The feline was not one to act without purpose, so there had to be a deliberate strategy behind its actions. But what strategy could it be? Time was a precious commodity he couldn't afford to waste.

Then it struck him, like a bolt of insight. Time itself flowed differently in the various places they had traversed, slowing down as they delved deeper. The answer was nearly within his grasp. Miu was granting him the gift of time, affording him the moments needed to think, devise a plan, and decipher the lesson woven into this perilous journey. He had to engage his mind, for time was the currency being generously offered to him by the forces at play. The revelation was crystallizing within his thoughts—see. See? See! It suddenly became clear. The answer had always resided within him, hidden amidst the labyrinth of his memories. What could he offer Miu to safeguard it, to empower it? His very emotions: anger, hatred, fear, and jealousy. Upon further contemplation, he began to question the accuracy of his assumptions. Miu, it seemed, drew its strength exclusively from his anger. So, by extension, did this other demon derive its power from his fear? Was that why Miu had extricated him, purging the fear that seeped from him in order to deprive this malevolent entity of its sustenance?

This was an extension of the preceding memories, a haunting reminder of why he had terminated the dream. He had come to the painful realization that had any of his choices differed, he might have saved both Abigail and Miu. Regret lingered for not having been more cautious, for allowing smugness and impulsivity to govern his actions. Paradoxically, it seemed that being impulsive was now the key to salvation. Less thinking, more action. He slammed his hand down upon the memory, plunging headlong into its depths. The ground crumbled beneath him, and the entire scene around him began to morph and alter. Will emerged on the other side of the storm-clouded portal, greeted by the chaotic tableau of Miu and the demon locked in fierce combat. Their movements were a frenetic dance, steps shifting and arms swinging as the cacophonous reverberations of their thunderous punches echoed through the air. He could discern that the feline was the more seasoned combatant, evident in its extensive repertoire of movements. However, it presently appeared weakened, almost as if it were sedated, and it struggled against basic punches from an opponent of similar strength.

Adding to the precarious situation, the Hobbs demon wielded a gleaming knife, while Miu was unarmed, relying solely on its claws and teeth for defense.

As Will advanced, the knife nearly carved through Miu's face. However, the cat reacted swiftly, clamping down on the blade, sacrificing its cheek, using the slashing motion to engage its many razor-sharp teeth and lacerate upward along the opponent's arm, tearing it apart in a whirlwind of blood. The arm appeared mangled, resembling the aftermath of a paper shredder, rendering it incapable of guiding the knife.

Exploiting this momentary vulnerability, Miu aimed to bite through the opponent's chest. Yet, the demon anticipated the move, vanishing just in time, reappearing with the knife in his remaining arm, launching another attack on the cat. In an unexpected turn, he blinked again, mid-strike, and the knife descended toward Will, narrowly intercepted as Miu teleported into its path, catching the blade with its shielding palm. It had stopped centimeters away from his face. Graham witnessed the cat's flesh searing upon contact and noticed the contortion in its face. Despite the devilish grin, he could sense its agony. Strangely, Miu opened its impaled palm, exerting pressure to drive the knife deeper until it reached the limit, unable to pierce through entirely, enabling the cat to reverse the force and push the knife back. Despite Hobbs exerting his full strength and Miu finding itself in a disadvantageous position with its arm contorted backward, clearly the non-dominant hand, the cat managed to muster enough force in that single appendage to gradually and resolutely push back against the full weight of the opposing demon.

Refusing to let Will come to harm, Miu was resolute. Although attacking the human would prompt its guardian to intervene, Hobbs, not wanting to risk the cat's determination and undeniable strength in protecting Will, comprehended that he was losing the battle. He promptly blinked away, prompting Miu to follow suit in hot pursuit of the demon.

Despite the cat's evident weakness and severe injuries, it was steadily gaining an advantage. However, Will was not content to merely let the situation remain as it was.

Though death seemed to loom perilously close, and Will sensed his throat constricting, he felt a stalwart determination, akin to a burning ember, ignited by his guardian, fervently ablaze within his chest. Observing the cat endure such assaults to shield him, yet retaining the vigor to persist in the battle for his safety, spurred Will to action. He refused to stand by passively in such a situation. A sensation akin to tiny needles pricking his entire body, Will felt a surge of power within, adrenaline setting his nerves ablaze, a visceral sensation as if his very being was being primed and readied for action. "Miu. Beat the ever-loving shit out of him!" Will roared with all the commanding force he could muster, pressing forward as he, again, closed in on the tumultuous fray. Anger coursed through him, an incandescent fire fueled by the reservoirs of pent-up wrath. His eyes blazed with an intense, all-consuming hatred. He had reached his breaking point, fed up with his inner demons toying with him like a pawn in a game of tennis. No more running, no more evasions. It was time to confront them head-on, with force and resolve. No longer a pendulum swung by his tormentors, but a sword forged from the very same unyielding steel. The ceaseless anxiety was wearing on him, fueling a growing anger within.

Clarity enveloped him completely. His path was forward, following the guidance of his instincts. "This is no place for weakness, I need you to be strong!" He nearly faltered, the unspoken words 'I cannot bear to lose you as well' hovering at the edge of his thoughts. But the instant that insidious emotion threatened to surface, a chink in his emotional armor, the opposing demon had already seized upon his vulnerability. With a sinister, bone-cleaving hiss, he rent through the air, forcing both Will and Miu to their knees in agonizing submission. The ominous 'S' sound, a harbinger of the impending 'E' that would follow. The fact that he could still generate sound despite those grievous injuries was nothing short of astonishing. Yet, he had nearly overwhelmed Miu entirely, and the obsidian blade with its shimmering purple tip hovered perilously close to its vulnerable chest, while Will found himself reduced to crawling in a desperate bid for survival. The entities consistently targeted the chest, rarely the head. Hence, whatever sustained their existence had to reside within the chest, where the heart would typically be found. He could discern the fading strength in Miu, the luminosity of its eyes dimming and the vibrant markings on its forehead beginning to falter. The precipice of defeat loomed ever closer. The thunderous rush of blood within his ears was deafening, and though fear should have dominated his emotions, it was precisely this overwhelming sense of helplessness that stoked the fires of his fury. He refused to accept defeat, even as his bloodshot eyes welled with icy tears, each droplet a pearl of undiluted hatred tracing a stinging path down his flushed cheeks. With sheer determination, he forced his numb body to rise, clinging tenaciously to the feeble remnants of air within his beleaguered lungs.

Crawling forward, Will clutched onto one of the lengthy ears dragging along the ground, while Miu propped itself up on an elbow. Sensing Hobbs' teleportation to a safe distance for an undisturbed sonic attack, Will seized the chance to grasp the collar encircling Miu's neck and pull on it. Despite the seemingly insurmountable task of moving the colossal feline, his encouragement spurred Miu to heave itself upward. With Graham moving along, now seated on its shoulders, tightly gripping its ears, blood trickling from his own, the situation stoked a fiery anger within him.

Now in such proximity, practically riding the beast that had lowered itself onto all fours and commenced a sprint instead of teleporting, it initiated a chase after the other demon. This action coerced the Hobbs demon to repeatedly teleport, briefly interrupting his sonic attack. Miu, akin to the physique of a cheetah, was designed for speed. While not endowed with great endurance, it possessed short bursts of immense energy, currently harnessing that innate power to the fullest. Its ability to pivot its body at nearly a 360° angle in various directions was nothing short of astounding. With a greater number of abdominal muscles than humans, these muscles worked in a sickle-like alignment along the body's sides. Their configuration resembled rows of additional abs, yet their arrangement allowed for rapid body rotations. Imprinted upon the flesh, they bore a resemblance to chiseled marble, enhancing the creature's agility and flexibility. He could sense the muscles operating beneath him and marveled at their extraordinary coordination. Upon glancing backward, Will noticed a tail—an unexpected sight. This lengthy appendage, with a substantial tip, served as a counterweight, enabling precise steering. It facilitated intricate twists and sharp turns that appeared entirely implausible. He assumed the creature must have possessed a tail, but the mystery lay in where Miu had concealed it all this while. On closer examination, he discovered it wasn't a singular tail but rather several slender, sinewy appendages—muscular tendrils designed for meticulous manipulation of the air currents. From an overhead view, the cat boasted a teardrop-shaped profile. And, as the cat flattened its ears against its skull, he felt the way air navigated around its form, seemingly without hindrance. The wind just skirted past its body, as if the creature itself defied the resistance of the airflow. In the event of a sudden need to decelerate, the creature simply had to shift its posture upright, expose its chest, or unfurl its colossal ears. This maneuver would effectively catch the wind, serving to decelerate its movement.

Speed was its forte. The other demon perspired profusely trying to escape Miu's pursuit, while Will fought the urge to vomit due to the swift changes in direction, feeling utterly disoriented throughout the process. This would be enjoyable if the cat wasn't darting all over the place at 220 kilometers per hour. With Will's proximity, it became evident that Miu gained strength, or perhaps it required warmth to enhance its capabilities. An intriguing observation emerged: the warmer it became, the swifter its movements. The behavior resembled that of a reptile, functioning in an ectothermic manner, relying on external heat sources to regulate its body temperature and vital functions. This characteristic might elucidate why cold conditions adversely affected it. In contrast to warm-blooded animals (endothermic), reptiles lack the internal generation of body heat and depend on the environment to maintain their temperature. While it could endure extreme temperatures, it thrived in a warmer environment, where its functionality was optimal. This also suggested that the cat likely entered a dormant state when temperatures dropped too low. It clarified why the collar seemed to jolt it with frost, hindering its attempts to summon strength. What set it apart was the internal source of heat. It wasn't warm-blooded, yet possessed a warm core, generating more heat as this core pulsed harder. He could sense and hear the pulsating rhythm. Will contributed to this warmth by keeping the creature's neck warm. This implied that Miu required a warm-up phase before reaching its peak battle readiness. It also suggested that the core couldn't sustain high temperatures indefinitely, as it might lead to consequences if the core overheated. This explained why the blood and skin felt cold—it was instrumental in maintaining the core's coolness. Essentially, it indicated that the cat probably had a fusion core. Will found himself perched on what likely was a ticking bomb, essentially a nuclear reactor in its own right. Hence, there existed a time constraint to the ongoing battle, likely tied to how long Miu could contain its escalating power before an inevitable release. This clarification shed light on the gradually intensifying humming sound beneath him and elucidated why the Hobbs demon was fervently trying to distance himself from Miu. In hindsight, Will pondered if riding the plutonium cat might not have been his wisest decision.

As he arrived at that foreboding realization and grappled with the looming implications, Miu swiftly pivoted its approach. The colossal figure ascended, its looming frame erect, unfurling its vast ears and stretching sinewy arms to embrace the currents. With a graceful glide, it halted abruptly, a seamless cessation of motion, before quivering as its mighty sinews coiled in preparation for some impending expulsion. Sensing the sudden heat emanating from below, Will felt a hand grasp him and forcefully throw him away, while a blinding light began to coalesce within Miu's mouth. The creature's veins pulsed with a radiant white glow, mirroring the brilliance emanating from its eyes. Just as the cataclysm seemed imminent, the collar initiated another frost shockwave, covering its entire body in a visible layer of ice, emitting smoke, causing the cat to abruptly crumble, barely able to sustain itself upright. Thrown in a manner that facilitated a near-horizontal roll, it had aimed to reduce potential harm and create distance from the looming threat. However, despite this tactical maneuver, the attempt to minimize damage left him feeling disoriented, akin to being swirled like a human burrito. His stomach couldn't handle it.

As he finally stopped, the menacing Hobbs demon cast his shadow over Miu. Once more, they were locked in another power struggle, this time with the cat appearing to falter. Yet, Will was incapacitated. His senses continued to whirl, and all he could sense was the sudden expulsion of fluid from his mouth, its texture treacherously sleek. He felt as churned and mixed up as a milkshake. Nausea from motion had long troubled him, yet typically he managed to endure it, accustomed as he was to bouts of vertigo. However, this was more tumultuous than any rodeo he'd experienced. Being forcefully propelled and rolling nearly a hundred meters was far from an enjoyable experience.

Having previously interrupted his sonic attack to elude the cat, this time, the foreboding 'S' sound appeared determined to linger, pressing Miu to the brink. The cat, drained of strength and will, barely had the energy to resist, its resolve waning. Graham, completely disoriented and struggling to piece together his surroundings, couldn't even steady himself on all fours. Instead, he found himself propped up on his elbows, attempting a laborious crawl in Miu's direction—or at least, toward one of the three blurry visions he could discern. Unable to summon a scream, Will summoned a whisper, "Li…listen, Miu. Heed… my words, consume my … my rage, and let it be …the ember that sets hell ah… ablaze. Absorb my soul and… and let it echo as our… battle cry. Make Hobbs hear my message, …loud and clear.” It was almost akin to a prayer offered to a deity of war.

Akin to a faint whisper riding on the wind, barely discernible, yet he knew that Miu had caught it. He sensed a sudden surge of energy, as though an internal combustion had ignited within the feline. Every reserve of power within it flared explosively, propelling the demon aside with a mighty thrust, just enough to narrowly miss striking the cat’s core. It surged forward, the knife slicing across its ribs, propelling itself toward Will. In mid-air, as it closed the distance, the blade slashed into the back of its thigh, ultraviolet fluid splattering, and its body plummeted.

Graham lunged ahead, or at least tried to, executing his maneuver with precision timing. As Miu's jaw met the ground, emitting an unearthly, ear-piercing suction, he propelled himself forward and hurled between the gates of eldritch teeth. He did so in the fleeting span of a butterfly's wing beat before the accursed 'E' sound tore through the fabric of reality, splintering the world around them into a nightmarish abyss of darkness. The maw snapped shut, ensnaring Will within its shadowy grasp. What he had feared to be his demise turned out to be anything but. He found himself within, his senses gradually returning as he observed ethereal wisps of energy vanishing into the depths of Miu's throat. He had been diminished in size, as though he had entered a pocket dimension and now found himself ensconced within the dragon's maw. At the tunnel's far end, a searing light burned like a portal to Hell itself, and he felt it acutely—a first-row view into the inferno. The atmosphere matched his impression, sweltering and oppressive; sweat formed on his brow, and a steadily intensifying heat simmered beneath his belly. As he had foreseen, there it was—the core, resembling a pulsating sun, positioned directly at the far end of that elongated throat. With the seals open, as they were at present, he could peer down and observe its rhythmic beating.

With desperate resolve, he clawed into the dark, fleshy walls surrounding the gaping hole, fighting to maintain his grip. Releasing his hold now would result in Miu quite literally choking on him. And Will facing imminent incineration if he approached the core, seemingly floating within the creature's chest. Upon meticulous scrutiny, the impression dawned—a glimpse into an internal cosmos, as though an entire universe lay enshrined within the recesses of its chest.

Effortlessly twirling with unsettling tranquility, a closer look revealed the eerie mooring of several enigmatic, obsidian-hued sinews, only unveiled by the caress of precise light angles. 

Veins and arteries, unmistakable in their luminescence, mirrored the fiery sprawl of magma, extending to every corner of the intricate system. The fluid that pulsed through them resembled no earthly matter but bore a likeness to liquid gold, a radiant entity shimmering akin to the celestial stars adorning a midnight sky—a sight both captivating and enigmatic.

What entity was this? Will found himself overwhelmed by the sight, nearly forgetting the battle in his mesmerized awe of the pulsating core. Terrifying yet undeniably magnificent, it commanded both fear and a strange, captivating beauty.

The relentless revolutions of its body sent his center of gravity careening chaotically, leaving him in a dizzying whirlwind of disorientation.

Having already vomited, he felt relieved, realizing he certainly didn't want to discover the outcome of potentially regurgitating directly into the cat's throat.

Will’s feet seared with a seething heat, and fear lingered at the fringes of his consciousness. He couldn't afford to let it overpower him. His primary task remained feeding Miu with his unyielding rage.

He had to conjure thoughts that stoked his anger, all while retaining enough presence of mind to maintain his tenuous hold on the slowly slipping walls. It was a maddening endeavor, akin to a dance with a furnace plucked straight from the depths of the devil’s ass-crack. Well, perhaps the wrong hole, but an apt description nonetheless.

He sensed Miu's judgmental presence, fully acknowledging the deserved reproach.

“It must be …quite the splendid ash hole, pardon the language, dear feline," he quipped, noting the fiery reaction from Miu. A distant magma bubble seemed to pop in response.

Then, a thunderous tremor struck, as if he had sensed a mighty right hook. It appeared that ticking Miu off had the unintended side effect of intensifying the searing heat around him. "Well, it seems I'm not the only one carrying the scent of ash and shit," he retorted, not missing the opportunity to tease.

Another, even more vociferous, protest bubbled up from below. The core's increased pulsing indicated Miu's recovering strength, a positive sign. However, for Will, it posed a different scenario. The escalating temperature signaled an imminent burst, something he certainly didn't want to witness up close, especially so near his face.

Though he could say he was sorry, the truth was, he found the situation rather amusing. An apology would be a dishonest gesture. "And speaking of which, do you ever bother with dental hygiene? Hannibal could probably provide a detailed menu of your last five hundred years' worth of breakfast, lunch, and dinner," Will needled, enjoying the subtle vibrations of a growl resonating through the throat, accompanied by the rumbling roar of magma below.

Fortunately, the cat's interior dimensions were far larger than its exterior suggested, a fact in itself raising suspicion and further perplexing his mind. Nonetheless, this spatial alteration also meant that the core and the erupting magma bubbles were relatively distant from him in terms of spatial proximity.

Another deafening blow shattered through the cacophony, and he keenly registered the thunderous impact. This one, it seemed, was infused with a particularly potent anger. "Most would've snapped their fingers with a retort like that, Miu. Perhaps you should consider a more delicate approach. I worry for your dainty little fingers," Will remarked with a sly grin. "And how's your palm holding up? Those elongated claws of yours must pose a hazard. Speaking of which, do you ever give them a good scrub? They do appear a tad... well, how shall I put it, less than pristine?" He continued to stoke the flames of irritation.

"Perhaps a trim is in order; we can't have those unsightly fingernails growing too long," he needled further.

Suddenly, he felt a shift in gravity, akin to being launched from an air barrel. It wasn't a punch he had just experienced, but undoubtedly a claw-swipe.

"Excellent, make use of those fingers," Will continued, his tone a blend of mock admiration and condescension. "I might have overestimated your intellect. It appears I must provide step-by-step guidance for your actions. One would think someone of your grandeur and power would have the situation well in hand, but here we are, … in quite the predicament, wouldn't you agree? Are you feeling the chokehold yet?"

Will could discern that Miu was holding its breath, evidently cut off from oxygen. It drew inward, absorbing his fiery emotions, but in order to do so, it had to cease breathing. This piqued his curiosity as he pondered the whereabouts of the lungs and the direction of the airflow within the cat's expanded interior. Perhaps the air served a purpose beyond typical human respiration—keeping the core ablaze rather than for conventional breathing needs.

Nay, the notion lacked coherence. Judging by the sun's principles, this core would fuse hydrogen into helium, rendering oxygen unnecessary. During the main sequence phase, a star maintains hydrostatic equilibrium, where the outward pressure from nuclear fusion energy at the core counters the gravitational pull. This sustains a stable, constant energy output. Despite sensing a heightened gravitational force, making it arduous to cling to the walls, it was nowhere near as extreme as the conditions near an actual star. Ergo, the cat's interior surpassed his spatial comprehension. He had to be thousands, if not millions, of kilometers away from that core; otherwise, survival would be utterly impossible.

This realization meant that, whatever enigmatic entity Miu was, it contained a celestial body within its chest—a literal fusion core akin to a star.

If that core had indeed exploded earlier, as he surmised, Miu would have undergone a literal supernova event. No wonder the other demon had sought to escape. It would have been a Type II Supernova, specifically a Core-Collapse Supernova. When a massive star depletes its nuclear fuel in the core, it succumbs to the gravitational force as it collapses, generating a rapid, violent shock wave that triggers a colossal explosion, releasing an immense amount of energy. The resulting brightness often surpasses an entire galaxy temporarily, expelling the star's outer layers into space.

Its destructive force held the potential for catastrophic devastation, capable of annihilating entire solar systems. What if that core operated by converting his emotions into the substance it fused within? Perhaps it wasn't converting hydrogen into helium, but transmuting emotions into an unfathomable form of energy. This elucidated why it had been operating on minimal energy, why the core was susceptible, and consequently, why it had opted to conserve its strength. This also implied that the cat had attempted to self-destruct to protect Will, but the collar had thwarted that plan. Graham was left utterly perplexed. The rhythmic pulsation of that core and Miu's evident requirement for oxygen indicated a swiftly diminishing timeframe. Puzzling over the mechanics of Miu's inner workings wouldn't ensure victory in the confrontation. Yet, the crucial fact remained—time was rapidly running out. He understood that unless he provoked it, it would prioritize his survival over its own. To ensure it continued to siphon his strength, he needed to keep it in a state of anger.

He had to dig his claws deeper into the fleshy walls now, teetering on the precipice of slipping and plummeting. As the fiery image danced within his eyes, a smile graced his lips. It felt eerily reminiscent of standing on the edge of a cliff. But unlike before, this time he fought with every fiber of his being to avoid succumbing to the abyss. He placed his faith in a deity that appeared as absurd as it did sinister, reminiscent of the devil himself. Strangely, here, he found himself infused with confidence and a surging power unlike any he had ever experienced.

He possessed more faith in the devil than he did in God, even as the jaws of Hell appeared ready to engulf him whole. Despite his survival instincts warning against approaching the core, another impulse, perhaps more emotional, urged him in a different direction. 

"Miu, consider this my gift," he declared, the words laden with a deep and complex hatred. "My disdain for the world eclipses even my hatred for you, so take it all. Embrace every ounce of these wretched emotions and save yourself."

As he spoke, he felt the pull of gravity, tumbling him forward. And Will relinquished his grip, allowing fate to seize him entirely. He fell, arms outstretched as though seeking to embrace the fiery core, as if longing to meld into its molten, golden surface.

The world spun around him, and then he felt it—the pressure of air, an exhaling breath, and the gentle touch of a tongue, carefully ushering him past the perilous precipice of razor-sharp teeth. He glimpsed Miu's visage receding into the distance before finally connecting with solid ground. As everything began to whirl around him, two fleeting shadows darted overhead. Then, he heard it—an explosion akin to the scream of a star, a sound that rent the darkness with its blinding presence, followed by a stillness and the eerie hush of absolute nothingness. A sound both beautiful and terrifying. In that fleeting moment, fear gripped him, suspecting that the cat might have initiated another self-destruct sequence—and perhaps this time, it had succeeded. As he spun around, on the cusp of a scream, his eyes welling up, his mouth agape, no sound escaped his lips. His gaze ascended along the towering figure, observing Miu straining against the collar, creating a tension that seemed on the verge of snapping. Yet, to his surprise, it held, creaking but unbroken. More notably, the pulsating blue light had ceased; it was no longer sapping Miu's strength. Where was the other demon? Will could hear him teleporting and began frantically scanning his surroundings in search of his presence. The feline’s golden eyes descended swiftly enough to witness the other demon materialize below, seizing the dangling chain, and yanking it toward the gleaming tip of the knife. In response, Miu's body folded, its fate uncertain. Will couldn't discern whether it had been impaled, but the scene grew eerily still. And then, that stillness lingered suspiciously, an indication that Miu was not yet defeated. If they remained immobilized in this prolonged power struggle, it meant that the cat was still alive, if precariously so.

Gradually, their forms started to quiver, with strength dwindling on both sides. Will noticed Miu's legs, weakened by a previous attack that had cut through its thigh, but they managed to summon just enough strength to inch the other demon forward, gradually building momentum.

As he lost his precarious footing, the Hobbs demon tumbled backward, landing flat on his back. Seizing the opportunity, the feline harnessed the sudden surge of power to flip over the adversary. It clamped down on the appendage bearing the knife, grasping his wrist with both arms. With a display of tremendous force, Miu allowed itself to plummet into a swift curve, twisting the bone beneath with a resounding crack. The knife was wrenched free from the demon's grip, falling from his grasp. The motion, in stark contrast to the menacing outcome, was hauntingly elegant. It flowed like a gravity-defying dance, a graceful rotation that hinged on the neck and the weight of the collar, effectively pinning the other demon beneath it. Miu had committed its entire physical weight and momentum to this maneuver, placing complete trust in its success. It was a daring gamble, a bet with its own life at stake, with the knife poised perilously close to its chest, as if it were engaged in a dance upon the blade's edge.

And it had been successful. 

In a sinuous, wave-like motion, it channeled its energy to generate upward momentum, skillfully locking its calves around the knees of the other creature. Miu secured a solid perch upon the adversary’s crotch, its hands grappling and wrestling for control of the flailing demon's wrists.

There was no conventional, heteronormative explanation for whatever this wrestling maneuver was, but it was undeniably effective.

Miu had asserted its dominance, using its superior weight to effectively pin down the other demon.

For a brief moment, one could be forgiven for thinking it had indeed won.

Two additional appendages sprouted from the sides of the grotesquely deformed mass of flesh, one of them gripping the knife with the intent to thrust it directly between Miu's ribs. This was aimed at the blind spot, where the cat couldn't perceive due to the thick collar.

Will grimaced and attempted to maneuver around the combatants in a wide arc to assess the severity of the situation. The cat had a firm hold on the knife, but it was undeniably lodged within its flesh. It appeared that the cat's skin didn't possess the ability to deflect weapons from other demons. Hobbs' countenance bore the brunt of severe damage, now that Will had a clearer vantage point. Miu had effectively torn off a substantial portion of his lower jaw, including the tongue.

"DO NOT ALLOW HIM TO DOMINATE YOU!"  Will roared with every fiber of his being. "OVERPOWER HIM. USE YOUR STRENGTH, SERAPHELL! USE. YOUR. HANDS!" Miu, in an instinctive motion, intertwined with the blade, deftly steering its path, curled forward. Its visage twisted into a grotesque rictus, a malevolent grin etching its way across the tortured canvas of its countenance. Within the depths of its eyes, a malefic fire burned, casting an eerie luminescence upon the other entity. It was a wrathful radiance, gleaming with a malicious mirth that could incinerate the very essence of its fellow demon, leaving behind nothing but a searing void of torment. Such was the eldritch malignance that inhabited this unholy smile, a spite so corrosive that it appeared as if it could devour the very fabric of existence itself. And just as Will held his breath, there came a sound. DUN-DUN—DUM——T H U D. He beheld the ripples of its formidable force, causing the very sand to rise in a quivering, concentric dance. The entire floor quaked, as though the earth itself had contorted beneath his very feet. Will sensed the vibrations coursing through his being, the pulsation of each punch, and he experienced a euphoria, an ecstasy beyond measure.

It wouldn't employ its mouth, for that was Hannibal's signature. It would rely on its hands. A tempest of punches descended, and Will gradually discerned that the Hobbs demon had to divide his power among his multitude of arms. While there were indeed more limbs to contend with, each one had grown weaker, rendering them defenseless against the unrelenting barrage of powerful blows cascading down upon the creature.

The entire floor quivered, the punches possessing an absurd strength, seemingly capable of folding a house as easily as one would fold a sheet of paper. Miu’s unoccupied arm functioned as a piston, its sinewy muscles concentrating their force into a precise, laser-like burst of energy. In this confined space, it appeared that only a few centimeters were required to unleash devastating tremors, which reverberated through the demon's very skeletal framework. These strikes possessed the raw might of a sledgehammer, yet the finesse of a needle, surgically targeting the more fragile bones rather than simply bruising the surrounding tissue.

In the art of destruction, Miu was a virtuoso, dismantling and tearing asunder with an expertise that revealed an intimate knowledge of disintegration's intricacies. Each calculated move bespoke a mind both methodical and merciless, orchestrating a symphony of ruin with expert finesse. Will stood in awe as the demon was being pulverized, almost in a literal sense. The cacophony of cracked ribs echoed in his ears from the initial onslaught, and the onslaught was far from finished. Unable to breach the skin with punches, Miu instead shattered the bones concealed beneath the surface, manipulating the splintered fragments to wreak havoc internally, eliminating the need for a succession of separate attacks. It could maintain the defense, and go on the attack simultaneously.

With ease, it could have employed a claw to precisely puncture, spearing the core like a grape on its tip, swiftly terminating it. The capability was always present. Yet, it refrained, desiring to prolong the ordeal, to inflict deliberate and excruciating PAIN.

Despite its weakened state, an air of prideful royalty clung to its demeanor. Even as blood streamed from every orifice, it refused to swiftly conclude the battle merely for victory's sake. Its intent lay in total annihilation of the opponent, even at the expense of its own well-being. It personified pure spite. A subtle, sinister amusement danced across Will's countenance as he observed his own hand. What it was accomplishing involved an intricate manipulation of muscles, resulting in an almost imperceptible vibration. Such a peculiar skill could prove quite useful in certain situations where a vibrating sensation was required.

Ah, the knowledge he had acquired! Hannibal would undoubtedly face the consequences. The demon remained engrossed in its grisly task, reducing the other entity to a macabre pulp. It paused briefly, sensing the weakening grasp on the knife, before unleashing another barrage of punches to ensure beyond doubt that its adversary had been thoroughly vanquished.

Will circled around them in a leisurely arc, directing a smug gaze at Miu. The cat, in turn, returned an inquisitive look, as if contemplating the fate of the defeated demon.

He cast a thoughtful glance at Hobbs, then back at Miu.

"What do you think?" he mused, a playful glint in his eyes. "Should we bring him home as our own personal pet demon?"

His words seemed to ignite a spark of jealousy in Miu's eyes.

"Hey," Will teased, flashing a mischievous grin. "You should smile more." And so it did, its elements aligning perfectly. Its multitude of razor-sharp teeth converged into a menacing grin, capable of giving even the most formidable shark a fright and lingering in the darkest corners of children's most haunting nightmares.

Its gaze gradually turned toward the demon beneath it, whose lifeless eyes caught a glimpse of their own reflection in the gates of hell that began to hum and descend upon it.

The ultraviolet liquid spluttered, and the body twitched, writhing briefly in its final moments. Amidst the gurgling sounds and the wet, grotesque tableau, a deep, ominous purr resonated, akin to a revving chainsaw, nearly drowning out the gruesome cacophony.

Miu wasn't merely content with putting an end to it; it voraciously devoured its way down to the core, feasting greedily, tearing into the dark flesh, until the muscle fibers snapped like taut cheese strings. It consumed and absorbed the undead life enveloping the pulsating core. As Will observed more closely, he realized the demon was still alive. Despite missing most of its head, throat, and parts of its upper torso, as long as the glowing core continued to pulsate, the dark flesh relentlessly sought to regenerate and reassemble itself. Miu, however, was outpacing the regrowth, and the conscious sinews of flesh made desperate attempts to grasp onto its face, as though they were trying to pull it in or counter-consume it.

It could have expedited the process significantly, but it seemed to take a perverse pleasure in prolonging the torment. Occasionally, it would nibble at the glassy core, but it never fully committed to shattering it. Instead, it deliberately left the core intact, focusing its appetite on consuming everything around it. Miu circled the ball of energy as if it were carefully harvesting every bit of living flesh it could find. Will was overcome with a deep drumming sense of horror. He could feel his fear coalescing like a dark pit in his belly, steadily growing heavier. His apprehension deepened as he observed the flesh beginning to regenerate at an accelerated rate, now nearly matching Miu's pace of consumption and gradually overtaking it. His fear was nourishing it, and Miu's eyes shifted, casting a pointed glance at Will. It carried on with its feast, appearing to be gradually drawn into the dark tendrils, as if its face was on the verge of merging with the steadily regrowing flesh. However, it still refrained from seizing the opportunity to shatter the core.

Will felt perplexed. Yet, he regulated his breathing, choosing to simply observe and place his trust in Miu.

The last time he thought he knew better and acted without careful consideration, it had nearly resulted in a devastating loss. Acting impulsively had cost him Abigail, and it had almost cost him Miu just moments ago. He observed the feline’s jaw working, becoming entranced by the tranquil, rhythmic motion. He found himself captivated by the radiant, ultraviolet aura that swathed the darkness and the serene golden eyes fixed on a clear purpose—one that remained beyond Will's comprehension, but one he supported and had faith in. It continued its consumption, and Graham became aware that the overall mass of the other demon was steadily diminishing. It was growing weaker, and the remnants of its form were all converging toward the pulsing core, resembling receding ink, desperately clinging to the faint, flickering light. Miu was devouring every fragment of it, every strand of its malevolent essence, and gradually, the demon seemed less menacing. As Will realized that it had, in fact, been steadily weakening ever since the cat had ensnared it, his mind found a sense of calm and clarity. Miu was determined to erase even the faintest trace of its existence. Its teeth functioned like precision scalpels, expertly delivering shredded flesh into its maw, sweeping aside anything in its path as if it were nothing more than weeds in an overgrown field. Not like a chainsaw, but akin to a razor for meat and bone. Like a blender. It consumed the core with a delicacy akin to handling a fragile egg, thoroughly cleansing it of all remnants of life. Then, it gently expelled the luminous ball, which now pulsed brilliantly in its palm, sparkling with pristine purity. The demon was completely neutralized. In an instant, they found themselves back in the halls of memory. Miu carried the core into another room, gently placing it upon a pedestal that appeared to have been crafted specifically for its display.

Will gazed at it, his mind poised to engage in contemplation, his finger almost raised in response, but he was arrested by the piercing scrutiny of Miu's sharp gaze.

Oh, no.  

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (20)

Miu loomed above him, its keen eyes narrowed, yet Will could discern the facade it was presenting. Behind those narrowed eyes, there was no authentic malice to be found. It extended one of its elongated claws, lowering it deliberately. Graham remained vigilant, his body motionless, as he closely monitored the dangerous proximity of the claw to his abdomen. "Ca-careful. I still need that," he warned, his eyes widening in mock alarm. The claw resumed its motion, prompting Will's instinctual response to shut his eyes, bracing for an impending incision. Yet, as he sensed the sleek surface glide across him, he discerned that Miu was endeavoring to replicate his earlier exhibition of playful affection. It gingerly employed the non-sharp side of the claw for this purpose, stroking him with an expression that seemed to mix in a hint of revulsion. Its head turned slightly away, almost as if it were pouting and preemptively rejecting any insinuation of tenderness in its gesture. It possessed a certain grace, though Will couldn't help but notice that it lacked finesse in employing those claws with tenderness, far more accustomed to their use in slicing and dicing than in gentle caresses.

Nevertheless, it was a deeply comforting experience, one that seemed to possess a touch that transcended the purely human. It traced deliberate patterns across his belly, setting his nerves alight with tingling sensations.

It's fascinating how millions of nerves and neurons connect the gut and the brain, and the chemicals produced in the gut have a significant impact on the brain's functioning. By modifying the composition of gut bacteria, there's potential to enhance brain health. Their closeness is such that they can sense each other's distress; if a condition affects one's digestive system, it may also impact the nervous system. While one may not be consciously aware of their gut 'thinking,' it's responsible for producing approximately 95% of the body's serotonin and 50% of its dopamine. The enteric nervous system, which governs the gut, is often referred to as the body's 'second brain.' While it can't craft poetry or solve equations, this network employs the same chemicals and cells as the brain to facilitate digestion and alert the brain to any anomalies.

In contemporary science, it's estimated that a staggering 95 percent of our brain's activity operates at the subconscious level. This implies that the majority of our decisions, actions, emotions, and behaviors are heavily influenced by the vast realm of unconscious brain activity. This includes the large web of habits and patterns, automatic bodily functions, creative processes, emotional responses, personality traits, ingrained beliefs and values, cognitive biases, and the repository of long-term memories.

This raises a compelling question about the existence of free will, although delving into that theory is a separate and complex matter altogether.

In contrast, the realm of pseudoscience introduces the concept of the 'superconscious,' a proposed facet of the mind that operates alongside the conscious and subconscious or unconscious layers. According to proponents of this idea, the superconscious possesses the extraordinary capacity to acquire knowledge through non-physical or psychic means and transmit this knowledge to the conscious mind, transcending the boundaries of ordinary consciousness.

The term 'superconscious' is also employed to describe states of consciousness achieved through transcendental practices, such as meditation, enabling direct access to this elevated realm of the mind.

In this model, knowledge obtained by the superconscious is not confined to the present or nearby events; it may encompass information from the past, future, physically distant places, or even from entities beyond the reach of our physical senses. As a result, supporters of the superconsciousness theory contend that it provides a potential explanation for psychic phenomena like precognition, remote viewing, and séances.

While it might sound almost absurd, delving into the realm of pseudoscience, where anything unproven by conventional science appeared unsettling to him, it strangely resonated with his experiences. After all, he had the uncanny ability to pluck data seemingly out of thin air, and at times, it felt like he was communicating with alternative realities, perceiving events before they unfolded, albeit on a vague and subconscious level, manifesting as nothing more than a gut feeling. Remarkably, he rarely erred in trusting this intuition, arriving at conclusions that defied conventional data. Predicting events lying far beyond the realm of probabilistic calculation or explainable phenomena, even when coincidences no longer sufficed as an explanation, was all too familiar.

Sometimes, he could sense an incoming call before it rang, foresee events that would unfurl months into the future, merely observing them come to pass. On seemingly random days, he could anticipate unexpected visitors showing up at his doorstep, despite their actions contradicting all established patterns. He was attuned to detecting the vibes of ill intentions oozing from individuals when they conversed with him. He could anticipate a surprise test in class before it was announced, or even predict the test topics with an astonishing accuracy of 95%.

These were not phenomena he could readily rationalize. He speculated that his heightened sensitivity to electromagnetic waves might explain why he had an uncanny knack for answering the phone before it rang.

Alternatively, he reasoned that perhaps he possessed an innate understanding of what topics interested his teachers most, thanks to his pattern-recognition abilities linked to autism. That could account for his impressive accuracy in predicting their favored subjects.

Yet, there remained those instances that defied logical explanations. These were the scenarios where his instincts led him toward outcomes at odds with probability calculations and established patterns. The events seemed to move in a direction starkly contrary to his instincts.

When he considered these occurrences collectively, the sheer quantity of such coincidences transcended the realm of natural happenstance. They pointed to a driving force behind them—an unexplainable, supernatural awareness of things beyond the ordinary. Contemplating the fact that he represented a mere 5%, likely even less, of conscious awareness, tethered to a vast, incomprehensible entity, was undeniably harrowing. The very thought left him in a state of deep, inexpressible dread. Will was never able to confide in his parents about his struggles. The last time he exhibited behavior deemed abnormal, it resulted in his mother subjecting him to an exorcism instead of seeking medical help. This experience compelled him to become adept at concealing his trauma and projecting a facade of 'normalcy.' People erroneously classified his autism as 'high functioning,' a gross oversimplification. The anxiety stemming from his awareness of the severe and draconian punishments awaiting him if he ever disappointed his mother honed his ability to meticulously control his facial expressions, hide information, and adopt a demeanor that wouldn't arouse her suspicions.

He endured various forms of therapy aimed at curbing his perceived 'aggressive' and 'disobedient' tendencies, with these labels assigned to him whenever he tried to speak out against the abuse or resist the punishments. Consequently, he learned from an early age how therapists, psychiatrists, and neurotypical individuals operated and how to manipulate their perceptions, keeping them at a distance by constructing emotional barriers and concealing the depth of his suffering. This is why he concluded that traditional therapy was ineffective for him.

Their inability to comprehend the underlying triggers of his actions was compounded by the well-intentioned yet counterproductive advice they offered. Their well-meant suggestions, urging him to open up to his mother and lay bare his vulnerabilities, only deepened his sense of despair. Past experience had taught him that this path led to a brief interlude of her gentleness, followed by a ruthless exploitation of his trust and vulnerability. It was a cycle of emotional torment that ultimately pushed him to the brink of suicide.

To compound the ordeal, he was then encouraged to embrace a belief in the inherent goodness of all, even as his mother continued to wield her manipulative powers under the guise of caring for his best interests.

They remained oblivious to the extent of his deception, completely unaware of the tremendous effort he channeled into the facade that convinced them he was perfectly fine. In truth, he had been unraveling since the tender age of eight. If they couldn't penetrate the veil of his most glaring pretense, how were they ever expected to assist him with the intricacies he couldn't even find the words to articulate? It's not as though he hadn't made the effort; he had tried, repeatedly. But every attempt had resulted in misinterpretation or the recording of some outlandish observation in his notes, which, predictably, his parents would peruse, and his mother would wield against him. She would either punish him or use it as another instrument in her arsenal during her ongoing psychological and emotional torment.

His mother possessed remarkable intelligence, exuded charisma and charm, yet her character was marred by delusion, emotional manipulation, sadistic tendencies, and extreme cruelty toward animals. Her sense of entitlement demanded that the world revolve around her, with every man existing to serve her whims. She voraciously sought as many men as she could ensnare, on one occasion even mustering the audacity to inquire whether, on an island brimming with men and her as the sole woman, she could claim them all as her lovers. When his father replied that she was free to act as she pleased but that he would distance himself from her to the farthest reaches of the island, she flew into a rage.

Her daily interactions were rife with mind games, occasionally sowing chaos to reassert control over others and issuing threats if her desires were not immediately obeyed.

A disturbingly perverse fixation also entwined itself around Will within his home. His mother harbored an unsettling obsession, envisioning him as her future groom when he reached the appropriate age. Her intrusive behavior knew no bounds – from monitoring him in the shower to finding excuses to slip into the bathroom when he undressed, all under the guise of checking on things or claiming urgent restroom needs. The house itself was a prison, with no allowances for locked doors, for such an act would impede her uninvited ingress. Even the refrigerator was outfitted with an alarm system. Every basic act, even a simple slice of toast, demanded his request for permission. Guests were perpetually unwelcome, their entry steadfastly thwarted by a cascade of fabricated excuses.

None of this he dared share with the therapist. When she sat before them, she exuded an aura of benevolence, her smile gentle, her manners excessively polite. She had everyone wrapped around her finger. If he ever let a hint of the truth slip through, people dismissed his claims, and accusing her only made the ‘broken’ boy appear utterly delusional.

His father's faith was a tranquil stream, meandering gently through life, while his mother's zeal was a raging tempest. She regarded herself as a prophet, her sanity unraveled by fanaticism. Throughout his youth, she was physically present yet emotionally absent, her attention only captured by his accomplishments or her fervent religious visions. Her iron grip extended to thwarting any inclination he or his father harbored about seeking medical assistance, recognizing that it might unveil the truth about her. The prospect of counseling or any revelation of her culpability was something she strangled at its very inception. By ensnaring them within the web of their insular religious world, she maintained an unrelenting hold over their surroundings. Her vigilance was all-encompassing, monitoring every interaction he engaged in and scrutinizing his every action at every moment of the day.

In her quest for control, she ensured there was no access to the vast expanse of the internet or modern computing, leaving them tethered to antiquated technology. The deliberate aim was to keep them far removed from the real world and to sever any avenues of communication with the outside world, safeguarding her dominion over their lives.

As a child, Will devoured numerous books, including encyclopedias and dictionaries, which enriched him with a vast and pulsating vocabulary. Regrettably, this linguistic prowess only seemed to intensify the bullying he endured from other children. Whenever he ventured to use words that deviated from the common slang, he became an even greater target for their ridicule. Hence, he learned to tailor his vocabulary to a more commonplace register in an effort to fit in more seamlessly.

Gradually, he came to understand that his inherent nature was a source of agitation for his mother, except when he served a purpose in her eyes. His honesty, in particular, stood out as one of the traits she loathed most. She welcomed his honesty solely when it mirrored her version of 'truth.' Consequently, he had been conditioned to withhold his words, to silently observe rather than engage in idle chatter. She had systematically molded him into silence, extolling the virtues of restraint and only permitting him to speak when expressly called upon.

Her descent into infidelity marked a precipitous fall from grace, leading to her expulsion from the community. This cataclysmic event prompted his father to break the shackles of their union, aided by the elders' intervention. Alarming secrets, concealed behind closed doors, weighed heavily on his father's conscience, hastening the separation.

His parents held strong religious beliefs, but they weren't evangelical Christians, as one might assume. They were Jehovah's Witnesses. This affiliation perpetually cast him as an outsider wherever he ventured. However, during the time he traveled from boatyard to boatyard with his father following their separation, driven by the escalating abuse from his mother's side, the brothers and sisters of the Jehovah's Witness community welcomed them with open arms. They provided shelter, food, and even financial support. Despite the religious isolation he experienced, their generosity meant they never had to worry about their next meal or bed. Subsequently, their lifestyle became more nomadic, and Will chose to accompany his father. His mother's persistent stalking and menacing behavior posed a significant threat, but law enforcement refrained from intervening until a crime had been committed or the situation escalated to that point. With a constant state of motion, they aspired to ultimately outrun her, securing their escape.

In his youth, he was a fervent believer, engrossed in the narratives, but as time passed, and he witnessed his mother's actions, the inconsistencies and falsehoods became glaringly apparent. Gradually, he distanced himself internally, awaiting the opportune moment to break free. Yet, that's a different story altogether – a saga of its own. A tale where he orchestrated his escape under the cover of a mental institution and with the unexpected aid of an ex-girlfriend.

As time passed, he came to identify as somewhere between atheistic and agnostic, distancing himself from the teachings of the Bible. His father respected this choice and allowed Will the freedom to chart his own path. He was a gentle man, though at times a bit naive, maintaining his loyalty to his faith despite enduring a lifetime of hardship.

The belief in a soon-to-come Armageddon, the world's end, and the promise of paradise and eternal life discouraged many within their community from pursuing higher education, as they were staunch believers in the imminent apocalypse. Their devotion was poured into the fervent preaching and zealous propagation of their faith, striving to rescue as many souls as they could before the sands of their earthly existence slipped away. It was an undeniably noble endeavor, yet he remained convinced that their zeal led them down a misguided path. This conviction meant his father was content with a modest lifestyle. Will, however, saw things differently, and that's why he embarked on the journey of higher education, persistently working his way up.

In the realm of hypothetical scenarios, even if the world teetered on the precipice of its own demise, it still wouldn't warrant a surrender to suffering as the sole recourse. The likelihood of such doomsday prophecies remained, at best, speculative or perhaps only relevant to distant centuries, if valid at all. Thus, his determination was to focus on the pursuit of what he deemed righteous, and to explore avenues for aiding others. His ultimate aspiration boiled down to a simple yet profound goal: to transcend the shadow cast by his mother's influence and to become a better person.

Despite his departure from that insular community and the deliberate concealment of his past involvement from those around him, he couldn't escape the indelible imprint of their teachings. In their rigorous schedule, they had ensured that he had a deep reservoir of Bible verses etched into his mind. With two, and at times even three, weekly gatherings dedicated to biblical study, they delved into the many narratives and unveiled the hidden significance of prophetic revelations.

As a result, he possessed a deep understanding of the Bible that far surpassed the average, perceiving its teachings through a unique lens forged by the associations and experiences tied to his former community.

During his school years, he had been exposed to diverse perspectives on religion, gaining insights into the Catholic and Evangelical faiths. This exposure broadened his knowledge and provided him with a diverse repertoire of information to comprehend and relate to various belief systems.

Will contemplated the lingering religious scars that Hannibal carried from his tumultuous childhood. He likely received his baptism in the Catholic tradition, as Lithuania predominantly adheres to Catholicism. However, despite the Catholic backdrop of his homeland, he was nurtured in the embrace of atheism, an anomaly, but one that stemmed from the era's pervasive atheistic upbringing under the Soviet regime.

Adding to the complexity was Hannibal's noble Lithuanian heritage, a class left dispossessed and destitute during the harsh Soviet years. Their social status was utterly abolished, compounding the trauma of his past.

The deep disillusionment that Lecter grappled with stemmed from a God who seemingly allowed the most heinous of acts, such as the German war crimes and the heart-wrenching loss of Misha. His medical profession, especially within the realm of surgical residency, provided him with a god-like power over life and death. As a psychotherapist, he could penetrate the very soul of his patients, a role akin to belonging to the divine in many religious beliefs.

Hannibal, much like the sculptor of human souls, shaped and twisted them to his design. His practice as a psychotherapist exuded an existential quality, and his frequent references to God denoted a Theist Existentialist perspective. A Deist. He echoed the thoughts of Deist Existentialist philosophers, perceiving God in a manner distinct and complex.

He surmised that Lecter, with his own intimate familiarity with religious trauma, possessed an instinctive ability to discern the hidden wounds within Will. This insight shed light on Lecter's strange 'door-to-door interview' remark during their first assignment, sending a chilling shiver down Will's spine. It was as if Lecter, by some supernatural instinct, had delicately probed a deeply buried fragment of Will's past, one that struck terror into his very soul.

This was precisely why Will held a deep affection for science. Science, for him, represented a realm of ever-evolving understanding, yet it was a dependable and explainable kind of change. It lacked the elusive nature that often cloaked religious beliefs. What particularly intrigued him was the complexity of the human mind, which fueled his choice to delve into psychology. However, this pursuit intensified his awareness of the inaccuracies and limitations of some of the teachings in the field.

He had an unequivocal disdain for therapists and their verbose, empty rhetoric, with one remarkable exception - an unlicensed practitioner who defied the conventional mold. This man, not a traditional therapist in the clinical sense, was more of an alternative healer, a benevolent elder with a dash of irreverence and deep wisdom. When teetering on the precipice of despair once more, he sought a more unconventional path, one that led him to the door of this old, sassy sage.

This unique practitioner offered a blend of hypnosis and therapies that, to some, bordered on the fringes of pseudo-science. Though the sessions came with a hefty price tag, their effectiveness was undeniable. He absorbed the intricacies of these unorthodox techniques, was taught the tricks, understanding their mechanics, yet finding them impossible to articulate. With a ring or a simple teacup, he could perform hypnosis, navigating through each step with precision. It was a realm of unspoken power, even when words failed to capture the mystique. It felt as if he were witnessing magic unfold before his eyes, with the old man assuming the role of a wizard in his life. Initially skeptical, Will soon dedicated himself to the careful observation, diligent study, and documentation of the old man's techniques. To his amazement, the old man willingly shared the inner workings of his methods, explaining them in vivid detail. Where conventional therapy had faltered, this unorthodox approach appeared to be the remedy that finally resonated with him.

The old man's assistance held the power to mend much of the damage inflicted on him. In an ironic twist, during their second session, he even astutely identified his autism, long before Will knew. The revelation stemmed from a nuanced observation – whenever Will attempted eye contact, his body instinctively entered a defensive stance or resorted to self-soothing gestures. However, when deep in thought, he unconsciously averted his gaze, with his body remaining motionless. The only time he sprang into defensive mode was when their gazes intersected, a defense mechanism to shield himself from the potential agony and strain of eye contact. The old sage had remarkable powers of observation.

This strange therapy, beyond his full comprehension or explanation, had granted him a new sense of well-being – and that, ultimately, was what counted. Even if he couldn't fathom the mechanics behind it or if it operated as a mere placebo, the paramount fact was that it improved his overall well-being. It wasn't a panacea that miraculously resolved all his challenges, but it equipped him with the tools to confront and manage them more effectively. This encounter with the inexplicable had expanded the horizons of his mind, enabling him to contemplate ideas and possibilities that transcended the conventional wisdom held by most.

It occasionally transported him into the celestial domains, where he pondered concepts that science hadn't even assigned names to yet. Ultimately, this fusion of madness and reason afforded him a unique advantage – the ability to discern insights beyond the reach of most. He embraced the inexplicable, weaving it into the fabric of his observations. This stance granted him a heightened connection to his subconscious mind and, perhaps, even a glimpse into the enigmatic world of the supposed superconscious.

During his tenure with the FBI, he had distanced himself from these aspects of his past, his focus singularly directed toward the pursuit of criminals. For many years, it had been his sole, unwavering point of concentration, ever since he embarked on his own path within the bureau. His newfound profession provided him with the means to acquire a modest house, a patch of land, and to create a tranquil oasis far removed from the hustle of society. His father, in stark contrast, continued his nomadic way of life, sustaining himself by the bounty of his surroundings and the meager earnings from repairing boats. Their connections remained through lengthy telephone conversations, when time allowed.

Contemplating the past as a means to illuminate the future felt peculiar to him. He couldn't quite fathom why all these long-repressed memories were now resurfacing, but Miu's gentle touch held a meditative quality, offering him the safety to invite these recollections back into his mind. He allowed himself to wander through the corridors of his early life, observing the memories that clung to the walls of this aged, decaying passageway, a place where light seldom penetrated and the air bore the heavy scent of damp mold.

This was a fragment of his psyche that he had intentionally kept submerged, as if attempting to drown it beneath the surface. Yet, when Miu stirred the dormant emotions in the pit of his stomach, all those suppressed memories surged upward like waves, enveloping him. It was as if he had been swimming in a sea of darkness all this time, oblivious to the shadows that clung to his consciousness. His vision had been so intently fixed on the tiny candlelight illuminating the script before him that he had remained blissfully unaware of the submerged depths within.

As the entity tenderly traced circles upon his belly, it felt as though it was delicately stroking the very contours of his mind. The sensation carried an electrifying quality, yet it held a soothing allure, akin to the mesmerizing effect of a gentle hypnosis. 

Receiving belly scratches from a demon, now there was an experience that would baffle anyone who heard of it.

Yet, amidst this surreal and, most likely, drug-induced fantasy, Will couldn't shake the peculiar sensation that he had stumbled upon a friend. It felt like a twisted departure from any conscious imaginings he could muster. He could only surmise that his entire inner world had been contorted and derailed, a reflection of his ongoing psychological deterioration. Within him, an eerie pulse coursed, akin to a discordant melody of madness, one he could not audibly perceive but could distinctly sense vibrating in his entire being. It felt as though the very essence of his eyes trembled, and for a fleeting moment, a heightened clarity overcame him. He consciously recognized that he had to be dwelling within a dream, or perhaps within a concept too elusive to be adequately named, teetering on the precipice of the supernatural.

It all felt too surreal to be real, or maybe his mind was simply in a state of denial.

This, he realized, was the semblance of insanity—an awareness too vast for the human psyche to accommodate, akin to a spear thrusting into the celestial realms, unveiling realities far beyond our terrestrial dimension. To embrace such knowledge was to disrupt the delicate equilibrium of one's mind, a revelation so monumental that it would instantaneously induce shock, weighing down the heart beneath its oppressive magnitude. It was the kind of insight that could paralyze the subconscious, causing it to forget the rhythms of life that kept our fragile hearts beating.

Ah, the fragile nature of the conscious mind, when confronted with the vast expanse of the unknown. Yet, it possessed the latent power to metamorphose and acclimate, but only if carefully primed.

A fragment of his own self served as an invisible sentinel, preventing him from uncovering the unvarnished truth. It was this very ignorance, he realized, that sustained his ability to function. There existed a knowledge, a secret, he wasn't meant to possess, a safeguard for his own well-being. What truth could be of such magnitude that it eluded the grasp of a mere human intellect? He found himself adrift in a sensation defying precise description, except for the undeniable sense that his thoughts now navigated entirely unfamiliar terrain. This was a transitory condition, a fleeting awareness of the intricacies of time, space, and the countless, unfathomable variables that interplayed, inundating him with their overwhelming complexity. Was he, in fact, deceased? He stared into Miu's boundless eyes, recognizing that the claw had ceased its gentle caress. In that shared moment, an understanding unfurled between them. It didn't provide a direct answer to his query, but within those enigmatic eyes lay a warning. It conveyed the notion that he was, perhaps, toying with the metaphorical pin of a grenade by daring to tread along the treacherous path his thoughts presently dared to traverse. It was as though a wrong step on the path of his thoughts could obliterate his very consciousness. If he wholeheartedly embraced the notion that this was just a dream, a belief that would presumably lead to awakening, it might snuff out this particular incarnation of his existence. He would remain forever in the dark, forever unaware of what lay beyond that fleeting moment. A faint smile trembled upon his lips, and the glistening tears in his eyes conveyed the sense that a fragment of himself already possessed the answers he sought. It wasn't a distant God up there somewhere; it was a divine essence residing within us, within the depths of our subconscious—a sacred fragment of the divine whole. Miu's eyes delved far deeper than any description could capture. It was as though an entire cosmos, something grander and more profound than his own existence, resided behind those irises. Once again, he found himself awestruck by this creature. They said that eyes were the windows to one's soul, but Miu breathed new life into that age-old adage. There was an exquisite wealth of detail within them, and their size only added to the allure of delving into those shimmering hues that danced across its sharply defined irises. Usually, he despised making eye contact, to an almost irrational degree. Yet, as he locked eyes with Miu, it was akin to Dracula beholding the sun's radiant beauty for the very first time. Just as when he gazed at Hannibal, it felt akin, almost uncannily so. There was a peculiar sense of comfort in the familiarity of it all. It carried traces of Hannibal's essence, or at least a portion of it, but it was not Hannibal himself. Nevertheless, it had undeniably been shaped and molded by his influence. Miu stood as a manifestation of something dwelling deep within him. The question lingered: which facet of himself could be simultaneously so alluring and so shrouded in darkness? Could he even put a name to it, even when he harbored a sense of recognition? Could this be the result of the fusion of Hannibal and Will's psyches? As their boundaries blurred, and they melded into one, was Miu born from this union?

His thoughts became increasingly obscured, as a hazy veil descended upon his vision. Will recognized that he was shedding tears. His hands, bewildered, reached up to his own cheek, collecting the tiny droplets that seemed to possess a deeper understanding than he did. Miu embodied a fusion of darkness and empathy, an entity capable of discerning beauty in places where others found only horror. It carried with it a medley of Hannibal's distinct mannerisms, yet also bore traces of Will's presence. Could this creature represent the culmination of their combined potential?

While Will locked eyes with Miu, the entity remained absolutely still, as if its very existence hung in the balance, contingent upon the impenetrability of its countenance. Within the depths of Miu's eyes lay something otherworldly, striving to erect a defensive bulwark, cautioning Will against further unraveling that very notion. Do not delve any deeper into that path, do not subject yourself to it. Was Miu the embodiment of the beauty Hannibal had drawn out from within Will? His genuine beauty? Was that why Will found it indefinable, hovering on the precipice of something truly divine? Miu's eyes gently closed, as if seeking additional protection from Graham's mental intrusion. And just there, his thoughts came to an abrupt standstill, jumping onto a different train. He yearned to awaken, yet the uncertainty of whether Hannibal would await him on the other side gave him pause. Moreover, in this surreal realm, he was beginning to find a sense of security in Miu's presence. He no longer wished to leave it behind. They had forged an unexpected bond, transcending the boundaries of their circumstances, and Will now considered the cat a friend.

The feline's eyes parted, and it fixed its gaze upon Will, radiating an almost palpable sense of gratitude and warmth. Its pupils slowly dilated, as if it were making a deliberate attempt not to let them fully round out, but they had expanded to about 40% of their capacity.

He had a friend. An exceedingly peculiar and quite possibly imaginary friend, but a friend nonetheless. This realization filled his inner child with immense joy, a feeling that summoned an innocent, childlike smile to his lips—something he couldn't have fathomed producing before. It was as if a fragment within him had healed, as though a gentle sunbeam had grazed his heart, coaxing it to cautiously lower its defenses. For so long, it had learned only to harden and shield that delicate flicker of warmth nestled deep within its fragile core. He had forged a friendship with one of his inner demons. Had anyone ever ventured down this path before? Rather than engaging in combat with the demon, he had chosen to nourish and befriend it.

Miu sat in tranquil silence, elegantly stretching its lengthy form beside him. Its proportions appeared to have expanded, as if it could encircle him without breaking a sweat. Will couldn't shake the feeling that something about Miu had undergone a transformation. It now exuded that serene energy once more—a sensation akin to an inaudible but palpable harmony. It wasn't madness; it was simply an aura of unshakable peace.

This time, Will didn't pause; he leaned his head against the feline's side, utilizing it as a makeshift pillow. Miu appeared less perturbed by this gesture, exhaling with a faintly amused quirk of its lips. Exhaustion was settling in, and the need for rest had become undeniable. Though the concept of time or day and night had lost all meaning, the encroaching weariness was unmistakable. Will also noted that Miu's touch was no longer as chilling as before. He sensed that there might be a deeper meaning in this observation, but for now, he chose to set it aside and simply savor the moment.

As shifts occurred within him, they seemed to manifest in the environment around him. He was unquestionably within his own mind, but the nature of this existence eluded him. Was it a dream, death, or something entirely different? The solitude and the encounter with these peculiar fragments of his own self had steered his thoughts into uncharted territory, realms he could have never fathomed even in his wildest dreams. With no external distractions, he could delve so profoundly into the recesses of his own mind that it was simultaneously chilling and utterly enthralling.

It was akin to an intoxicating reverie, where colors and flavors surged with such heightened vividness, each detail so exquisitely rendered that it verged on the precipice of overwhelming. And within this intoxication, there existed a rarefied clarity, a lucidity attained only at the borderlands of madness. As Will gradually succumbed to sleep, it occurred so naturally and gently that he almost failed to recognize the moment when it overtook him. Instead of the usual nightmares, he experienced a serene sensation, as if he were shielded by something so fearsome that even the darkest nightmares dared not draw near.

He had never experienced such tranquil slumber before.

Was this what death would be like? An endless, surreal dream? A drug-infused reverie? A seamless loop so intricate that we might not even realize we had traversed the threshold of death countless times? He had awoken once more, yet the sensation lingered as though he were still ensconced in slumber's embrace.

His arms folded, and he settled onto the floor with a wholly new perspective on the situation. It was almost clinical and philosophical, bordering on detachment and dissociation.

He only became aware that he was seated at a table when the aroma of eggs and sausage knocked on his senses, and the realization that he was sitting across from Hannibal caused Will's mind to momentarily short-circuit.

Had he just awakened from a dream? Utterly disoriented, with the shift having transpired unnoticed, it was as if his consciousness suddenly snapped back to full attention. Will blinked repeatedly, unfurling his arms, and as he took in his pajamas, a sense of impending insanity gnawed at him, pushing him perilously close to the precipice of a scream he wished to disintegrate beneath. Then, Hannibal shifted, and to his simultaneous horror and relief, he discerned that it was Miu now occupying the seat behind Hannibal's eyes. The entity had assumed his form, perhaps to appear more familiar or approachable. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack.” Will remarked, a subtle hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes. His voice, oddly serene and unusually deep, remained perfectly steady. Hannibal turned his gaze towards Will, then his attention shifted to the sausage and eggs on the table. His hand made a vague gesture toward the food. "Finish your breakfast," he uttered. Despite the utter mundanity and simplicity of those words, and the crystal-clear memory of having heard them before, it nearly sent Will's heart into a standstill. He understood that Miu was the one behind it all, speaking in sentences Hannibal had once uttered, inhabiting scenes that Hannibal had once occupied. Yet, there was something so surreal and captivating about the experience that Will dared not delve deeper into it. He simply began to eat. A soft smile graced his lips as he savored the meal. It tasted every bit as exquisite as he had etched in his memory.

"Thank you, Miu," he murmured softly, his mouth too full to articulate his words properly. He hastily raised a hand to cover his lips, caught between a chuckle and the act of chewing.

Upon further reflection, once he had swallowed his bite, he turned his gaze toward the entity.

"Is … is it acceptable if I refer to you as Miu?" he inquired, his tone thoughtful. "I had a …notion that you might find it somewhat mocking, given that you are," he made a vague gesture toward it, "quite formidable, and the name does sound rather … adorable for such a, uh, imposing figure."

Hannibal's visage regarded him, his fork pausing mid-air, a genuine curiosity shining in his eyes. He subtly tilted his head, his gaze descending in contemplation before returning to Will. Shifting ever so slightly in his seat, he then resumed his meal, retrieving the fork and continuing to eat calmly.

"I'll take that as acceptance," Will remarked softly, his gaze fixed on Lecter, but soon his brow furrowed in thoughtful consideration. "Is … Is there a name you'd like to share with me?"

Hannibal set the fork down and pondered for a moment, then reached for the napkin, withdrawing a pen from his breast pocket to scribble something upon it. Will's anticipation grew palpable as he realized the entity possessed the ability to write.

What weighed even more heavily on his mind was the realization that it was imparting valuable information. Audibly clicking the pen against the table, Lecter pushed the napkin across to Will, who eagerly seized it and read the inscription: 'Seraphell, but I prefer Miu.'

That name sounded more like that of an angel than a demon. Will's gaze lingered on the elegant script, recognizing the significance of names. Names held power, a deep and resonant meaning. After all, once you could name something, you held the key to summoning it.

Graham’s lips trembled slightly, his eyes shimmering with appreciation as he perused the impeccable handwriting, nearly identical to Hannibal's own. He nodded in acknowledgment, then carefully folded the napkin and cradled it close to his chest. "May I please keep this?" he asked.

Hannibal dipped his head in a subtle nod of agreement, and with gratitude, Will slipped the napkin into his pocket.

The last time he had witnessed this scene, it had been steeped in negative coding. It exuded coldness, even revulsion, akin to a semi-frozen, slimy, and damp thing. However, now it radiated warmth, like a sunbeam piercing through. Miu was engaged in a process of rewriting within him. It was reassembling a fractured piece of porcelain, embellishing its fissures with golden dust. It was revealing beauty where once there had only been horror.

In this dream, the contents of the sausage held no consequence. Will didn't ponder whether it matched the meal from their shared reality, nor did he contemplate whether it contained human flesh. Such concerns were irrelevant here. He savored the taste purely for its own sake. It was utterly delectable, and that was the sole consideration that mattered. In this moment, he was simply relishing breakfast with Hannibal.

It was a very simple and beautiful moment.

In stark contrast to the chaos that had engulfed Hannibal, found amidst a sea of scattered papers and notes sprawled across a spacious table. His once-impeccable composure had started to unravel, betrayed by the emergence of noticeable stubble upon his visage. Days seemed to have passed without a shave or a proper shower, as all his usual routines had been unceremoniously cast aside. His countenance had grown even more gaunt, appearing almost as if it were collapsing in on itself, and it was uncertain for how long he had abstained from eating. Chiyoh made valiant attempts to accommodate his culinary idiosyncrasies, yet most of the time he declined sustenance, opting primarily for an array of teas and coffee. His dedication was channeled wholly into the construction of a far grander plan. Rescuing Will consumed his every thought. He would not find solace until he had assembled every piece of this puzzle. It was an endeavor of monumental proportions, one he would have typically deemed extravagant, as he considered it wasteful to extend his theatrics to this extent. Yet, for the sake of Will, nothing was extravagant, no effort too grand, and no display too ostentatious. He would leave no stone unturned, sparing no expense, and sparing no effort in his quest.

No matter where Will's soul resided, he would offer a sacrifice of such magnitude that any entity holding him captive would be compelled to release him.

Chiyoh strummed her lute outside, gazing out at the expanse of the ocean, while Hannibal sat indoors, deeply engrossed in his work. He scribbled and sketched furiously, his mind weaving through a multitude of parallel thoughts, calculating the web of variables at play. His calculations spanned from the architecture and structural vulnerabilities of the building to the precise names that would grace the stage, all in pursuit of manifesting what appeared to be an unattainable design into reality.

He possessed maps of the city, the underground network, and the building itself, with a detailed schedule of significant upcoming events. His arsenal comprised a staggering 42 distinct plans, each carefully crafted and accompanied by a thorough probability assessment. His objective: to determine which of these scenarios held the highest likelihood of success.

As his mind raced with thoughts, his hand struggled to keep pace, hurriedly jotting them down in his compact black notebook, where he recorded his musings in elegant Italian.

The grand scheme he had concocted demanded several months of preparation.

Simultaneously, he planned to execute his exit strategy by leaving the country entirely. This endeavor involved the discreet movement of substantial sums of money, as well as the search for several new locations to serve as their next operational bases. While a part of him yearned to linger in the comforting embrace of nostalgia, he understood that remaining stationary would inevitably result in their discovery. Thus, the imperative was to keep moving, to stay one step ahead of those in pursuit.

Neither Jack nor Alana showed any signs of slowing down. His recovery had consumed a significant portion of his time and momentum, leaving him with the urgent need to intensify his efforts in order to regain lost ground. Now that he had Will back in his grasp, Hannibal couldn't fathom allowing anyone to tear them apart once more, pushing them even further apart than they already were. A mysterious allure drew him toward Germany—a land with which he held a complex relationship. Born into the midst of its war, he had suffered great losses in a conflict unrelated to his family. Perhaps that was precisely why it beckoned him. It felt closer to home. His sights were set on Bavaria, specifically Munich, a city that held a particular fascination for him. The Munich Frauenkirche, in particular, had ignited his curiosity. Legend had it that it bore the mark of the devil's footprint. He couldn't help but wonder if it would match his size. Stuttgart, too, piqued his interest, though its residents were a complicated lot. One thing was certain—hunger would never be an issue in that city. While Munich might offer less prey to hunt, it boasted a plethora of captivating architecture to nourish his soul. Germany's rich tapestry of history was quite familiar to him, making it easy to blend in. He was already fluent in the language; all he needed was to polish and refresh his skills. One aspect he found particularly appealing about Germany was its robust health insurance system, which not only ensured Will's well-being but also shielded them from mounting medical expenses. This was especially crucial for cases beyond Lecter's expertise, requiring the skills of seasoned specialists. It translated into significant cost savings.

The inhabitants were known for their politeness, and the country boasted a solid infrastructure. However, Hannibal couldn't help but grimace at the thought of the exorbitant taxes. The politicians, to put it mildly, provided quite an intriguing spectacle. He knew he wouldn't grow bored with witnessing the dry humor and sassy retorts exchanged when rival political parties clashed. Will would likely appreciate their mindset as well. They tended to be more straightforward than Americans, albeit cautious about sharing their true thoughts. Many of them were remarkably honest and virtuous individuals. The country did bear a somewhat somber atmosphere in certain regions, driven by an intense work ethic bordering on self-sacrifice, but their character was steadfast and dependable. Sometimes, they were slow to open up, but they were exceptionally well-educated individuals, fostering intelligent conversations. Boredom was a rare find among Germans. While they might come across as cool and reserved on the surface, leaning towards restraint in their personalities, they harbored a wealth of fascinating insights for those who could breach their defenses. They toiled relentlessly to atone for their historical errors and stood prepared for self-sacrifice in the pursuit of justice. Germany was earnestly laboring to rectify its past and prevent history from repeating itself. The devastation wrought by the Nazis had inflicted significant personal loss on him, but he could recognize the nation's efforts to atone for the sins of its forebears. It was among the few countries genuinely committed to such a pursuit.

He had observed how they diligently uprooted and pursued the remnants of Nazi ideology wherever it still festered. There was no nation that harbored a more profound aversion to Nazis than Germany itself. This was fortunate, for he, too, vehemently abhorred Nazis. He was a cannibal, and he found racism abhorrent. What justification could anyone possibly have for treating another human being discourteously based on their ethnicity? To him, everyone appeared uniformly inferior and beneath his notice, with one notable exception – Will. The notion of rectifying errors resonated with his current state of mind, and perhaps, it was this sentiment that had drawn him to that place. A nation that resolved its troubles, much like his intentions of addressing his own issues with Will.

Germany, on occasion, bore a resemblance to the world's conscientious scholar, an autistic one. Methodical and driven by principles of equity, they could exhibit a tendency towards rigidity, occasionally even overcorrection. However, beneath this surface, their character was imbued with benevolence and an amiable disposition. Their lessons gleaned from history struck a harmonious chord with Hannibal's own beliefs. The legal landscape promised to provide its own brand of amusement. Germany boasted an abundance of laws, including the absence of death sentences, ensuring he wouldn't face execution even if they apprehended him. With a plethora of astute investigators and a relatively low crime rate, especially in terms of serial killers, his killings would undoubtedly stand out. Yet, it would also render their capture exceedingly difficult; they would be caught unprepared. Inevitably, it would evolve into a contentious political debate, making headline news and drawing attention from the American side. Connecting the dots wouldn't pose much of a challenge for them, and Germans were known for their efficiency. They could quickly mobilize substantial forces if they wanted to, and they were cooperative towards Americans.

However, laws were a double-edged sword. With the German legal system's clarity, he could play it to his advantage in a multitude of creative ways. It promised to elevate the game's complexity, making it all the more thrilling.

A nation unprepared for a perilous serial killer would undoubtedly struggle to contend with such a menace. It amused him to envision their futile pursuit, as they chased after his artful misdirections, all while grappling to train even a proficient bloodhound to track his elusive path. Their elusive path.

Furthermore, there was a substantial opening at the moment. Germany had absorbed a significant number of immigrants, resulting in a diverse population with a range of accents. Since 2011, the native German population had ceased to experience any growth, relying solely on the absorption of outsiders into their midst. It was a poignant realization that their own population was gradually dwindling. The country had a reputation for being exceptionally friendly and welcoming to outsiders, which would make obtaining citizenship relatively straightforward. It wouldn't raise any eyebrows for him to hail from a different nationality; he would blend in seamlessly. Additionally, nearly all of them were fluent in English as their second language, a mandatory skill. Those aiming for higher education were even obligated to master a third language.

When it came to intellectual stimulation, Germany would undoubtedly offer him ample nourishment. He could acquire multiple residences—a home in a bustling city like Munich and another house up north. These properties were exceptionally affordable, owing to the sparse population in comparison to the more densely populated regions in the south or in Berlin. He could explore the vibrant cities for intellectual stimulation and savor the serene beauty of the northern regions when in need of a peaceful day. Germany wasn't particularly large, so traveling between these contrasting landscapes wouldn't pose much of a logistical challenge.

France, Spain, Italy, and England were neighboring countries, and his home was close. If they adopted a more nomadic lifestyle, they could acquire a spacious trailer and journey around—an entirely ordinary practice for many Germans. Such a choice would attract no suspicion whatsoever. By dispersing his kills across multiple countries, he would utterly confound those in pursuit, leaving them clueless about his actual location or base of operations. A German passport held a position of formidable influence in the world, capable of granting access to nearly any destination. Germany possessed an exceedingly robust economic standing, effectively shouldering the weight of the entire European continent. It was a country both intimidating and potent, often unaware of the true extent of its power. Strategically, they served as an ideal stronghold, not primarily due to military might, but rather because their intricacies provided him with the opportunity to orchestrate moves against the rest of the world. Considering the state of affairs within the British Empire, their continued presence in the EU seemed doubtful. He couldn't depend on them. As for the majority of other nations, they were grappling with economic turmoil, with the exception of the Scandinavian countries, which appeared suspiciously content and prosperous in their corner of the world. Perhaps people should consider taking them as role models. After all, no one harbored animosity towards the Scandinavian people. He wasn't a politician, but he couldn't help but wonder how political leaders could mishandle their roles when there were such well-functioning examples to learn from. How indeed. If he introduced a random element to the sequence, refrained from initiating in the country where his true base was situated, and avoided a linear pattern of killings that might indicate his intended route, they would find themselves facing an exceedingly challenging task. Tracking his movements and anticipating his next moves would become nearly impossible.

He could organize a list of countries alphabetically, in reverse alphabetical order, sorted by the number of letters in their names, or by geographic positioning, either from left to right or vice versa, or employ any of those fabricated random patterns often used to select targets. 

However, he would ensure that none of these patterns emerged, opting instead to throw a die and see where it landed, leaving the selection entirely to chance. They could embark on journeys and carry out their lethal pursuits, like true murder husbands—sightseeing with a touch of bloodshed.

Deciphering his method for selecting a target country would prove to be an arduous and time-consuming endeavor for them. What concerned him slightly was the need for caution regarding his diet, as it had been the element that led them to discover his whereabouts last time. Alana was a clever and persistent nuisance, so he would have to take measures to eliminate her as a potential threat.

Will would undoubtedly miss his dogs, and Hannibal knew he couldn't overlook this. He would need to adjust the plan to accommodate them, or risk Will's unforgiving wrath for leaving his beloved pack behind. He smiled, sighing. Ah, yes, there was that matter too. While he went to retrieve the dogs, he would have to eliminate any remnants of Will's old family. Nothing that could entice Will to leave him could be allowed to survive. He didn't relish the idea of eliminating a child, but the situation left him with doubts about whether he could persuade the boy to accept Hannibal and Will as his parents if he removed the mother. Particularly in the scenario where Will remained in a coma, the option of merely persuading the boy through conversation would be rendered relatively inaccessible. Unless, of course, the child remained unaware of Hannibal's involvement, but the likelihood of that seemed slim. Will had likely shared information about him with his family. Or had he not? In fact, that was an intriguing question. How much did his wife truly know about Will Graham?

With the Red Dragon's failed mission, persuading the boy wouldn't be a simple task. Having a hostage added a complex variable to the equation, one that could jeopardize their cover if mishandled. It was a risk Hannibal wasn't willing to take, especially with Will in his current state. He tapped a pen against his lower lip, deep in thought. What should he do about this situation? Hm. He could opt to wait until the boy had reached adulthood. Hannibal was a patient man. However, it might not become necessary to eliminate him now. His primary target was to erase Molly, after all. He contemplated the possibility of leaving the child at an orphanage to guarantee his well-being. However, Molly's presence had to vanish entirely; there was no place for a wife in this equation. Besides, marrying Will legally presented a labyrinth of complexities, unless, of course, the spouse ceased to exist—a far quicker resolution than a protracted divorce process.

They could choose the path of expeditious matrimony in Las Vegas and then vanish from the scene.

His thumb slowly rubbed against his index finger as he contemplated his options. Lecter realized he would have to make Molly's death appear as if it were the result of both him and Will acting together, rather than just reflecting Hannibal's modus operandi. Failing to do so could lead Jack and the others to quickly deduce that Will was no longer in the picture. His eyes lifted, narrowing. If they pieced that together, they would realize that Hannibal was currently vulnerable. However, if they assumed Will was still killing alongside him, they would likely be more cautious, believing that the two were still operating at full strength together. Should Will commit the act of ending Molly's life, it would serve as an unequivocal testament to the utter abandonment of all restraint, his complete surrender to the pull of Hannibal.

The act of taking off his ring would liberate the space for Hannibal. No, his smile broadened. Molly's demise couldn't come at anyone's hands but Will's. It had to be a final crucible, a test of faith and commitment, especially after Will's audacious betrayal. Molly's worth was too precious to squander at this juncture. It would tell him precisely if Will had been truthful about his intentions. If he killed her, it would reveal an important truth: either Will had loved him all along, or Molly had been nothing more than a meaningless diversion from the start. Hannibal yearned to witness the expression on Graham's face.

The act might also serve as a signal to Jack. As his thoughts meandered, Hannibal acknowledged the profiler’s cleverness. He couldn't entirely discount the possibility of Will attempting to deceive him once more. To extinguish that possibility, he concluded that Jack must be eliminated. If he severed every single tie to Will's former life, there would be nothing left in the world capable of tearing him away from Hannibal. No allure that could tempt him away. Ironically, right up until their final moments together, he had entertained the idea of terminating Will. Even as he gripped the bottle opener, the thought had crossed his mind. But now, as he gazed upon Will in the wheelchair, engaged in his daily talking as if he were coaxing a house plant to thrive, he found himself incapable of going through with it.

It was only in the presence of Will that he could genuinely embrace life.

It was merely a matter of time before they would uncover Bedelia's absence. Jack most likely had already noticed her disappearance. Hannibal had been meticulous in covering his tracks, and even though Will was no longer on Jack's side, he shouldn't underestimate Crawford's tenacity and investigative skills.

As Hannibal reclined in his chair, his gaze directed upward to the ceiling, he could vividly conjure the entire Bureau in motion. Agents scurried about, their fervor evident in the scattered folders and haphazardly strewn papers. Jack, with stalwart determination, marshaled all his forces, each one diligently following the trail, licking evidence, sniffing blood, and attempting to catch a scent. With Bella's absence, Jack had committed all his remaining time and energy, for he had nothing left to lose. Hannibal and Will loomed as his final grand quarry, but beyond that pursuit, Crawford clung to little else that kept him tethered to life. Hannibal knew he had the power to drive Jack to the brink of madness if he played his cards right. And he harbored the desire to extend Crawford's torment for as long as possible. After all, they were friends, and Lecter relished the prospect of observing Jack's countenance when they remained tantalizingly beyond his grasp. The exquisite insanity that would manifest in his eyes was a vision Hannibal anticipated with morbid fascination.

And the endless barrage of prank calls they could unleash to further aggravate him.

It was to be their ultimate pursuit, a monumental clash, preceding the moment they'd finally find solace together, embracing a tranquil existence. United through a bond deeper than most, they would wed in crimson, sharing kisses on the veranda as they savored martinis and gazed out upon the expansive northern sea. Ignoring Alana indefinitely was also not a sustainable option. Hannibal had made a solemn pledge to deliver her demise, and he intended to honor that commitment. Upon deeper reflection, it occurred to him that they could claim their child and raise it as their own. Will yearned to experience fatherhood. Their initial attempt had ended tragically, the second never even made it past the fetal stage, and the third was now destined to be orphaned. The fourth child, however, would represent their stroke of good fortune. Margot held a certain intrigue, yet the fact that she had shared a bed with Will had extinguished any warm sentiments Hannibal might have harbored for her. He couldn't help but appreciate her audacity—a lesbian enticing a handsome man to undermine her brother's scheme, all in the pursuit of birthing a new Verger heir. Nevertheless, this audacious endeavor did not absolve the undeniable truth that she had not only caused pain to Will but had also spent a night in his company. That was a matter Hannibal was determined to set right.

There were still a couple of loose ends he needed to tie up before he could fully savor his time with Will.

Bedelia represented the first loose end that demanded his immediate attention. He had allowed her to languish in the darkness of his cellar, a place where isolation tended to unravel even the most resolute. If she refused to divulge willingly, he would employ alternate methods to extract the information—hypnosis, pharmaceuticals, or any means necessary to unlock her secrets. However, these endeavors required him to regain his full strength, both physically and emotionally. Moreover, he needed time for his influence to subtly infiltrate the consciousness of a mind as resilient and astute as hers. She was not an easy one to crack through direct confrontation. He had to diligently mislead other psychiatrists, and even work more arduously if he had to mislead them repeatedly. His wounds needed time to heal completely, and he needed to fortify himself for what lay ahead. Whatever revelation the blonde harbored, it promised to reshape his entire worldview. He had to be prepared for what would spill from her lips. After that, he would focus on the grand stage, and their exit plan. From there, he could manage two parallel paths: forging their new lives together with Will and fulfilling his promise to Alana. Locating her would demand a substantial investment of time and resources. His entire financial assets were frozen, save for those discreetly held under aliases, ensuring they remained beyond the FBI's grasp. Germany would be his next destination, along with the dogs, Chiyoh, and Will.

With that foundation in place, he could amass the essential funds needed to undertake more substantial endeavors.

Yet, his foremost objective remained the safeguarding of Will, concealing him in a secure location and rousing him from his slumber before embarking on a bloodthirsty pursuit. The notion of eliminating their adversaries without Will's presence weighed heavy on his conscience; thus, they would be preserved and held captive until Will's awakening. Amidst it all, he came to a stark realization of his own paralysis in the absence of Will. Everything he did seemed pointless, save for one thing—escape. The act of dispatching any of their adversaries held no allure, for it would elicit no response from Will as long as he lingered in that coma. Likewise, Will, in his current state, couldn't rouse him. His entire driving force revolved around Will. Graham occupied the central orbit of his universe, the very sun that gave life to his existence. It was the void, the blankness, that left Lecter disquieted. His existence thrived on Will's reactions, the subtle skirmishes, the witty repartee. Hannibal's very reason for living was entwined with Will. He was determined to sustain their lives, no matter how protracted the endeavor, until Will's return to him. It all seemed like a nightmarish phantasmagoria, a scenario more dreadful than he could have ever conceived. It wasn't Will pitted against him, or Will deceased; it was the nightmarish realm where Will lingered, trapped in the twilight state between life and death. Here, even Lecter's reach couldn't breach, and not even the radiant warmth of their love could caress him.

In those moments when his warm hand grazed Will's locks or he shared his daily musings and grand plans, he felt an undeniable closeness. Yet, that proximity was paradoxically shattered by the void of any response.

The lines between them had blurred to such an extent that the absence of one was gradually killing the other. They were twin souls, two halves of a whole, even as they occupied separate vessels. He was compelled to breathe life back into Will's very essence, to resurrect him from the depths of his slumber and awaken his dormant spirit.

Regardless of the rivers of blood he needed to shed, he was determined to appease the cruel deity that had sundered them. The same deity who had stolen his sister and mercilessly forged a young, innocent boy into a cannibalistic serial killer. This God thirsted for blood, and Hannibal, in his defiance, would ascend to deityhood, becoming the very embodiment of that insatiable divine hunger.

Nightmares seldom ventured into his realm. They quivered in his presence. However, an unsettling shift had occurred, and now, his slumber was besieged by visions. The shattering bottle, the splintering teacup, the thunderous gunfire, and the harrowing sight of Will, soaked in blood, weakly swaying with him on the precipice—it replayed every night. The waters claimed them both, and every morning, he awoke to a lifeless Will. Yet, he clung to a fervent belief, like an unhinged religious zealot, that Will had not departed. He remained, and Lecter grasped that conviction with all his desperate might.

Chiyoh's words were sparse, but her silent presence was a constant reassurance. She hovered nearby, vigilant in her care, tending to baths and ensuring Lecter's well-being. When she did speak, it was in hushed tones, akin to comforting a demented father, ever mindful not to unsettle him further. The loss of Will had left him bereft of his former brilliance, and now, it was the moment to rekindle that lost splendor.

His pace needed to quicken, the search for solutions intensified, and the subsequent escape with Will had to be swift, far away to a place where no one could ever tear them asunder. There, they could finally embrace a life of tranquility, becoming a family, as husbands should, basking in the serenity of normalcy. A locale by the water, where Will could cast his lines, and Lecter could conjure the most exquisite dishes from the day's catch, side by side with Will. It was one of the rare moments when he had abstained from partaking in human flesh, allowing Will's catch to sustain them. The notion of subsisting on fish, if that was Will's preference, was something Hannibal could wholeheartedly yield to, but solely for the sake of Will. Even the presence of dogs was tolerable. While he harbored a fondness for animals, the nuisance of fur and the chaos they could create did not align with Hannibal's meticulous nature. Cesar, the aged and now departed horse, held a special place in his affections. Swans, elegant and captivating, also found their place in his admiration, though he maintained a distance. Their ephemeral lifespans, far shorter than humans, made it challenging for him to form attachments. He couldn't bear the idea of growing close to a pet, only to endure the pain of losing them, as he had with so many others.

Birds, ravens in particular, held a special place in his affections. An assortment of rare and exotic avian companions was a luxury he could afford himself. However, he suspected that if he ever relented to the notion, Will would likely amass an even more extensive menagerie of animals, potentially creating a veritable zoo. Yet, if it brought Will happiness, he was willing to endure it. Ravens were known to be trainable, and their mischievous nature presented an opportunity for him to impart a few tricks.

Nonetheless, those were considerations for the distant future. At present, his primary focus was on navigating their escape from the perilous grounds and guiding them to safer shores.

But before departing, he intended to make a memorable exit. Something that would leave a lasting impression on Jack, Alana, and Lounds, a memory they wouldn't soon forget. A loud bang.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (19)

Will drew in a sharp breath and took a determined step forward, moving toward the next memory. He cast a fleeting glance up at Miu before extending his hand to commence the scene.

With no alternative left, Will found himself ensconced within the confines of Lecter's office, a realm dominated by towering bookshelves that had undoubtedly been intended as Graham's vantage point, while Lecter paced gracefully below. It was a frail attempt to create a physical chasm, a desperate bid to regain his footing after the doctor's earlier psychological conquest in Jack's office. The library's volumes provided a semblance of sanctuary, a refuge behind which he could momentarily obscure himself from the looming presence of the psychiatrist. But even when he hid at the farthest corner in the room, the highest point up, Hannibal was coming towards him. In the backdrop, his doppelgängers engaged in whispered discourse, compelling Will to sweep his gaze across the room in search of Miu's elusive presence. Yet, it remained cunningly concealed until his scrutiny fell upon the audacious choice of 'candy cane' curtains adorning Hannibal's office. From within the garish drapery, Miu seemed to materialize, draped in a matching red and gray color that sent an unsettling chill down Will's spine. A candy cane demon, what a delight. It was a vision that promised to infiltrate his nightmares, as if the peculiar choice of curtains hadn't already achieved its disquieting effect. The ability to change color, Will mused. Great. That was a notable addition to the burgeoning list of observations he had been mentally compiling about the entity. It was clearly a breed apart from the other spectral manifestations he had encountered. Not undead—yet, since he hadn't succeeded in dispatching it. The fact that it appeared to possess a mind of its own was the most disconcerting aspect of all. This creature was proving to be vastly more intricate and multifaceted than any of his prior encounters. It was as if his demons were undergoing an evolution of sorts, or perhaps, his own psyche had finally snapped entirely.

He half-heartedly clapped his hands together, pivoting his body towards the unfolding scene, his demeanor exuding the enthusiasm of someone who yearned desperately to be anywhere else. Grudgingly, he allowed himself to observe.

"What’s that?" He could hear his own voice calling from above, while Hannibal slid a paper onto the table.

"Your psychological evaluation," he spoke softly, but loudly enough for Will to hear, while his gaze ascended to him, before it descended upon the paper, reading his own writing. "You are totally functional and more or less sane." Then he paused, his gaze smugly ascending. "Well done." The doctor’s gaze lowered to the paper, and he carefully placed it back onto the small glass table with precision. Displeased, Will tilted his head in a disapproving manner, his steps measured and deliberate as he moved towards Hannibal from above, his penetrating gaze fixed firmly upon the man below.

"Did you just rubber-stamp me?"

"Yes. Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork," Hannibal replied, his voice devoid of notable inflection. However, his hand, in an intriguing display, initially retreated into his pocket, as if harboring a secret, only to be abruptly revealed as it casually hung at his side. All the while, his gaze followed Will.

Hannibal’s keen interest lay in the prospect of further dissecting Will's psyche. At that moment, the state of Will's mind held little actual importance for him. Once more, Will could feel a bubble of anger pop, oozing like pus from an infected wound. "Jack thinks that I need therapy," Will enunciated each word deliberately, his measured steps guiding him with caution around the folded ladder obstructing his path to the enigmatic black books adorned with colored dots, nestled toward the room's center. Unquestionably, these volumes contained Hannibal's notes on his patients, all meticulously handwritten, impeccably organized, categorized, and cataloged. "What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there," Hannibal remarked, and at those words, Will abruptly turned to fixate his gaze on Miu. It was almost as if his expression silently conveyed, ‘Did you catch that?’ His eyes widened, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips.

"Last time he sent me into a dark place, I brought something back," Will's voice filtered into the scene from above, and once more, Graham shot another glance at Miu. Yep, he could definitely check that off his list.

"A surrogate daughter?" Hannibal's gaze descended, measured and deliberate, as if he were dissecting Will's emotional landscape. His choice of words were highly peculiar. The psychiatrist approached the desk with an unhurried grace, his fingers adjusting a slender tome while he seemed poised for Will's inevitable response. However, no response was given.

"You saved Abigail Hobbs' life. You also orphaned her. That comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders." The implications were clear, heavy with gravity. And there he stood, prodding at Will's vulnerabilities with the finesse of a seasoned manipulator.

Will's eyes narrowed. 'You also orphaned her,' he mentally repeated, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. How cunning, he mused, the art of psychological manipulation displayed before him in all its glory.

"You were there," Will’s shadow replied, his voice steady, his stance stalwart. His eyes shifted from the books to Hannibal's face, a challenge gleaming within their depths. "You saved her life too. Do you feel obligated?" 

Hannibal, in response, straightened his posture. The stack of papers on the desk ceased to hold his interest. His wide, penetrating gaze locked onto Will's, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Yes," Lecter replied, his voice a soft, measured cadence that hung in the air like a weighty secret. He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle before he continued, his words quickening once more. "I feel a staggering amount of obligation." Another pause, his gaze unblinking, yet subtly shifting away from Will, as if seeking refuge in the shadows of the room. "I feel responsibility." There was a tremor in the word 'responsibility,' a fracture in his composure, a discordance that betrayed his inner turmoil. "I've fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs." Oh, this line from Hannibal had just been gifted with a new layer of meaning. Will's lips curled into a smile, though it bore no resemblance to mirth; it was the expression of simmering fury.

Perhaps, if he hadn't placed that accursed call—

"Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs helped her dad kill those girls," his previous self persisted, and Will's gaze abruptly swiveled, colliding with the unassailable truth that Jack had been correct all along, right from the very start, and how resolutely he had shielded his eyes from that reality.

Hannibal regarded Will with a curious intensity. His countenance remained enigmatic, but it was the subtle, inquisitive flicker in his ever-moving eyes that spoke volumes.

"How does that make you feel?" The psychiatrist probed, swift but composed in his utterance.

"How does it make you feel?" Will deflected, his eyebrows arching, his eyes widening in an exaggerated display of curiosity. With a defiant flair, he couldn't resist the opportunity to be sassy, sending the message right back to its sender.

And then it dawned on him, that Hannibal must have taken a liking to him. Otherwise, his sass would have likely earned him an immediate spot on the menu, a culinary retribution for his audacious behavior, a punishment inflicted for little more than his disdain for therapy, his resentment toward Jack for sending him here, and his utter abhorrence for Dr. Lecter, that insufferably pretentious, know-it-all, infuriating doctor. Such insolence couldn't have been aimed at just any therapist trying to make a modest living. No, it was aimed squarely at Lecter, who had irked him from the very beginning, and he was hurling his spiteful disdain right into the face of the man like a brazen cat marking territory by peeing on a carpet.

It struck him with a pang of remorse, making him acutely conscious of the unkindness he had exhibited. He realized the pain he must have inflicted, dismissing Lecter as uninteresting when, in truth, all Lecter desired was Will's attention, to be truly seen by someone capable of comprehending the depths of his being. The sting of that realization cut deep.

How many lives might have been spared had he refrained from incessantly provoking Lecter?

If only he could turn back the hands of time, begin anew from that very first encounter, and mold their relationship in a different way. In an alternate universe, perhaps, he had been gentler, more considerate, and far kinder to Hannibal.

Miu observed with a sharp curiosity, its eyes tracing the subtle shifts in Graham's expression. It then made a slight adjustment in its gaze, maintaining an attentive watch as the scene unfolded before it.

"I find it vulgar," Hannibal replied, averting his gaze, his fingers lightly twitching with faint agitation. It wasn't the response he had anticipated. He resembled a perplexed cat, earning little more than indifference from its owner after recklessly knocking a vase from the edge of the table.

"Me too," Will agreed absentmindedly, his sense of indignation solidifying, and with it, a sense of security that unwittingly paved the way for Hannibal's next subtle strike. "And entirely possible," Lecter added suddenly. Oh, there was a sharp curve right there, and it appeared that everyone else had seen it coming, except for Will.

"It's not what happened." Will nearly snapped, the words tinged with frustration. It was precisely what he fervently wished had never occurred. He averted his gaze from Hannibal, hands thrust into his pockets, his entire being recoiling from the painful reality of that possibility.

"Jack will ask her when she wakes up, or he’ll have one of us ask her," Hannibal added with a seemingly innocuous statement, deftly redirecting Will's emotions toward Jack and compelling Will to deflect yet another emotional strike.

"Is this therapy, or a support group?" Graham's tone betrayed a trace of defensiveness, and Hannibal continued to observe him with the same enchanted curiosity one might have while watching the moon's orbit. Will's defense amused him; it was a shrewd maneuver. It prompted Hannibal to once again adapt his approach.

“It's whatever you need it to be," Lecter responded, caught in a delicate dance between awe, amusement, and a trace of melancholy. His lips curved into a subtle smile, and his eyes bore witness to something he found beautiful. Fixated upon Will Graham, utterly entranced.

Will had almost found solace in the unexpected silence, anticipating the session's conclusion. However, Hannibal, ever the maestro of parting words, refused to yield the final act.

"And, Will," Hannibal commenced, capturing Graham's attention once more. "... the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself," Lecter paused for emphasis. "Not the worst of someone else."

In fact, this realization prompted a momentary mental pause as the scene froze in place. The mirrors in his mind could reflect the best of him, not the worst of someone else. His gaze instinctively shifted to Miu. Was that the ‘best of him’? The entity possessed a formidable presence, akin to the cosmic terrors like Cthulhu and other eldritch monstrosities. It left scant room for hope that anything a human could muster would inflict harm upon it. However, from whatever abyss it had emerged, it did not appear to showcase his ‘best.’

Guarding his crotch with a makeshift shield formed by his hands, he ventured forth with an elongated, near-parodic stride toward the feline. Every nuance of his body language was exaggerated, as if he were a performer on a surreal stage. This bewildering display momentarily disarmed the creature, rendering it temporarily transfixed. Its gaze narrowed ever so slightly, a subtle ripple of curiosity and wariness coursing through its visage. Seeking refuge in sarcasm, a well-worn armor of denial and evasion—yes, this was a tactic the cat recognized all too well. It suggested that Will was in a battle with his own emotions, most likely grappling with his guilt. He wielded every defense in his arsenal to deflect the assault on his composure. As he adorned the mask of nonchalance, humor, and brusqueness, Miu responded with a subtle yet telling exhale, a sound that seemed to escape the confines of its chest, causing its once expansive demeanor to subtly deflate, much like the sagging of weary shoulders. It could discern the vulnerability that Will was concealing.

Its lower lids quivered in contemplative scrutiny, observing Will with a measured and attentive gaze.

This time, the scene refused to dissolve, and Miu's gaze ensnared Hannibal with a stern intensity. Then, it gifted Will with the smallest inclination of its head, an ephemeral gesture that carried a fleeting touch of solace.

Will's gaze ascended with a deliberate slowness, capturing the feline in his scrutiny. It was as though he sought to penetrate the obscure depths of its intent, grappling with the question of whether it was toying with his vulnerability or genuinely extending a hand of comfort. Suspicion hung in the air like an ominous storm cloud.

His eyes, dark pools of contemplation, darted from the icy visage of Hannibal Lecter to Miu, the provocateur who wielded its inquisitive gaze like a weapon. Will felt the currents of his turbulent emotions ebb and flow, a tempestuous sea churning within him. The icy veneer of his composure began to crack, revealing the smoldering fury lurking beneath.

He approached the chillingly lively image of Hannibal, that fiendish cannibal who had danced on the precipice of his sanity for far too long. Did he desire to strike down this grotesque phantom of his past, or was there an inexplicable yearning, a perverse craving, to embrace it all once more?

A sardonic smirk slithered onto his lips, a wry manifestation of the tumultuous battle raging within his psyche. Miu, the astute puppeteer of his innermost conflicts, seemed to take pleasure in the discord it had meticulously sown, didn't it? It had sensed his momentary lapse, that fleeting instant of vulnerability when he almost succumbed to the lure of his own demons. As his gaze shifted towards the cat, his countenance bore a smugness that suggested he had detected the trap long before it was sprung, an expression of one who believed himself to be one step ahead. However, that self-satisfied look was abruptly erased when he met the gentle gaze in Miu's eyes. It was a gaze that possessed a softness that completely disarmed Will, as though it had reached right into his core and slapped the defensiveness out of him. In that instant, he felt a pang of remorse, a bitter acknowledgment of his own unwarranted skepticism. Congratulations to Miu for achieving that remarkable feat.

He swiftly averted his gaze, fixing his blank stare upon Hannibal.

Will drew his cheeks inward, a subtle contraction of his countenance, as he pursed his lips. Was the feline truly toying with him, or was his own paranoia weaving illusions of deceit?

Goddammit.

At this point, he just wanted to lay face-first on the floor and scream. With one hand raised, his lips forming a taut, inscrutable line, the outcome of the internal struggle within his mind remained shrouded in ambiguity. He slapped his palm upon Hannibal's chest, a hesitant gesture caught in the midst of conflicting emotions. But as he made contact with the living warmth beneath his hand, he felt his fingers curling into Lecter's shirt, an instinctual response that betrayed him. Will was acutely aware that he was losing the battle on both fronts.

His fingers encountered the tie, and for a fleeting moment, he entertained the thought of yanking it with enough force to choke the life out of the image of Hannibal before him, as if punishing this spectral apparition could somehow alleviate his inner turmoil. Even though this frozen visage felt astonishingly lifelike, he understood that it was merely a vestige of his memory, not a tangible reality. Nevertheless, it exerted the same eerie magnetic pull that gradually drew him nearer.

Will couldn't ignore the fatigue that had enveloped his defenses, how they yearned to crumble under the weight of his emotional exhaustion. He sensed an irresistible tug, an unrelenting force pulling him toward Hannibal's image. He felt it, the overwhelming desire to surrender, to melt into the phantom’s embrace and be held tightly, if only for a fleeting moment of solace.

Even the act of breathing had become arduous, and the longer his gaze remained fixed upon the haunting image of Lecter, the more he sensed himself succumbing to its allure. He was acutely aware of the peril that lurked within this enchanting illusion, yet despite his better judgment, he found himself inching closer, drawn in by the seductive danger it represented.

He relented partially, finding a precarious balance by leaning against Hannibal's side rather than fully embracing him. However, even this limited contact delivered a devastating blow to his fragile defenses. As he caught a waft of the psychiatrist’s distinctive scent and basked in the comforting warmth it exuded, Will's resolve wavered, and he began to sway, teetering on the edge of losing his footing in the whirlwind of emotions that had engulfed him. He yearned for it to be real with an intensity that bordered on desperation, and it was precisely that perilous notion, akin to a tiny droplet of water hitting the taut surface of a barrel poised to burst and overflow, which delivered the fatal blow to his tenuous resistance.

His fingers curled, almost claw-like, as they clung to Hannibal's form, and his once-resolute expression fractured, trembling like fragile glass, as tears welled up and streamed down his face, marking the dissolution of his crumbling composure.

He had half-anticipated Miu to swiftly seize the advantage, extracting his emotions with merciless efficiency. Yet, to his surprise, the feline simply observed, a faint crease between its eyes conveying the message that it, too, was silently sharing in his suffering.

Its eyes gleamed with an uncanny brilliance, yet they remained dry, steadfastly unyielding as Will's own tears flowed freely, and he succumbed to further emotional fracture. Miu retained its unwavering facade, a stoic mask that betrayed no hint of vulnerability. Monsters, by their nature, don't shed tears; they mete out suffering.

However, Will wasn't deceived. Beneath that enigmatic countenance, he sensed the palpable anguish that Miu concealed. It didn't appear to thrive on pain in its raw form. Instead, it drew sustenance from the wellsprings of anger and hatred, but sorrow seemed to leave it untouched.

Extracting himself from Hannibal's warmth was an agony in itself, but the force compelling him toward the feline eclipsed the pain. So he took those steps toward Miu, a decision that left the creature visibly bewildered, its typical inscrutability momentarily shattered. The confusion deepened as it felt Will's arms enveloping its tall form, marking the first overt sign of perplexity he had ever witnessed in Miu. It was a victory, though not one he intended to flaunt before the entity.

Overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events, Miu tensed, its gaze darting frantically as it searched for an escape route or a suitable response. Just as Will had suspected, it seemed entirely unaccustomed to the idea of positive emotions or receiving comfort. After all, who would embrace their demons with a hug? Its eyes, the largest Will had ever witnessed, seemed to undergo several transformations. The pupils oscillated, alternately constricting into slits and then expanding, as if its entire consciousness were caught in a glitching loop of confusion.

Its twitching visage struggled to reconcile the myriad emotions and thoughts swirling within its mind, unable to find a common denominator. Affection, it appeared, was akin to a virulent contagion, and Miu found itself progressively succumbing to its grip, much like falling prey to a cold, gradually withering under Will's tender touch.

Its design was a testament to its intent: to annihilate and remain impervious. With raw intellect to command the battlefield and emotional acumen to manipulate, it was a formidable adversary. Yet, in its creation, a chink in its armor had been left unattended—its vulnerability to positive emotions, a weakness ripe for exploitation.

To master manipulation, it delved deep into emotions, immersing itself intensely. However, this very immersion left the door ajar for external influence to seep through.

All of its formidable might, all its malevolence, would be nullified when poisoned with the elixir of love.

There was something vaguely amusing about the situation, but Will chose to savor the moment in silence, his hold around Miu growing firmer. Over time, the creature abandoned its futile search for an escape and begrudgingly surrendered to its fate. It tentatively lifted its arms, allowing them to encircle Will in return, forming an unexpected and cautious embrace.

It marked the first tender contact he had experienced in an eternity, and despite its origin in a possible adversary, it stirred an unfamiliar yet comforting sensation within him.

Indeed, this whole situation was undeniably strange. Nevertheless, the entity decided against vocalizing any complaints and instead opted to endure the unusual gesture, tolerating this newfound intimacy.

The scene underwent a transition, transporting them back to the confines of the memory palace. Miu glanced down at Will, half-expecting that the moment called for them to part ways. However, as Will's grip remained unyielding, it found itself once more ensnared by confusion. If he persisted in embracing it so tightly, he might just catch a cold from its frigid skin. It observed him shiver, yet he refused to release his grip. In an attempt to convey the notion that Graham should release his grip, the entity made a subtle attempt to wriggle free, but this only seemed to spur him to tighten his embrace further. Miu's ears perked forward, and from its elevated vantage point, it observed the situation with a curious fascination. Will held it with a force that could have easily crushed mortal bones, a fact that didn't perturb Miu in the least; rather, it found this display of strength to be utterly interesting.

One of its colossal hands slowly ascended, its elongated claws quivering, and Will observed it from the corner of his eye, stalwart in his determination to hold on, even if the entity chose to lash out. Yet, when he sensed the gentle caress of its palm, he released a trembling breath, his apprehensions momentarily quelled. With a gentle head pat, it resigned itself to its current predicament once more. As its gaze wandered over Will's abundant locks, it couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity. Its fingers carefully combed through the curly strands, savoring the surprisingly soft texture and finding a strange delight in the experience. It endeavored to reciprocate the gesture. Awkwardly.

This, he realized, would be his strategic opening.

Will followed his instincts, mirroring the way cats enjoyed being scratched at the base of their tails. Although the great feline lacked a tail, he knew precisely where to find that spot – the one where nerves were especially sensitive – and he gently lowered his hand to scratch it. In an unguarded moment, a soft purr slipped from Miu's throat, causing its entire body to vibrate momentarily. However, just as swiftly as the sound had escaped, it retracted, sucked back in, as if the purr had never occurred, leaving behind a facade of composure. He could sense the many claws on his head, acutely aware of their tension, as if they were poised on the brink of embedding themselves deep into his skull at the slightest hint of a too-loud breath. Graham found himself momentarily frozen in that charged silence. Though he yearned to say something, he sensed the piercing intensity of the gaze from above, a gaze that seared into his neck, and he wisely refrained from provoking it further or daring to glance upward. 

Naturally, there remained but one unequivocal course of action.

In an audaciously defiant moment, verging on reckless, he resolutely scratched the sensitive spot once more, provoking a sharp tremor that rippled up the cat's spine. He could almost perceive the internal turmoil wracking Miu's form, as its body writhed in a desperate struggle to smother the urge to vocalize, waging a seemingly futile war against its own impulses. He could also discern the reflexive contractions in its throat, as if it were striving to stifle both the sound and its very self before anything could slip free. Preferring self-imposed strangulation over surrendering to the temptation to purr. How quintessentially and diabolically demonic of it.

At least, that would offer a revealing test of its lung capacity, Will mused inwardly, his lips curving into a sly smile that he struggled to contain. With great effort, he refrained from succumbing to outright giggles of his own. He continued to lavish more scratches upon Miu, who writhed and contorted as if in the throes of electrical shock.

Finally, after an excruciatingly long stretch, Miu summoned the concentration necessary to teleport to safety. It reappeared several meters away, well out of Will's scratching reach, its feline features etched with an unmistakable blend of righteous indignation and offense. Yet, it was precisely that expression that pushed Will past the brink, and his laughter spluttered forth uncontrollably. His frame leaned over, consumed by the sheer hilarity of the moment. He had valiantly endeavored to stifle it, but that amusement had erupted reflexively, leaving him gasping for breath and tears streaming down his face from the sheer intensity of his mirth.

The demon was ticklish. HAH!

Miu, in the midst of its silent contemplation of a myriad of methods for murder and the art of human flesh preparation, couldn't help but feel certain that if Will persisted in his current fit of wheezing, he might just manage to do himself in.

Yet, it marked the first time in a long while that he had genuinely laughed. Even though it came at the expense of the demon, despite the outward display of offense and aggression it projected, deep down, there was a sense of satisfaction in witnessing him finally find some laughter. The casually tilted head and the slight slouch of his shoulders gave it away, and for a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he detected the faintest hint of a smile, almost imperceptible.

Nonetheless, Miu was still a cat at heart. It indignantly turned its back to him, pouting as it settled into a seated position. Although it lacked a physical tail, there was an unmistakable sense of an invisible appendage impatiently tapping against the ground.

Will approached cautiously, his gaze sweeping up and down its form, a faint quiver of amusement playing upon his lips.

"Will you enlighten me, Miu, as to why you've chosen to reveal my memories?" he inquired, earning a sharp, sidelong glance from the feline before it averted its gaze.

In that case, he concluded, he would need to apply a touch more torment. Instead of offering an apology, Graham opted for a swift jackknife dive toward Miu's rear, promptly resuming his teasing scratches. But when the feline reacted, it was akin to a nuclear explosion in both speed and intensity. The man instinctively ducked, his hair nearly grazing the force that surged past him. A moment later, he heard a distant rumble, akin to a colossal structure collapsing somewhere far off. Both Miu and Will found themselves staring at each other in mutual astonishment, the cat’s outstretched palm suspended midair. It became abundantly clear that backhands from Miu were nothing short of lethal and possessed the power to topple entire buildings. A valuable lesson, indeed. Will rolled onto his back, his hands raised in surrender, as though held at gunpoint.

"I yield," he declared.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (18)

Hannibal stood in a stupefied silence, the closeness of his lips to Will's hinting at an intimacy he had long yearned for. As his hand extended to release the wheelchair's restraints, a curious tremor coursed through his very core. It was as if the laws of gravity had momentarily lost their dominion over them, and in that suspended moment, he could have sworn that Will, in a calculated act, had inclined ever so slightly forward, permitting their lips to graze one another. Yet, beneath the surface of this electrifying encounter, an insidious seed of uncertainty burrowed its way into his consciousness.

Will exuded a chill that transcended the boundaries of mere physicality, a frigidity that hinted at an otherworldly existence. It was as though he had become a phantom, a specter from another plane, haunting the present. This unsettling sensation prompted Hannibal to pause, despite his fervent desire to abandon himself to the intoxicating allure of the moment. His gaze wandered sidelong, affixing itself to a disconcerting notion that refused to be dismissed. An elusive truth, like a faint but persistent scent lingering in the air, eluded his grasp.

Something was undeniably awry, though Hannibal could not yet pinpoint its precise nature. His finely honed intuition, which often served him so faithfully, now tasted the presence of a disconcerting verity, hidden in the shadows and shrouded in enigma. He etched a mental memorandum of the moment, opting to momentarily suspend his reservations. In a graceful, fluid motion, Hannibal corrected his posture and positioned himself behind the wheelchair, priming himself to usher Will out of the chamber.

Entrusting Will's well-being to Chiyoh, Lecter remained, his breaths drawn deeply as he cast his keen gaze across the chamber. An eerie undercurrent seemed to hold sway, as though an invisible specter shared the room's confines with him. Every detail had been attended to with careful precision: the surveillance cameras played back their looping recordings, the charges lay dormant, and a minuscule button awaited his command. Yet, an ineffable sensation, an enigmatic presence that defied description, loitered at the periphery of his senses, casting an unsettling pall over the space.

He wasn't insane, yet he harbored no skepticism toward his intuition. There existed a paradox, one that his subconscious mind had apprehended but shielded him from fully unraveling.

Reluctantly, Lecter narrowed his eyes and withdrew, recognizing that the tools of their endeavor now rested within their grasp. Lingering served no purpose; it was time to proceed. He resumed his customary nonchalant facade and moved down the corridor, trailing behind his loyal accomplice, Chiyoh. Her responsibility was the van, while Hannibal had his sights set on commandeering one of their ambulances. In his mind, if he was already in the business of requisitioning equipment, he might as well secure a mobile unit for good measure.

In numerous instances, ambulances remained unlocked or had established protocols to facilitate swift access in the event of an emergency. Given the necessity for medical personnel to swiftly retrieve equipment and supplies within the ambulance, locking it could impede their ability to respond promptly to a medical crisis.

This rendered gaining entry to the vehicle a relatively straightforward task.

Nonetheless, initiating the engine demanded a key, as ambulances were equipped with security systems and immobilizers to deter unauthorized access and thwart hotwiring attempts. Fortunately, his familiarity with hospitals made procuring a key a rather straightforward endeavor.

A security guard was also present. However, their typical lack of suspicion toward individuals in white cloaks made it relatively uncomplicated to discreetly administer a needle to his neck, rendering him temporarily incapacitated. If he executed his plan with the precision he was known for, the absence of the ambulance would remain an enigma. Counting the vehicles lost in the fiery conflagration, entombed beneath countless tons of concrete, would prove a daunting task. The discovery of its absence would likely take them days, if not weeks.

Regrettably, Beverly had shared with him the crucial information necessary to remain untraceable once he had control of it.

Navigating the desolate corridors, he encountered no obstacles in seizing the driver's seat, the twist of the key setting the engine to a contented purr.

The majority of the personnel had been redeployed to either attend or safeguard the event, leaving the surroundings eerily devoid of people.

As he eased the vehicle out of the hospital's driveway, a fleeting check confirmed that Chiyoh had already commenced her departure.

Ensuring he had distanced himself from the potential blast zone, he cast a quick glance into his side mirror. "Boom," Lecter purred with casual elegance, as his finger danced over the switch, and with deliberate pressure on the ignition, the cacophonous symphony of concrete and glass shattering in the distance met his ears, all obscured by the voracious embrace of the billowing, consuming cloud of orange and black that rapidly engulfed the hospital.

It was nothing short of a theatrical spectacle, a cacophonous symphony of chaos that reverberated with ear-splitting resonance. The aftermath, he knew, would be a puzzle for the investigators, a web of confusion and misdirection. Any attempt to discern a clear motive beyond a brazen strike on the fundraiser or one of its illustrious attendees would prove to be an arduous task. In all likelihood, it would be neatly categorized as a terrorist act, light-years away from anything that could be remotely attributed to Hannibal.

He hummed softly to himself, his eyes locked onto the forsaken path ahead. Mercy had abandoned him, restraint was but a distant memory. Anything that dared cross his path was irrevocably destined for the abyss. He would cloak their traces in a shroud of blood, and he would sow death until life returned to Will.

His hunger raged, an insatiable appetite for destruction that demanded to be sated. But where could one locate such a banquet of discourteous souls? His thoughts drifted. Hannibal's smile, though slender, bore a malevolence beyond the power of words to convey.

Resembling the ostentatious grin Miu had chosen to don.

Will could sense the metaphorical tendrils of ice inching up his spine. He recoiled at the foreboding path ahead, his senses attuned to the impending bloodshed, as if the anguished cries of countless souls echoed from the depths of the encroaching darkness.

More memories, more emotions to satiate his inner fiend. Forging an alliance with the devil was a double-edged blade, yet one he had grown oddly intimate with.

His gaze traversed Miu's form, from top to bottom, before he drew a measured breath and took a step back. "You've had your fill, but I find myself rather … famished as well. I could use a break, both for the sake of my stomach and my bladder," Will finally interjected, casting an expectant gaze upon the formidable feline. "You wouldn't want your fresh toy to wear out too swiftly, now, would you, Miu?" With this sly remark, Will sought to sweeten the deal, fully aware that the discerning feline saw through his ploy. Yet, the cat's amusement seemed to outweigh its resistance, yielding to the request with a sense of wry indulgence.

With a simple flick of its paw, the memory museum dissolved into thin air, leaving them in a sumptuous dining chamber that might have even elicited envy from Hannibal, replete with a table adorned with an array of meticulously prepared meals.

Its gaze bore an unspoken challenge, as if whispering, ‘Pick your poison.’ A sinister undercurrent simmered beneath its sly expression, and its eyes purposefully darted toward the array of dishes, subtly guiding Will's attention toward the waiting feast.

Well, there goes that plan, he thought, a cocktail of emotions swirling within him—amusement, fear, and a touch of unease. It had hoodwinked him completely, convincing him of its mastery over this entire realm. Not content with merely bearing witness to all, it held sway over every facet. His challenge had been mere conjecture, yet Miu had revealed itself.

"Me-wow," Will enunciated, rolling the word off his tongue with a playful lilt, still holding the unwavering gaze, his demeanor a picture of serene composure. Yet, his tone exuded a palpable smugness, the taunt coaxing a subtle twitch from the corners of Miu's lips—a silent testament to an emotion far too cryptic for Will to dare define.

He surveyed the spread of food, his attention fleeting, and impulsively seized the first item that appeared hand-friendly – a chicken wing. Maintaining an unbroken stare, he stood and initiated the consumption ritual, his actions exaggerated to a theatrical extreme. He tore into the tender flesh with gusto, chewing each morsel with a deliberate loudness, embracing the messy chaos. It was a calculated probe, and his eyes remained composed, fixated on Miu, his resignation manifesting as a surrender to the madness of the moment. He watched, noting the irritated twitch of one of those elegant, elongated ears—a telltale sign of Miu's mounting vexation.

If it craved rage and emotions, he was determined to nurture that tender spot until it festered into an open wound. This was a game for two, and Will harbored a burgeoning sense of spite that he was more than ready to unleash.

Having already danced with one psychopath, why not step onto the floor with this eldritch horror and discover the eerie steps it had in store? In a deliberate flourish, he cast the gnawed bone aside, his eyes fixed upon Miu's keen, predatory gaze as it tracked the discarded morsel. A subtle tremor rippled through those sharp feline eyes, akin to a live bomb counting down with sinister glee. As its gaze abruptly refocused on him, Will seized one of the goblets, offering a cursory sniff to discern the contents—a fruity juice of sorts. Without much grace, he downed it hastily, carelessly spilling a portion of it on himself. A boisterous gulp, followed by a sigh, and he tossed the goblet aside before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He then fixed an intense gaze upon the cat. However, this time, the feline didn't track the discarded goblet; it stared back at Will directly, its patience visibly thinning.

The corner of its lip twitched ever so slightly, and he discerned the tension that permeated its entire countenance—the faint, disgusted crease forming between its eyes, and the evident effort it exerted to maintain a composed, steady breath. He wouldn't allow it the luxury of dwelling in that emotion for long. Without hesitation, he extended his sauce-smeared, greasy hand toward Miu's wrist and seized it, pulling the eldritch creature into a literal dance. The simmering rage beneath Miu's surface was now palpable.

He sensed the desire within it, the urge to eject its mortal guise and unleash a scream in a thousand ancient tongues. Yet, its composure held firm, restraining that smoldering fury from finding further outward expression. His other hand, still damp and adhesive from the spilled juice, made contact with the cat's fine, silky skin. His touch revealed that the feline was struggling to suppress a shudder, as its eyes purposefully closed. It inhaled sharply, followed by a gentle exhale, tilting its head ever so slightly, as if silently admonishing itself not to lose control.

"We need music, don't you think? I'm quite certain you possess the capability to conjure that too, isn't that within your vast power, Miu?" He goaded, guiding the waltz with an air of mock admiration. The massive feline reluctantly complied, its jaw tense, a pulsating vein tracing its course across its forehead. The air began to resonate with melodies, and its acerbic glare could have sliced through a diamond with a mere glance. It comprehended his intentions all too well, and resolutely resisted the taunts, holding onto its impeccably placid countenance. Yet, with a subtle shift in form and size, it accommodated their dance, seizing control of the entire room and infusing the scene with heightened theatrics. Will found himself suddenly adorned in a finely tailored azure smoking jacket that shimmered in the candlelight, while Miu, mirroring the very hue of its simmering fury, was now clad in a crimson ensemble. Both of them donned gloves, with Will's being white and Miu's black. It was a shrewd choice—the gloves forming a tangible barrier, preventing his greasy hands from making direct contact.

It appeared to have a strong aversion to anything sticky or oily, which didn't come as a surprise. Cats were inherently clean creatures, known for their elegance and sometimes lofty demeanor. They possessed exquisite taste and even more refined sensory perception. If he wanted to extract more information, he needed to trigger a meltdown. And how does one achieve that? Through sensory overload.

In an almost eerily human shape, it took complete control of the dance, orchestrating their movements with a fluid grace. Despite its deep aversion to his greasy hand, it unhesitatingly enclosed it within its own palm, its elongated, dusky fingers wrapping firmly around his, assuming the role of the dance's conductor. There was a disarming quality to its stubbornness, an ability to deflect mockery as though it were inconsequential, remaining wholly focused on what truly mattered. It was a state of mind that Will greatly admired. He marveled at the feline's remarkable patience, yet his admiration wouldn't deter him from persisting with further provocations, intent on testing the limits of its composure. Hannibal would undoubtedly be enamored with this enigmatic entity, Will pondered. While the notion amused him, a faint undercurrent of jealousy brushed against his thoughts. This miscalculation proved costly, for Miu swiftly detected and latched onto that subtle emotion, as if it could scent it in the very air around Will. Asserting an even more commanding presence, it drew Will in closer, nearly suffocating him with its proximity. It refused to yield and possessed the uncanny ability to unnerve the profiler, momentarily disrupting his newfound confidence.

Upon closer examination, it was disconcertingly reminiscent of Hannibal in its gestures and demeanor. With each step they took, Will sensed the very foundations of his designs crumbling beneath him, like fragile sand slipping through his grasp. Its presence was all-encompassing. The power inherent in its every movement, the seamless grace and elegance it exuded, the stalwart determination to maintain its decorum—these were attributes that refused to yield. Despite its fearsome, demonic appearance, there was an underlying gentleness that prevailed. It harbored no desire to inflict harm upon him. He had presented it with ample provocation, yet it consciously opted for restraint. This, he found deeply intriguing.

Considering how it had nearly shredded him to confetti just a few days ago. And, this wasn't the moment to capitulate. The flicker of uncertainty was fleeting, extinguished by a consuming fire within him, swallowed by the depths of his own darkness. He surged forward, hastening their steps, and though Miu appeared momentarily taken aback, its eyes narrowed. It accelerated the pace, pushing Will to the brink of his mortal capabilities to match its flawless, rhythmic movements. It was a startlingly proficient dancer, executing each step with the precision of a metronome, suggesting an inherent connection to the world of music.

He had initiated this peculiar dance-off, but the realization quickly dawned upon him that he may have taken on more than he could handle. Miu, acutely cognizant of Will's vulnerability, wasted no time in seizing the advantage. Before Will could formulate another strategy to perturb the cat, it abruptly shifted the dance's rhythm, transitioning into a tango that left Will scrambling to adapt, his steps contorted and flailing in what appeared to be sheer panic. The cheerful music, which now felt like a cruel taunt to Will, made him feel as if he were the star attraction in a circus, juggling grenades with precarious grace—an act that seemed to epitomize Miu's unbridled amusement.

It had almost casually reshaped the balance of power between them, an unsettling transformation. While feigning submission had often been his choice, a means of maintaining a veneer of pleasantness or when the mood suited him, he typically leaned toward a dominant role, finding comfort and control in it. Yet, it had become undeniably evident that Miu personified the very epitome of dominance, as if lifted from the pages of the Oxford Dictionary itself.

If he had unearthed that fact earlier, he probably would have christened it 'Dominus,' the Latin word for master or owner. Miu Dominus. Remarkably akin to ‘Meus Dominus,’ signifying ‘My Lord’ or ‘My Master’ in Latin.

'Dominus' certainly suited its formidable and immense presence. It rolled off the tongue with a weight and potency that left an indelible impression.

Its formidable energy could compel even the proudest pharaoh to kneel in dread at its mere gaze, perhaps even the deities themselves.

Directly gazing upon it felt suffocating, each breath a struggle, as his heart raced in anxious anticipation. The rhythmic movements of its eyes resembled the shifting of ponderous stone slabs, every step it took evoking trepidation that the ground might yield beneath its colossal weight. With every twitch of its muscles, he dreaded the unrestrained power it might unleash should it decide to strike. Its sheer terror transcended words, leaving them inadequate to capture its essence. Yet, in its unfathomable dread, a strange and haunting beauty emerged. Opting for a 'cuter' name would have significantly reduced its perceived threat level, much like referring to the Red Dragon as the Tooth Fairy rendered him nearly impotent. Names hold power, but only when the entity can feel lesser. The cat, it seemed, held a stalwart composure, impervious to the labels bestowed upon it. Names, typically instruments of diminishment, found no purchase in a realm where the entity's self-assuredness reigned supreme. This creature radiated a confidence that defied all attempts to erode its authority, rendering futile any endeavor to disrupt its poised equilibrium.

Its awareness of its supreme position was so acute that it would likely scoff at any endeavor to undermine it.

Unadulterated authority. Unbridled power. Its visage was both fearsome and captivating, but what heightened the terror was its demeanor. 

One might venture to jest about its resemblance to a hairless sphinx cat, but a single piercing glare from it could very well induce one to swallow their own tongue.

An unassailable confidence rendered all challenges inconsequential, breeding an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. This fear, unlike any other, rendered anyone who beheld it a mere speck of dust in the wind by its very existence alone.

Even when it adjusted its stature to align with his for a proper dance, it did little to diminish the sense of menace. On the contrary, those eyes now bore directly into him, their weighty and perceptive glances pinning him beneath an even more imposing presence. To behold a towering creature miles high might certainly induce feelings of insignificance, yet to meet the gaze of something of equal stature and still harbor the dread of an inconsequential ant, that struck at a particularly sinister and incomparable primal fear.

Just as he began to regain his footing within the new rhythm, his legs were abruptly forced apart, and his body contorted backward with Miu leaning in. Though devoid of any sexual undertones, he felt the overwhelming weight of its sheer presence pressing him down to the ground, as if he were being folded beneath the piercing intensity of its gaze.

Shit. 

Heat surged across his face, and his entire being seemed engulfed in flames. Shame coursed through him, an emotion he couldn't stifle, much less conceal, and it only fueled the sly, gradually expanding smirk that crept across the feline's softening countenance. Its upper lids descended halfway, an air of nonchalance enveloping its gaze. Though the expression might have been misconstrued as seductive, it was, in truth, a display of confidence—a testament to its complete control and the knowledge that it held Will firmly within its grasp. And it was meticulously gift-wrapping that expression, as if to present it with smug precision, exclusively for his ‘benefit.’

The thought of Hannibal falling for this enigmatic entity now seemed trivial. If Hannibal were to bear witness to this display, confrontation with Miu would be inevitable, and only one of them would emerge from that encounter alive.

Hannibal would likely stand alone as the sole entity in existence to confront something so terrifying without a hint of hesitation. And as perverse as it might be, that notion carried with it a strangely exhilarating edge. Will could feel his heart racing in response. The prospect of Hannibal and Miu locked in a deadly battle, two relentless killers operating at the peak of their prowess, utterly dismantling each other—it was a notion he dared not contemplate. He understood that his body would betray him in every conceivable manner if he dared to nudge that thought any further. Of all the unholy thoughts his mind could have clung to, why did it fixate on this particular one? Why, he screamed internally, channeling every ounce of his dwindling strength into concealing the tremor that threatened to betray his facade. However, it was abundantly clear that the creature had already seen through him. His countenance flushed anew, as if it had stumbled upon an entirely novel spectrum of heat, a response to the sly glimmer that pirouetted within Miu's eyes. There was no doubt about it now—it was undeniably toying with him, downright teasing him.

Even as it gently guided Will to a more manageable, leisurely pace, his legs seemed to have a will of their own, barely obeying him and struggling to maintain the tempo. It reveled in the mockery of its own facade of mercy, deriving pleasure from witnessing his relentless struggle on multiple fronts—a cruel irony, given that he had essentially issued the challenge to himself. It was pure sadism in action.

And there existed an equally untainted masochism on Will's part, for he adamantly resisted surrender and persisted in a futile struggle, much to Miu's evident delight.

His countenance nearly mirrored the shade of the feline’s attire, the stark contrast to the azure coat only accentuating the fact that he was grappling with his own emotions. He had grown acutely conscious of the persistent orbit of his thoughts around Hannibal, even in the man's absence. He waged an internal battle, every brain cell resolutely opposing the expansion of those intrusive notions that were storming the gates of his mental fortress, threatening to overrun it entirely. Once more, Miu was an inadvertent informant, unveiling truths and addressing his inquiries, albeit in a manner quite different from what he had envisioned. But then again, cats were enigmatic creatures, known for their capriciousness. He knew better than to anticipate the devil to bestow answers without exacting a price, for it wouldn't be nearly as entertaining as the intricate dance of wits he was presently engaged in. After all, Miu was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle Will was orchestrating, relishing every moment of it. Its commanding strides echoed like the thunderous beat of a war drum, obliging him to remain vigilant of their imposing might. By now, the intensity had grown too overwhelming, rendering it impossible for him to sustain the eye contact he had earlier maintained. His gaze remained fixated below chest level, his attention solely focused on tracing the path forged by those merciless feet.

The feline's keen, narrowed eyes radiated mirth as they seemed to gaze downward, conveying a singular, unmistakable message: ‘Good dogs follow commands.’

Attempting to outwit the devil at its own game was a lesson of paramount importance, one that Will would indelibly etch into his memory.

It possessed the ability to exude menace and intimidation in every gesture, even in the simple act of dancing. No growls or bared teeth were necessary; all it took was a smile to reduce him to mere dust.

This was a power he aspired to master, and thus, he observed Miu's behavior—its body language, the nuances of timing, presentation, and methodology. He understood that these observations would later enable him to replicate all the essential components required to exude menace without ever needing to utter a threat.

To glean insights from the devil, he needed to provoke it, push its boundaries, and witness firsthand how it maintained control, even in the face of his own unpredictable behavior.

It might have been a blow to his pride, but it certainly wasn't a setback in terms of his strategic approach. With each interaction, he was gaining valuable insights into the cat. Data that he could harness to construct a profile of the feline and decipher its underlying motives. Yet, given how rapidly it adapted and maintained its dominance, he had already exhausted the situation. Attempts to step on its toes proved futile, as it deftly retracted them without interrupting its rhythm. In other instances, it simply redirected him, or outright ignored the few occasions when he did manage to land on its toes.

They came to a halt, his weary head finding respite against Miu's broad chest, a sigh of defeat escaping over the fine fabric. It wasn't surrender, but a strategic pause in the ongoing struggle. The rhythmic beating of Miu's heart echoed in his ears, steady and unhurried, unlike his own, which seemed to race for survival.

It felt as though he were attempting to draw breath beneath the waves, his forehead damp with perspiration. The fabric clung to him in the most uncomfortable of places, adding to his discomfort.

"I believe it's time for that … much-needed bladder break," he whispered, a wry chuckle on the brink, though he couldn't quite decide whether laughter or tears was the more appropriate response. His body felt numb, as if it were disentangling itself from his mind, and he could sense his muscles beginning to falter.

Miu remained utterly motionless, not a muscle twitching, and as Will raised his head to survey his new surroundings, the cat abruptly spun him around, and with an inelegant shove, directed him unceremoniously toward the bathroom door.

As Will stumbled through the door, the sound of it closing behind him echoing in his ears, he found himself before a substantial mirror.

He turned his head to inspect the half-healed scar on his cheek, still experiencing a lingering, dull sensation, akin to a fading bruise, as the skin slowly knitted itself back together. In a morbid way, he resembled a Picasso. Well done, Hannibal and Dolarhyde. The thought elicited another wry chuckle from him. With a subtle shift of his shirt, he stole a glance at the scar tracing the curve of his collarbone, finding it surprisingly well-healed and intact.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," he deadpanned to his own reflection, "stop torturing me."

His gaze shifted from the image to his bandaged hand and then back to the door. It dawned on him that it must have been Miu who tended to his wounds. The thought of its actions serving a purpose in keeping him alive was undeniable, but the question remained: why provide him with comfort? Was it a ruse to lower his guard? To foster a false sense of security?

He couldn't discern whether it was a genuine act of care or a calculated maneuver. His mind felt as if it had endured a joyride in a blender, and his bladder was now screaming for attention—an urgency he knew he should address before embarking on any more anxiety-inducing escapades.

Upon second consideration, he pondered the repercussions of urinating on Miu. That would almost certainly piss it off, in a rather literal sense. Third thoughts quickly intervened, reminding him that he would much prefer to retain possession of his genitals. Probing that level of provocation on something armed with individually movable chainsaw teeth was a perilous gamble he had no intention of testing. Haha, not worth it. 

Even from behind the door, he could sense its piercing gaze snapping on him, causing every hair on his body to stand at rigid attention. With a hurried scramble, Will made his way to the toilet.

Miu stood in waiting just outside the door, and as Will emerged, he spotted the creature polishing its claws. Then, with an almost judgmental intensity, its gaze seared its way directly into his soul.

Will swiftly averted his gaze, comprehending that he was no longer clad in the smoking jacket, and they had returned to the memory chamber. Indeed, it seemed the torture was far from over. Miu wasn't about to let him off the hook. Here they stood, on the precipice of another round in the emotional trauma circus. Perhaps he should take up juggling. If he made it absurd enough, it might just defuse the tension, wouldn't it? Right? Miu's incendiary gaze felt akin to staring into a pit of flames, and Will swallowed hard. No juggling, got it.

Pure, unadulterated emotional trauma it was. Fun times indeed.

The sudden, sardonic smile that stretched across its lips carried an ominous promise—a hint that it was on the brink of exacting its revenge upon him, perhaps in the near future.

May some merciful God find it within their heart to have enough pity on him and intervene.

Regrettably, it seemed that God found the devil rather amusing. Otherwise, why would He permit its existence?

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (17)

Will seemed to be the narrative's favored character, although that typically didn't bode well for him. Instead of being endowed with plot armor, he found himself burdened with plot trauma. His personal chamber of mental torment, and Miu was his executioner. Wonderful. Attempting to regain his composure, he scanned the surroundings, squinting at the images. Some appeared crisp and clear, while others seemed distorted, fragmented, and a few even appeared to vibrate before his eyes.

What is it that Miu is attempting to convey to him? His gaze roamed the room, and his thoughts labored to unearth an answer. Introspection hung in the air. The answer resided somewhere within these images, but what answer was it? And to what question did it pertain?

Miu surged forward, its graceful and silent steps bringing it closer to the next memory. It stood beside the imagery and turned its gaze toward Will, who trailed after the creature. He cast a cautious glance at it before reaching out to touch the memory, allowing it to play. He heard a brisk, commanding knock at the door, followed by the abrupt intrusion of light into an otherwise dimly lit room. At its radiant epicenter stood Hannibal, his presence commanding attention. The good doctor's lips traced a slow, deliberate path with his tongue upon laying eyes on Graham.

"Good morning, Will. May I come in?" Hannibal's presence at the door left Will in a state of disorientation. Looking back on the moment, it felt as if a vampire had sought permission to cross the threshold into his home.

"Where’s Crawford?" His shadowy image inquired, its searching blue eyes darting about as if seeking a lifeline.

"Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today," Hannibal responded, a subtle trace of amusement lingering in his countenance. Subsequently, his gaze drifted past Will, seemingly ensnared by an imperceptible barrier, only to snap back to the profiler with expectant intensity. "… May I come in?" Hannibal inquired again. Will, against his better judgment, had granted him wordless entry, ushering him into the intimate realms of his life. Within the next moment, they had transitioned to the table, settling into their seats as Hannibal unveiled his home-cooked meal, a dish that, upon reflection, undoubtedly concealed the sinister secret of human flesh as one of its ingredients.

"I’m very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day. … Some eggs, some sausage."

Sausage, in all likelihood crafted from the remains of Cassie Boyle. Will speared a piece of meat with his fork with less than graceful finesse. He then snapped it between his teeth, his gaze flitting uneasily through the narrow gap between his curtains. As he chewed, his attention appeared to abruptly sharpen.

"Mm, it’s delicious. Thank you." He had anticipated his gag reflex to surge at the recollection of consuming human flesh, yet it remained surprisingly dormant. Now, that piqued his interest. Miu leaned in from behind, prompting Graham to cast a cautious and assessing glance upward. Despite feeling his heart momentarily skip a beat, he managed to maintain his composure and concealed his reaction. He continued to watch as the cat displayed a curiously keen interest in the imaginary meal set upon the plate of his memories. Fascinating, indeed. His inner self, the facet free from the constraints of societal norms, appeared entirely unperturbed by the concept of cannibalism. It regarded it with nonchalance, an absolutely intriguing revelation.

"My pleasure," Hannibal's voice echoed in the background, but Will's focus remained locked on the massive feline, whose eyes seemed to practically salivate at the sight of the meal. At least now, he was certain of the creature's diet: humans.

Though, once more, his countenance remained a steadfast fortress concealing his thoughts and emotions, a curious question lingered in his mind: what if it had seized him at the house? How excruciatingly painful would that divergent fate have been, had destiny charted a different course?

"I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again, and you’ll tire of that eventually, so–I have to consider using apologies sparingly." Hannibal pressed on, effortlessly recapturing everyone's attention.

"Just keep it professional." Will deflected, causing Hannibal's gaze to snap toward his own meal. The fork idly toyed with a morsel of egg. The maneuver had evidently struck a nerve. 

"Or we could socialize, like adults," Lecter’s tone quickened, its edges becoming noticeably sharper, albeit with a subtle undercurrent of agitation. Just as swiftly as his irritation had surfaced, he imposed a deliberate pause by placing a forkful of egg into his mouth, his tone subsequently regaining its composure and steadiness. "God forbid we become friendly." ‘God forbid we become friendly.’ Will thought, and another cold realization sent a shiver down his spine. It became abundantly clear that Hannibal had harbored the intention of forging a ‘friendship’ right from the very beginning.

How desperate and yearning Hannibal could become, Will mused inwardly. It vaguely amused him, and he found himself struggling to suppress a sly, knowing smirk that threatened to tug at his lips. Oh, these memories promised to be  highly   enlightening. Miu was acting as his instructor, imparting the art of deciphering Hannibal's thoughts and actions, effectively arming him with potent ammunition. "I don’t find you that interesting," Will nearly choked, hastily swallowing to speak, his gaze fixed upon the steaming contents of his cup. With his cup positioned as a physical barrier, he sought to ward off Lecter on every conceivable level.

“You will,” Hannibal spoke in soft tones, though in retrospect, his words bore an unsettling semblance to a veiled threat. 

Indeed, Hannibal had managed to pique Will's interest in a way he couldn't deny. Congratulations, Dr. Lecter. Will found himself torn between the urge to burst into laughter or succumb to tears, his body trembling as the scene continued. Hannibal lingered for a moment before taking his next forkful of eggs, his gaze fixed firmly on Will, evidently studying him intently.

"Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters," Hannibal remarked. As he spoke, Miu shot a nearly judgmental glance in Will's direction. Will met the creature's gaze, his brow furrowing, before he simply shrugged, his lips forming a tight line.

Meanwhile, Graham's shadowy figure set the fork aside and gently slid the plate away, creating space for his arms to cross in another protective barrier. His hands cradled his elbows, employing a self-soothing gesture. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his interest in the conversation now unmistakable.

"I don’t think the Shrike killed that girl in the field," As Will spoke, Hannibal's immediate reaction was to raise his gaze, his curiosity and interest palpably evident. He was undeniably correct about that, an irony in how no one seemed to believe him. Now, Hannibal was thoroughly intrigued. He folded his arms onto the table, drawing closer to Will, mirroring his posture but leaning in much further. His level of interest eclipsed that of Will's.

"The devil is in the details," Lecter spoke, his right index finger ascended, pointing, as his voice gained a subtle but commanding volume and presence. "What didn’t your copycat do to the girl in the field?" His index finger descended, and his tone quickened, tinged with curiosity, as though he were ravenous for a revelation. "What gave it away?"

The devil resided within the details, yes, and those very details lay before him. Hannibal was consumed by curiosity, eager to ascertain if Will could discern his presence concealed within those little subtleties. He yearned to be noticed, to be seen by Will. Graham could sense his breath growing slightly louder, a chorus of emotions swirling within him. Amidst the tumult, one emotion emerged prominently: heat, a simmering fervor that coiled within his lower abdomen. He was undeniably excited. It wasn't a pristine emotion; there was a sinister shadow clinging to it, but he could roughly categorize it as excitement.

See?

"Everything." Will swept his right hand through the air, the gesture emphasizing the scale of his point, but then he anxiously bit his lip and retreated his hand to cover his mouth, absentmindedly stroking his beard—a manifestation of self-soothing behavior. What traversed his mind, clearly unsettled him. Redirecting his hand once more, it suddenly adopted a vivacious and animated demeanor, becoming quite the conversationalist in its own right. "It’s like he had to show me a negative so that I could  see  the positive." He paused, both hands retreating to rub his face, his demeanor clearly unsettled, profoundly so. It felt as though an unrelenting fire was searing its way through his mind. "That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped." With a gesture reminiscent of someone offering a gift, Will's hands stretched out toward Lecter, who listened with rapt attention.

It was a gift presented to Will, quite literally bestowed upon him by Hannibal. In all fairness, Hannibal had indeed aided Will in obtaining a crystal-clear image of the killer. Simultaneously, this moment was bestowed, as if gift-wrapped by Miu for Will, a deliberate offering intended to unveil something profound. Hannibal recoiled, momentarily appearing as though he had been taken aback, swiftly retracting his left arm from the table. It was as if he had been genuinely unsettled or surprised by the precision with which Will had discerned the image. Awe and caution danced in his eyes. He harbored no fear, yet it was evident that he had registered Will as a conceivable threat.

"The mathematics of human behavior, all those ugly variables." Hannibal paused, smoothed his jacket, then slowly extended his hand back toward the table, his fingers reaching for his fork with cautious grace. "Some bad math with this Shrike fellow, huh?" Will busied himself by pouring another cup, briefly allowing his gaze to flicker toward Lecter. "Are you reconstructing his fantasies?" Hannibal interjected, a subtle note of amusement in the final part of his utterance, one that, upon reflection, bore a more nuanced and possibly suggestive undertone than he had initially realized.

"Heh." An involuntary smirk graced Will's lips, as though the emotion had surged forth with irresistible force. ‘Reconstructing his fantasies,’ indeed. He felt a newfound determination to reconstruct them now, sensing an internal shift. It was gradually dawning on him what Miu intended to convey. The creature was laying out all the puzzle pieces, extending to him a workshop, a sort of playground where he could assemble the mosaic of his thoughts. In an ironic twist, it was granting him precisely what he needed. Will had once declared his disdain for uncertainty, and now, it was offering him the tools to craft clarity. Within the fortress lay a forge, and Miu, with a generous spirit, provided him the iron needed to craft his own sword. "What kind of problems does he have?" Hannibal asked. Graham squinted at the shadow, inhaling sharply. It was evident that Hannibal was probing, attempting to discern what Will perceived within him.

"Uh, he has a few," Will replied with a subtle tilt of his head, the wide-eyed, slightly startled look in his eyes suggesting that he might have been wary of delving too deeply into the implications of that statement. Will took a measured sip from his cup, and Hannibal's gaze, in response, retreated, snapping back to the eggs as if he were nursing some internal disappointment or frustration over the statement. It hinted at a vulnerability, and perhaps even a trace of insult, lurking beneath the surface. Did Hannibal genuinely possess the audacity to expect a compliment when posing such a question? Without a doubt, yes.

"You ever have any problems, Will?" Hannibal retorted, and only then did he permit his gaze to reconnect, leaning ever so slightly forward. Graham squinted once more, his head tilting as he contemplated the scene. The shift in tone and the transition from a straightforward question left him wondering if he had wounded Hannibal in some way. Of course, he had. He couldn't help but acknowledge the pettiness; naturally, Hannibal felt a surge of anger for not receiving what he desired. Hannibal Lecter had a multitude of issues, but there was one undeniable trait everyone could concur on: he was a petty and horny little whore. And that's precisely what led to his apprehension. In the background, the cup that Will had been holding met the table with a gentle thud.

"No," Will retorted with a sardonic smile, lifting the cup back to his lips.

"Of course you don’t," Hannibal's voice started in a low register before gradually adopting a louder, more authoritative tone once more. Yet, it carried a mocking undercurrent, concealed beneath the surface layers. "You and I are just alike, … problem-free ," he emphasized that particular part with precision, almost leaning in as he delivered it, before abruptly retracting his gaze and his proximity from Will and redirecting his focus to his meal. "Nothing about us to feel horrible about." Lecter paused, observing as Will took another forkful of the meal, a glint of satisfaction dancing in his eyes, as if he relished knowing the truth of what Will was consuming. It was evident he was contemplating how best to respond to the stinging gesture in kind. "You know, Will?" He paused again, then leaned in, "I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest China, used for only special guests." Ah, there he was, pressing Will's buttons, his actions almost akin to a seductive dance, asserting control over the situation. He provoked Graham. The imagery Hannibal had planted in his mind painted a picture of Jack treating him like a delicate, fragile teacup, requiring special care. This notion brewed a storm of emotions within Will—disgust, anger, and an inexplicable urge to choke Hannibal, right before his eyes. It was an impulse that surfaced suddenly, leaving him bewildered. Before he could make sense of it all, the haunting echoes of his own tormented laughter filled the room, and his eyes shifted to his own shadow. Will had reclined in his seat, gently stroking his beard, all the while Hannibal wore a smug smirk aimed squarely at him.

"How do you see me?" Will inquired, and an abrupt silence pervaded the space, with Hannibal's countenance taking on a significantly more intense expression. Light and shadow played upon his countenance, with nearly equal distribution gracing only one side of his face—a visage akin to a devil kissed by the touch of light.

"The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by." Hannibal spoke with a composed tone, but his enchanting eyes revealed a subtle vulnerability—a slight twitch of his lids, a determined effort to maintain his composure. That little flicker of black, a blur of motion against the captivating interplay of browns, grays, and greens swirling within his irises. He fought to resist blinking, to maintain a steadfast gaze directly ahead, and in doing so, he unwittingly revealed the truth. The snakes, a reference to the FBI.

Will's smile quivered, teetering on the brink of being maintained, only to ultimately fade away, replaced by a crease between his brows. With his reclined posture and limbs resting on the armrests, Graham appeared as though he had been utterly defeated, akin to a man sitting in a chair awaiting execution. In stark contrast, Hannibal sat ramrod straight, a fork clutched in his right hand, his left hand carefully guarding his meal, and a radiant smile gracing his lips. Lecter had taken firm control of the situation, and Will had just been served his metaphorical Henkersmahlzeit.

"Finish your breakfast," Hannibal commanded, his demeanor almost cheerfully focused on his meal. It felt like a command given to a dog, and Will sensed his anger simmering just beneath the surface. His breath became slow and heavy, and as the scene paused, it started to transition to the moment they were seated in the car. Graham stood outside in the parking space, patiently awaiting the arrival of the car. The window on his side was rolled down, affording him a clear view of the unfolding conversation.

"What are you smiling at?" Will asked as he caught Hannibal’s amusement. Lecter appeared subtly taken aback by Will's astute observation, as if he had momentarily faltered—a rarity considering his usual penchant for toying with other FBI agents. Yet, in a swift pivot, he recognized the depth of Will's observation and regretted his lapse in caution. He was selecting his words with utmost care and precision.

"Peeking behind the curtain. I’m just curious how the FBI goes about its business when it’s not kicking in doors." Hannibal responded with satisfaction evident in his demeanor. Of course, he was pleased, for he was truly peering behind the curtains, gaining valuable insights on how to evade capture. In essence, he held a backstage pass to the unfolding drama.

"You’re lucky we’re not doing house-to-house interviews," Will seized the opportunity to inject a bit of sass, although his tone quickly settled into a more serious demeanor. "We found a little piece of metal in Elise Nichols’ clothes, a shred from a pipe threader." Hannibal found himself both intrigued and cautious in equal measure.

"There must be hundreds of construction sites all over Minnesota." And now he was probing for specifics. Details on how they narrowed down their search.

"A certain kind of metal, certain kind of pipe, certain kind of pipe coating, so we’re checking all the construction sites that use that kind of pipe." Will, thoroughly exasperated by Lecter's presence and desperately wanting him to be silent, effectively handed over that information on a silver platter.

"What are we looking for?" Hannibal leaned in with a cheeky demeanor, posing yet another probing question in his quest for additional information.

"At this stage, anything, really. But mostly, anything peculiar," Will spoke, adamantly avoiding eye contact with Lecter until the very last moment. He practically bolted from the car, eager to escape both the onslaught of further questions and the company of the persistently sociable creature beside him.

Hannibal appeared genuinely amused by the situation. This piqued Will's interest; after all, he had exited the car, making it impossible for him to have caught a glimpse of Hannibal's expression. How, precisely, had these events been etched into his memories, and how could they retain such an extraordinarily vivid level of detail? So thoroughly engrossed in observing and mentally dissecting the scene, Will had remained oblivious to Miu's whereabouts and actions. He scanned his surroundings, searching for the demon, but at some indiscernible moment, it had simply vanished, leaving him completely clueless as to when it had slipped away. It was a puzzle without a readily apparent solution. Intrigued, he resolved to shadow Hannibal's every move.

As they entered, delving into the files, Will couldn't help but feel increasingly exasperated. The more he observed, the stronger the urge grew to facepalm and yank out his own hair in frustration. He had been right there, beside him the entire time, peering over his shoulder.

Hannibal had keenly observed as Will singled out Garret Jacob Hobbs by analyzing the resignation letters. Will had gone so far as to inquire about the existence of a daughter, offering an uncannily precise description that would later match Abigail. Moreover, he had openly shared his observations about what he found peculiar in the letter, unwittingly furnishing Hannibal with even more valuable information.  And even before Will grasped it, Hannibal possessed all the necessary tools to make that fateful call. He had unwittingly handed him the metaphorical axe to execute Abigail with. Had he found himself in the company of anyone other than Hannibal, had it just been Jack that day, Abigail might still have stood a chance of being alive. Hannibal had placed unwavering faith in Will's deduction, believing him without a shadow of doubt. This belief weighed on Will's conscience, causing an overwhelming desire to vanish into a void where nothing could touch him.

The incident with the files slipping and falling was no accident either; it was precisely when Hannibal had placed that accursed call—the call that had left Abigail orphaned. If only Will had instructed Hannibal to descend and deal with his wretched mess instead of obediently plunging into the mire himself, perhaps there wouldn't have been enough time for that ill-fated call to be made.

If just one of his choices had diverged on that fateful day—had he not allowed Hannibal in, not permitted his company, not responded to his inquiries, not granted him that solitary moment with the phone—Abigail might have been spared. This realization churned within his stomach like a corrosive, seething acid.

His throat seared with a burning sensation, and his internal turmoil vibrated within him, as the surrounding sounds dissolved into an indistinct cacophony, akin to a painting of blurred colors collapsing in on themselves. Will had to withdraw, his composure crumbling beneath the weight of the memories. The scene came to a halt, and he had to regain control of his breath. Overwhelmed didn't begin to describe it. It felt as though he were not only reliving those moments but also observing himself as a detached spectator, and he found it nearly unbearable.

He found himself unable to speak, resorting instead to the physical release of his mounting frustration through vigorous rubbing and clawing at his own skin. He searched for an outlet—something to kick or hurl in a fit of anger.

Will found himself powerless to alter the situation. The emotions felt like fragments displaced in time, remnants of unprocessed feelings he had never allowed to surface. His gaze shifted to the creature. Mirroring the way he had denied Miu the space to truly exist.

However, amid his observations of the entity, one intriguing detail seized his attention, momentarily arresting his thoughts and redirecting them onto an entirely different course: a subtle inner glow emanating from its belly, as if it had consumed flames. Will's mouth fell agape, his scrutiny intensifying, his head tilting slightly. One eye narrowed, while the opposite eyebrow arched. The thought was barely taking shape, but it lingered there, just within his grasp. Could Miu be consuming emotions? As it drew nearer, Will's instinctual urge to retreat surged, but he found himself immobilized by fear as it reached out and leaned over him. Paralyzed, he acquiesced as it seized both of his upper arms with a grip as unyielding as stone cuffs. He could do nothing but watch as its colossal jaw opened, seemingly splitting its visage horizontally, revealing the true extent of its vast mouth, threatening to sever his head from his shoulders. However, this was not the creature's intention. The grip was formidable, and he sensed himself rendered immobile by the sheer presence of it, yet it did not inflict pain or constrict him; rather, it held him in a firm but gentle embrace.

He peered down its cavernous throat, witnessing muscular seals parting and a screeching suction that seemed poised to pull him inside. It was absorbing his emotions, voraciously devouring them, extracting the feelings directly from his mouth without ever making contact with his lips. It was as if it was feasting on his very soul, drawing the anger out of his chest and providing him with emotional relief. He observed the petite wisps of energy, painted in hues of orange and red, a sight akin to magic, yet searing like molten magma. They vanished down its throat, as though it were spewing fire in reverse. He sensed the scorching heat, tasted the corrosiveness, and experienced the biting sting of the emotion on his tongue, like the sensation of acid. He fixed his gaze upon the teeth, reminiscent of an anglerfish's but neatly arrayed in two rows, evoking the precision of a shark's dental layout. What struck him most was their remarkable mobility. Each tooth was tethered to a sinewy muscle strand that vanished beneath the sharp tongue. It gradually dawned on Will that these teeth possessed the ability to rotate, akin to the serrated blade of a chainsaw. They could vibrate and twist like hooks, displaying the capacity to employ them individually, with conscious intent, and a degree of creativity. Shit. Fuck. Help. Inching closer, far too close, he could smell blood. His widened eyes mirrored Death's gaping maw poised directly overhead. A mere few millimeters separated him from laying his head to rest within that ominous abyss. A mere sneeze or cough from it, and he'd be gone in an instant.

Yet, Miu's sole focus appeared to be the extraction of emotion. Its teeth remained stationary, and Will might have succumbed to fainting if not for the burning curiosity about what those teeth looked like and what they were capable of when set in motion. He yearned to understand, and it was this inquisitiveness that maintained the steady rhythm of his beating heart.

Despite the nightmarish spectacle unfolding before him, Graham felt an eerie sense of calm gradually enveloping him as it continued to draw from his emotions. The more it extracted, the more his internal landscape seemed to stabilize. It was as if it had patiently waited until his emotions were ripe for harvesting, tending to them like a vintner cultivating grapes for a fine wine—nurturing, feeding, provoking, and cultivating in its own unique way.

That.

He took a deep breath, attempting to wrestle the realization into a coherent thought.

That was the motive. Its motive wasn't sexual; it was far more sinister, calculated, and grotesque in design. It drew sustenance from emotions, particularly negative ones—anger, fear, disgust. That was what kept it going.

Not a psychopath. Something even more chilling. As Miu retreated, Will's mind went blank. He fixated on the ground, eyes widened, attempting to assemble the fragments of what he had just experienced. He felt revitalized, his thoughts astonishingly clear, but that newfound clarity was equally unsettling. It was as if it had surgically extracted the burning energy within him, leaving him to contemplate the depths of its own capacity for malevolence. It was undeniably attempting to convey something, yet simultaneously reaping its own benefits from the exchange. That level of calculation had blindsided him, taking him entirely by surprise. Will was not easily caught off guard; he usually had an innate ability to sense danger, even if he couldn't precisely identify its nature. But this, he hadn't anticipated in the slightest. His gaze lifted, fixating on the creature, and he observed the smug curl of its lips as its hands slowly ascended, gripping the collar and exerting force. The metal began to creak, even deform, but its strength hadn't yet reached the point of snapping it. This wasn't ordinary metal; it was far denser and heavier, capable of supporting several tons of weight, based on his observations. That single piece alone could be likened to an anchor capable of dragging an entire ship to the ocean's depths. The fact that the creature could deform it only heightened his unease. It was steadily gaining strength by absorbing his negative emotions. Will's mind grasped onto this realization and expanded upon it. If he continued to feed it, the collar would eventually give way, and the creature would likely manifest even more terrifying abilities. He couldn't tear his eyes away; they remained fixed on the restraint. Did he want to keep feeding it? Did he want to witness the consequences of that collar coming off? Could it spell his demise? Most likely. Yet, curiosity gnawed at him, urging him to discover what would transpire.

In a chillingly explicit manner, it had demonstrated how he could liberate it and the extent to which they would become interdependent. The question that loomed was whether either side could be trusted. Was betrayal a viable option? It intended to employ and inflict harm upon him in pursuit of its own liberation, yet paradoxically, it appeared to be guiding and nurturing him in an uncanny fusion of motives. A peculiar amalgamation indeed, one that bore unsettling similarities to a certain psychiatrist. The smugness etched across its expression conveyed the message clearly to Will. It was, in a peculiar way, extending an offer, a deal of sorts. Graham narrowed his eyes, recognizing it as an undeniable pact with the devil. Yet, in this moment, the devil seemed to be his most pragmatic choice.

He couldn't predict its next move, couldn't discern its exact intentions. Even with a literal collar around its neck, it wielded absolute control over the situation. It had succeeded in dismantling his façade initially. He still harbored fear, indeed, but it no longer dominated him as it once had. Over time, he had become skilled at feigning fear to a greater extent than he genuinely experienced it, recognizing that this made people consistently underestimate him. In a similar vein, Miu seemed to share this trait, revealing only the information it chose to disclose, typically those details that served its best interests. However, it proved to be remarkably perceptive, concealing even more than he had initially anticipated.

He had prodded at Hell's gates, and the devil himself had emerged for a game.

This, he could only liken to The Morningstar.

So remarkably cunning, he found himself nearly in awe, unable to summon hatred for it. In its sinister manner, it had managed to impress him, instilling bone-deep terror, yet evoking a sense of admiration as well. It had never uttered a falsehood, yet it had expertly manipulated him. Deception through the truth, now that was a mastery.

He pondered whether he could glean something from it. If it continued to provide him with such valuable ammunition, what would be the eventual outcome? It had already seduced him with his own curiosity. Without uttering a single word, it had showcased intelligence surpassing anything he had encountered. Oh, how Hannibal would relish this creature. He now held a precise understanding of what Miu was. Certainty, typically a comforting notion, had morphed into something quite terrifying. Its lips parted gradually, revealing a grin reminiscent of the Cheshire cat, proudly displaying its numerous sharp teeth in all their horrifying glory. Will mirrored the smile, his lips curling to reveal his teeth in a sinister display of glee. At the very least, things were taking an interesting turn. Engaging in direct confrontation held far more excitement than languishing on a desolate island with just a thread of communication. He had discovered a counterpart in his own darkness, erasing the need to hide or feign innocence. Two predators now faced each other, mutually acknowledging the game they were about to play. This promised to be a compelling training exercise, indeed.

If he relinquished control over his emotions, it would feed off him. Feeding off him would replenish its strength. Consequently, the collar would be removed. If the collar came off, it would have no further use for him. Therefore, the imperative remained: don't feed the demon. But maintain the illusion that you will, thus dissuading it from turning your intestines into a salad. He had already assigned it a name, but he couldn't afford to become attached. After all, it was probably the very thing that kept him confined in this place. The situation couldn't be any less pressure-filled, he mused with a hint of sarcasm. How great that he had honed the skill of feeling emotionally dead inside while being sassy about it. A game of chess with the devil incarnate—how could he possibly decline such an irresistible proposition? The Morningstar, bored as ever, found no greater amusement than flamboyantly annoying someone with its wit.

And Will, acutely aware of the glaring red flag, lingered to witness just how intensely crimson it could become.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (16)

Inhaling sharply, Will abruptly awoke, his frantic gaze darting around in search of answers. The acrid scent of fire lingered in his nostrils, but he couldn't discern anything amidst the darkness, except for Miu, wrapped around him like a protective shield. Pulsing luminescent markings adorned its skin, but they promptly vanished as soon as his gaze fixed upon them. Its golden eyes blinked open, briefly acknowledging Graham before stretching its jaw into a luxurious yawn. Its maw, an unsettling amalgamation of serrated blades concealed behind a veil of inky blackness, again hinted its predatory design. The bizarre curvature of its tongue, sinuous and tapering to a malevolent point, echoed the macabre symmetry of its entire obsidian form.

Feline tongues had always held an air of peculiarity, but this particular specimen redefined the very essence of that notion. In the dim light, the muscle seemed to dance with an eerie grace, as if it were a marionette controlled by some inscrutable force. A peculiar metamorphosis unfolded before his eyes, a kaleidoscope of textures, as though the creature's very essence was in a constant state of flux. It shifted from the jagged and menacing to a deceptively sleek surface, only to abruptly revert to a menacing, abrasive texture once more. It was as though the tongue itself pulsed with a life of its own, as if it were inhaling and exhaling, but it was not the tongue alone; it was the very texture of the skin that seemed to undulate, as if it were alive and breathing. Dread coursed through him like an icy river, and he fought to stifle the impending shiver. Without a doubt, it possessed the capacity to strip flesh from bone at its leisure. He remained astounded by the revelation of Miu having a mouth. Its lips melded together so seamlessly that they were entirely imperceptible unless one knew where to look. Devoid of a conventional nose, there were merely two flaps that gracefully expanded with each of its rhythmic breaths. Upon closer examination, he could discern its features. It presented a relatively flat surface, gently curved, yet designed for optimal aerodynamics.

Its skin appeared sleek and felt smooth when touched in one direction, but brushing against it the other way was akin to encountering sharp thorns. It consisted of tiny scales or particles, mobile and adaptable, capable of shifting from hardness resembling diamond to softness akin to a rose petal through sheer muscular reflex. As long as it maintained its forward momentum, it possessed the ability to slice through winds, water, gravity, and similar forces with the precision of an arrow. Moreover, it could manipulate these dynamics, strategically harnessing them to either maintain stability or expertly position itself within the wind for other such plays.

No matter the environment it encountered, its design guaranteed both lethality and efficiency. Its flexible skin hinted at the possibility of adaptive morphing for gliding capabilities. Even a descent from the atmosphere seemed unlikely to inflict significant damage upon it. He observed the subtle gills on its elongated neck and the prominent contours of its large torso, suggesting the presence of colossal lungs and the ability to endure extended periods without the need for oxygen. Despite appearing somewhat delicate, particularly around the waist, this creature exhibited remarkable density, suggesting its ability to withstand high pressures. Its capacity to seal its orifices and alter its skin properties implied resistance to leaks and structural failure. If one were to hazard a guess, it likely boasted a robust, dense internal framework to withstand external pressures, with bones adapted to endure significant compressive forces. Moreover, it would require robust and efficient lungs to breathe in high-pressure environments, efficiently extracting oxygen from compressed air. Additionally, these lungs would facilitate buoyancy control, enabling it to navigate fluid mediums with ease. Given the potential extreme temperatures in such high-pressure environments, the creature's ability to regulate its body temperature, as evident in its survival under freezing conditions, was also apparent. He could only ponder the nature of its respiratory requirements, which likely extended beyond typical oxygen mixtures found on Earth.

This was a cosmic harbinger of destruction. A universal killer. A living biological weapon. Possibly even a planet-destroyer, capable of being deployed from orbit to annihilate everything in its wake, regardless of what environment it faced. Having explored its skin, he could conceive of no material resilient enough to breach it when it solidified. Like an intricate formation of synchronized soldiers, acting as an impenetrable shield when the command was given. Moreover, considering its flexibility in a relaxed state, it seemed capable of attaining a near-fluid state—profoundly versatile in its adaptability. It would be able to squeeze through openings deemed impossibly narrow for a creature of its colossal stature. To describe it as ‘ripped’ would be a vast understatement. This creature epitomized raw, functional muscle, its body an anatomical revelation. He discerned the faint impression of ribs, the precise contours of hip bones, and even segments of its spine subtly defined beneath the skin. Its form boasted sharp, pronounced lines, yet paradoxically, he could also make out distinct fatty pads. These deposits, however, were strategically positioned in perfect harmony with the potent muscles, serving to insulate and sustain them. The deceptive slimness concealed an astonishing density; its weight seemed disproportionately substantial, suggesting that the true heft resided within, concealed within the scaffolding of its skeletal structure. Its lithe form, supported by a network of robust tendons and flexible joints, bestowed upon it the capacity for rapid body rotation. Despite its apparent lack of bulk, except for the formidable thighs, which undoubtedly harbored astonishing power capable of launching it meters into the air or propelling it forward, the rest of its physique remained sleek. Its muscles, taut as steel strings when activated, conveyed a hint of extraordinary speed, poised to respond with the swiftness of lightning. Lightning. 

Will shuddered and then blinked, experiencing a sudden epiphany.

What if it didn't teleport, but simply moved with such unparalleled velocity that it mimicked the effect of teleportation? If this were indeed its pinnacle of speed, so immense that it would blur into a streak of lightning, why then had it afforded him so much time? Could the collar be responsible, somehow freezing its movements? Had Miu been manipulating him from the outset?

He grappled with the realization that there seemed to be nothing capable of vanquishing it, save for the inconceivable act of hurling a literal sun at its core. Will mused that even a nuclear explosion would likely prove futile, unless it turned out to be vulnerable to radiation – a distinct and perplexing question altogether. That skin would casually deflect bullets as if they were no more than falling snowflakes. It appeared impervious to fire and unfazed by the biting cold. While it could undoubtedly experience pain and be harmed, even when subjected to the collar's influence, it retained the capacity to rend a human being apart like a sheet of paper. However, he remained uncertain about whether this invincibility extended to its internal anatomy. Not that he had any inclination to test what would transpire if Miu were to ingest a grenade, but the curiosity lingered regarding its digestive capabilities. Its eyes were truly remarkable, with double lids – the conventional ones and transparent lids that folded inward to safeguard the eye. Each strand within its iris resembled a glistening golden thread, akin to molten honey, with various shades of orange and red intermingling, occasionally giving way to hints of green, blue, and even purple, if he looked closely enough. He discerned a pattern within them, reminiscent of electricity, like lightning encapsulated within a vibrant glass sphere. It left him curious about the spectrums of color they might perceive, likely far beyond the capabilities of human eyes. Could it perceive the world through the spectrums of infrared and ultraviolet light? The sensory experience must be utterly remarkable. And undoubtedly migraine-inducing for any human. 

They sparkled and transitioned between colors, their hues shifting depending on the angle from which he observed them. It was as if they had softened, becoming less tense and now exuding a gentler demeanor. They retained their vigilance and intensity, yet the previous hostility seemed to have waned. Those sensitive eyes could be logged as a potential vulnerability, right alongside its delicate ears, which appeared to be neatly folded against its skull, like horns. These horns possessed a rounded form, culminating in a menacingly sharp tip, each extending to approximately one meter in length. It lacked eyelashes and eyebrows, but the muscles around its eyes appeared more developed, or perhaps it possessed better control over them. Its eyes were substantial, almost occupying a third of its face when fully opened and unburdened by narrowed lids. The slitted pupils had expanded, adopting a more rounded shape, which likely contributed to the less threatening demeanor they now projected. Will couldn't help but wonder what they might look like fully open, and a faint smile stretched across his lips at the thought. He cautiously extended his hand to gently stroke its head, to which Miu offered no evident signs of hostility. However, it swiftly repositioned itself upright, towering at its imposing height, its keen eyes peering down at Will, silently urging him to continue their journey. He stifled a chuckle, noticing that it seemed to share his aversion to touch. 

His gaze briefly darted to its claws, each resembling a retractable scalpel. Its palms featured cat-like paw pads, their softness evident to the touch, elucidating its ability to move with complete silence. Long, slender fingers and discernible skin flaps suggested adaptability, allowing it to retract or extend them depending on the specific environmental demands it faced. Exquisitely formed hands, nearly delicate in appearance, yet profoundly lethal in their precision. The robust muscles hinted at its capacity for making minute adjustments, and it was entirely plausible that it could surpass even the most skilled surgeon and their scalpel in terms of the sheer accuracy with which it could manipulate and cut through flesh.

He speculated it was a strict carnivore, a hypothesis that perfectly matched its overall design. Regarding its cognitive architecture... It exhibited psychopathic tendencies, yet these traits contradicted the presence of a sliver of empathy within it. This empathy went beyond mere cognitive compassion; Will could discern a genuine difference. It was a creature of remarkable sensitivity, encompassing a complex blend of wrath and defensiveness, yet beneath it all lay a concealed tenderness. It possessed the potential to be an assassin, undoubtedly, but it also harbored the capacity to assume the role of a protector. Unquestionably possessed of high intelligence, its expressions were incredibly nuanced, despite its deliberate silence. The faint sounds that had flitted on the periphery of his awareness carried a potent resonance, suggesting it refrained from speech to prevent causing harm. The organ responsible for its vocalizations must possess exceptional power. There was an unmistakable martial bearing in its demeanor, and the piercing glances it cast brought to mind the scrutiny of his instructor, perpetually evaluating the correctness of his training. It bore the hallmarks of someone well-versed in the arts of law enforcement, its unwavering, disciplined posture leaving no room for doubt.

Its crotch remained a blank enigma, at least from the current distance. Given its capability to seal orifices, the possibility of concealed features existed, but Will harbored no death wish to lean in for a closer look. Still, the query extended beyond anatomy into the realms of digestion and waste expulsion. How, precisely, did it manage these essential bodily functions? Did it even consume food? If it did, there had to be some mechanism for waste disposal, right?

Assigning a gender to it proved impossible. It featured curvaceous hips and a slender waist, delicate hands, a slim neck, but juxtaposed these with a broad, masculine torso and shoulders, powerful thighs, and a body language that leaned towards a more male-coded expression. The overall effect was one of complete androgyny, suggesting a likely asexual nature. It possessed a peculiar and enigmatic allure, seemingly capitalizing on the challenge of categorization. Undefinable and elusive, it beckoned contemplation, inviting one to grapple with its complex nature. There was an undeniable sinuous grace to its movements, a mastery of the power dynamics of sexual allure. However, it approached these dynamics from a calculated perspective, rather than relying on anything instinctual. The reproductive drive typically serves as a rich source of information for profiling, being inherently primal, uncontrollable, and chaotic. It affords a relatively precise profiling tool across a multitude of cases. Yet, where would one begin to profile an asexual killer, defying such primal instincts?

This contradiction further confounded the notion of it being a psychopath, as psychopaths were frequently driven by sexual motives. Will struggled to discern the driving force behind this creature's predatory behavior. If it wasn't rooted in sexual satisfaction, then what form of enjoyment or gratification did it derive from its actions? Could he even apply terrestrial labels to something so evidently non-earthly? Miu detected the pointed intensity of his gaze directed at its crotch, obligingly tilting to examine that area, before returning its gaze to Will in a manner that felt like a figurative backhand from its eyes alone. Feeling somewhat chastised, Will promptly averted his gaze. Despite his acute awareness of the ominous implications of this thought, an insatiable curiosity gnawed at him, compelling him to envision this creature in full, unrestrained action—to witness its true potential and unravel the enigma of its predatory behavior. How would it execute its killings, and with what speed and efficiency? What depths of power did it truly possess? His inner child couldn't help but wonder which classic comic book superhero might stand a chance against it. Hannibal would consider this a macabre masterpiece in the making, undoubtedly pushing the boundaries of his art to a chilling new level. As he beheld Miu, with its unwavering gaze and the unmistakable glint of lion-like pride in its eyes, he pondered whether even Hannibal could successfully exert control over it. Befriend it? Perhaps. But dominate it? That seemed an insurmountable challenge. ‘I can feed the caterpillar, I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.’ Will sensed the frigid presence, akin to a delicate, crystalline bell, resonating with the unmistakable voice of Hannibal echoing within his mind. Even under his meticulous scrutiny, he found himself unable to affix any definitive labels to it—neither its gender, nor its form, nor its psychological profile, nor any other descriptor. It persisted in a state of utter superposition, eluding easy categorization altogether. It embodied the principles of quantum mechanics, a real-life incarnation of Schrödinger's cat transformed into a deadly entity.

Was it a deep-sea monster that had emerged from the depths of hell, or a cosmic horror that had plummeted from the celestial expanse?

Regardless of what Miu truly was, it was becoming increasingly impatient with Will's thorough examination from every conceivable angle. A deep, rumbling inhalation, accompanied by a sharp narrowing of its eyes, served as a loud signal that he was pushing the boundaries of its patience.

"Sorry, I... I'm incredibly curious," he confessed, his hands rising to cradle his face, fingers folded over his cheeks as if shielding his nose and mouth, all the while attempting to shake off his tumultuous thoughts. His hands then retreated, one gently passing over his temple, while the other massaged the tension in his neck. "I don't mean to treat you like a mere lab specimen or be discourteous," he earnestly conveyed. "It's just that you're undeniably… captivating. My mind struggles when it can't … neatly categorize or label things, and with you, I–I'm at a loss," he admitted, his efforts to express his emotions evident in his words. "You're…un–undefinable. Beautiful, in a really peculiar way, but even that falls short of …of capturing your,” he gestured vaguely up and down Miu's form, “ …essence ," Graham added, his words tinged with an emotion he was unsure how to define.

"It leaves me feeling … utterly powerless… a–and anxious," he whispered, a palpable shiver coursing through his entire body, echoing in his words.

"I'm making an effort to comprehend you more deeply, but you're …uh, a rather,” his brows furrowed, his eyes searching for an adequate descriptor, “… complex concept to cram into a human mind," Will concluded, studying Miu from head to toe. He discerned a subtle shift in its body language, akin to a deflation—not a sign of surrender, but a softening of its disposition. It displayed comprehension, and perhaps even a touch of empathy. Its intense gaze lingered, softly searching his face before blinking once and lowering to the ground. Then, it locked back onto Will with a slight, inquisitive tilt of its head. It seemed to be posing a question, its curiosity directed at what he had potentially glimpsed or what he was seeking. To look at something typically implied an intention, often in pursuit of answers.

"You're exceptionally intelligent," Will concluded, his lips quirking slightly, his gaze briefly averted to the side. "Far more so than I am. So, I'm inclined to trust that you're fully aware of your actions … and … that they hold a purpose," he exhaled, then nodded resolutely and acquiesced, turning away. "Trust issues run deep," he whispered, a pained grin briefly twisting his lips as he gazed upon the unearthly presence before him. " Buuut … I get a weird feeling you already know that about me." Graham cast a wary glance over his shoulder. "Uncertainty terrifies me. I'm not sure if I can… manage it," he uttered, a subtle edge in his tone, a calculated emphasis on the word. He was baiting it. Miu, with eyes gleaming in mischievous delight, watched his act unfold, its face an unyielding mask of observation. It inched forward, taking two deliberate steps, and subjected Will to a meticulous once-over, its perceptive eyes immersed in swift contemplation. Those were the animated eyes of a mind engaged in deep and intricate calculation. As gravity seemed to drain the very essence from his bones, Will sensed his jaw quiver slightly while he allowed the creature's sinuous form to circle and scrutinize him. He remained an item on its menu, and the creature harbored lingering doubts about coming to his aid. Had it pierced through his facade? Almost certainly.

His gentle, wide-eyed, trembling-kitten charade appeared to yield no dividends with Miu.

You can't outfox a cat with cat-like maneuvers.

Hannibal's compassion toward Will exposed him to the peril of emotional manipulation, compelling him to adopt a facade of vulnerability and nonthreatening demeanor. As his eyes met the intelligent gaze of the cat, a flicker of vulnerability passed over him, and he realized that the placid depths of his sky-blue eyes had betrayed him. His composure had been excessive, and he had underestimated Miu's capacity for perception. It had not exhibited any emotional reaction to his vulnerability, yet its emotional intelligence was evidently high. Therefore, its response was deliberate, not instinctive, indicating a lack of belief in his words. 

The cat had caught him off-balance, its contemplation guided by cold logic before emotion. This disconcerted Will, thrusting him into an uneasy state where he had to counter-contemplate and devise a fresh strategy. In this delicate dance, he stumbled, and the cat's penetrating stare loomed over him, as if peering deep into his very soul. Graham responded akin to a predator recalibrating its strategy for capturing its quarry.

Its unflustered gaze persisted. A manipulator must engage in calculated thought, while a genuinely afflicted person acts on instinct and emotions. When he responded with logic and surprise, he had inadvertently discarded his facade. The cat regarded him with a subtle smugness, as though it were acknowledging him with the awareness of its superior insight. It possessed the ability to profile, doing so with astonishing precision. This hinted at an elevated level of emotional and cognitive intelligence, underpinned by razor-sharp observational acumen. It pierced through the mask he had painstakingly fashioned over the years, a mask that concealed the depths of his true face. It gazed with a cutting awareness, undeniably unfooled, as if it were staring into a mirror, beholding the countenance of Will Graham directly.

Very well, he could shed the pretense now. Fear had once gripped him, but the insidious nature of fear was that, with prolonged exposure, the human psyche acclimated to it, much like a body building a tolerance to poison. While outwardly displaying the unmistakable signs of a beleaguered creature clinging to the threads of existence, he concealed the fact that beneath the turmoil etched across his visage, beneath what the external world could perceive, he remained remarkably composed and detached, peering out from his covert vantage point with keen observation. The insanity resided within a solitary corner of the mind, allowing him to engage the other parts to scrutinize it. As time passed, his mind had developed the ability to separate emotions from logic, creating a significant chasm between the two. He could immerse himself in the throes of emotion, becoming momentarily paralyzed and bewildered, yet his logical faculty remained resolutely engaged, observing in silent contemplation, until it eventually murmured its sagacious insights. It was a survival strategy, honed over time. There were instances where a delayed emotional response proved advantageous, especially in confronting perilous situations. However, it presented a considerable drawback in most social settings. For instance, when one failed to produce a timely smile in response to a Christmas gift or a birthday, because the mind, overwhelmed and lagging behind in emotion, inevitably distorted the expression on the other end.

However, for an individual who had mastered the art of utilizing this attribute for manipulation—appearing emotional while remaining utterly detached—it had transformed into a valuable deficiency, now wielded as a potent weapon. 

He could appear utterly and genuinely terrified, adeptly harnessing displaced emotions to create a convincing façade. To any profiler, these emotions would appear unquestionably authentic, for they were, in fact, genuine. However, concealed beneath this veneer of anxiety was the truth: he remained a remarkably astute tactician, calculating and shrewd.

The entity seemed to find amusement worth granting him a slender opportunity. He was undeniably cunning, and that much, it would concede.

Miu withdrew gracefully, and the luminescent marking on its forehead shimmered with a noxious miasma of iridescent colors, taking on the form of an eye, or perhaps more accurately, the Eye of Horus. Will sensed a subtle shift in their surroundings as this phenomenon unfolded. As Miu's fiery eyes closed, Will could discern the trademark click of a spotlight igniting, causing his attention to snap toward the sudden descent of a luminous cone from seemingly nowhere. All at once, he found himself in what resembled a spacious room, the light casting its glow upon what appeared to be a holographic image. His steps adjusted, carrying him closer to the intriguing projection.

Gradually tilting his head to one side, he came to the realization that this was a moment suspended in time, likely akin to a memory. It was the first encounter with Hannibal. Will meticulously scrutinized the frozen image, then shifted his gaze back to Miu, contemplating his next course of action. Was it attempting to aid him in grasping something? And if so, what exactly was he meant to comprehend? Offering no further hints, it remained utterly stationary, its gaze fixed on Will, its curiosity piqued by his next move.

His anxiety was palpable; his earthly vessel quivered, unable to contain the overwhelming tension, as if it were on the brink of disintegration under the tremors of his nerves. He could have sworn he heard distant sirens, their faint wails pulling him back into the past.

Graham’s instinctive response was to touch the image, and like he had pressed a play button, the scene unfolded. It propelled him through a whirlwind of flashing images, a rapid journey through time.

He suddenly discovered himself in Jack's office—or more accurately, his former self seated in Jack's office, while his current self observed the unfolding scene, akin to a spectator watching a television show. This could easily find its place among the top ten pictures taken moments before disaster.

"Tell me, then, how many confessions?" Hannibal inquired, and Will nearly suffered a heart attack upon hearing his voice intrude upon the scene. Sound, oh sound, had become an unexpected visitor in this silent, shadowy realm, where the cacophony of his own thoughts had hitherto drowned out everything else. Now, the once-muted noises surged to life, their newfound volume resonating sharply in his awareness. It had been a long time since he last heard that voice, and while he yearned for it, he frantically scanned his surroundings in search of Miu. However, the creature seemed to have vanished. "Twelve dozen, the last time I checked. None of them had any details … until this morning. And then they  all   had details." Jack replied, devoid of amusement, as he proceeded to his chair and settled into it. "Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, and then Freddy Lounds posted it on Tattlecrime.com." "Tasteless," the remembered Will retorted.

"Do you have trouble with taste?" Hannibal interjected. A fleeting twitch of Will's eyebrows betrayed his surprise, his gaze momentarily darting over to Lecter, who remained absorbed in studying the board in the background. "My thoughts are often not tasty ." "Nor are mine." The doctor responded. Will approached Hannibal’s memorized version, almost expecting the shadow to acknowledge him, yet it remained unresponsive. Flattering.  "No effective barriers." Hannibal added before stepping away from the board to join the other memory, taking a seat at the desk.

"I build forts," Will hurriedly elucidated, sipping from his coffee as though the cup were his protective bulwark. Forts, much like the one he currently found himself in, he surmised. The mental imagery aligned, though at the moment, it resembled more of a prison than a protective sanctuary.

"Associations come quickly," Hannibal observed, settling into his seat and reaching for his cup.

"So do forts," Will responded in his usual sassy manner, deflecting the remark. Walls were his sole defense against those ‘mental associations,’ but he had learned the hard way that even those barriers could crumble. His gaze ricocheted among the shadows, yet he discovered himself swiftly acclimating to the resurfacing memory. Hannibal sat, raising his coffee cup. Yet, before indulging in a sip, his gaze traversed Will's form, and the cup momentarily hung suspended in the air. "Not fond of eye contact, are you?" he remarked, and Will exhaled sharply. The speed at which he had discerned this detail unsettled Graham, making him acutely aware of the attention Hannibal was paying to him. Had his autistic tendencies been so apparent, despite his meticulous efforts to conceal them? Had Crawford informed Lecter beforehand? It prompted him to ponder whether his fascination had already been triggered by that point. And so, he continued to watch, observing the unfolding dialogue. "Eyes are distracting you see too much, you don’t see enough." Will ranted, while Hannibal serenely savored a sip of his coffee, his gaze fixated on the profiler with intent. "And-And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, um, ‘Oh, those whites are really white’, or, ‘He must have hepatitis’, or, ‘Oh, is that a burst vein?’" Rambling, a familiar defense mechanism for Will. He tended to talk when he was nervous or feeling defensive. Yet, the smile that graced Hannibal's face left him unsettled—not because it hinted at amusement over what Will had said, but because it radiated genuine warmth, almost as if Hannibal were deliberately trying to be as amicable as possible. That had been the moment when his obsession had been ignited. A shiver crept up Will's spine, and he nearly felt a wave of nausea wash over him. In those mere five minutes, Hannibal had glimpsed something within Will, igniting a longing within himself to be truly seen. This reaction was far from the typical response he encountered when people discerned his autistic characteristics. Perhaps, it was inconsequential in the grander scheme, or just maybe, it was precisely what Hannibal had fallen in love with from the very beginning—the undeniable fact that Will was anything but ordinary, and in the eyes of some, not even entirely human. The very trait that most people despised or mistreated him for might have been the very thing that Hannibal had fallen in love with. "So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible," the Will in his recollection chimed in again before redirecting his focus away from Hannibal, "Jack?"

"Yes?" Jack responded from the background, but Will kept his attention firmly fixed on Hannibal.

"I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind," Hannibal said softly, while studying Will’s face, "Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love." Accurate observation. Hannibal had been deliberately toying with elements he knew would rile Will, and here, he revealed his trump card, deftly bypassing Will's defenses to leave him momentarily stunned. It was a demonstration of strategy and calculation, akin to the insertion of a needle that pricked precisely the right nerve. "Whose profile are you working on? Whose profile is he working on?" The shadow of Will grew increasingly restless, agitated—a reaction that Hannibal likely intended to provoke.

"I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off," Hannibal interjected, subtly smoothing the sleeve on his left arm. He then reached for his cup, his expression a mask of feigned innocence, yet a trace of satisfaction lingered in his features, not escaping Will's keen observation.

"Please, don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed." Will's defenses went up, and Hannibal innocently glanced up from behind his cup, as if he were engrossed in the art of concealing his amusement.

"Will," Jack intervened, making an effort to restrain him, just as Will was in the midst of sliding out of his chair.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing." The remembered Will retreated from the scene, arresting its advancement once again. Graham reappeared in the dimly lit room, his eyes darting around as he sought out Miu, who remained in the background, its head tilting slightly, as if inquisitive about what he had gathered. In the eerie glow of the feeble spotlight, he felt its creeping, sinister presence draw near. Suddenly, unseen and incomprehensible, it encircled him, its malevolence palpable. He stood, a helpless pawn in a nightmarish performance, as ancient horrors unfurled. Sanity frayed, and the line between reality and madness blurred in that accursed moment.

"You–You’re showing me my memories?" His voice suddenly felt thunderously loud amidst the prevailing silence. Graham tilted his head, his struggle with a multitude of emotions visible as he attempted to tether his thoughts to a logical anchor. "Why are you sharing memories with me, Miu?" Will felt an irresistible urge to speak in hushed tones, his ears still ringing from the recent silence. His sensory threshold had regressed due to prolonged isolation, and his mind labored to keep pace with the torrent of thoughts surging within him.

He cautiously advanced a step toward the creature, uncertainty gnawing at him as he pondered its motive. Was it attempting to provoke him in some way? No, as if in direct response to his unspoken doubts, Miu abruptly lowered its head, offering its forehead as if to challenge him, as though it had not only understood his unspoken thoughts but was also rejecting an accusation he had never uttered aloud. Will froze, his fear so palpable that he dared not even form another thought.

That was a new flavor of threatening. It had a remarkably unsettling ability to decipher him, far beyond his initial expectations. It seemed attuned to his every expression and nuance of body language, almost as if it could peer directly into his thoughts. The question lingered: just how deep did this understanding truly go? To what depths of intelligence did this vexing creature truly descend? He was well aware that the creature harbored a very particular motive for this act. It was meticulous in all its actions, yet he couldn't quite grasp the rationale behind revealing this specific memory. The luminescent eye on its forehead flickered, and several more spotlights clicked into existence, enveloping them in a multitude of such moments. It was as though they stood within a mental museum of memories. Will cast a perplexed glance around the exhibit, briefly scanning the memories on display, before fixing his gaze once more on Miu. Its stance exuded an aura of supreme authority, akin to gazing upon an emperor or a figure of similarly grand stature. 

"You want me to … see   something, don’t you?" Miu nodded slowly, the movement subtle and barely perceptible, while it seemed to straighten its posture further. Nay, it sought not mere provocation; its intentions ran deeper and subtler than he had presumed. This was no conventional baiting, but rather a meticulous study. It observed him with a cunning and imperceptible finesse, far more discreet than his own vigilant scrutiny. An unmistakable martial air clung to its demeanor. It engaged in a test of sorts, yet the exact nature of this trial eluded his grasp, shrouded in ambiguity. This cunning demon, far from yielding easily, withheld answers, demanding a struggle for enlightenment. It posed a test of fortitude and resilience, providing a singular focal point in the maelstrom of uncertainty. Without uttering a solitary word, it sculpted an adversary for him to confront, a trial of willpower and endurance. It assumed the role of a reluctant tutor, imparting a lesson yet veiling its true purpose in shrouds.  Silence, when wielded with deliberate intent, emerged as a formidable weapon. It served as a tutor, instilling the art of introspection and self-discovery. Through this tacit instruction, it unveiled revelations, permitting him to interpret them without the taint of external voices distorting their intrinsic meaning.

See?

Its eyes seemed to hiss and murmur secrets never meant to be uttered aloud.

"Okay," Will inhaled deeply, bracing himself for the trauma he was about to confront. "Please, Miu. Proceed," he uttered, a resignation evident in his voice.

The once-vivid scene had metamorphosed into what he could only liken to a bucket of paint, a surreal and perplexing revelation as he peered at the vacant space where the image once resided. His countenance was a tapestry of question marks. What in the world? Curiously, Miu appeared unruffled by this oddity. The being picked up the bucket, and as he followed its lead, he suddenly grasped that they had transitioned into an entirely new room, a chamber that had materialized out of thin air.

Before them loomed a colossal white canvas, and without the slightest hesitation, Miu hurled the paint onto the pristine surface.

And before Will could fully process the unfolding spectacle, he discerned that the crimson splatter of paint was coalescing into a discernible image. Initially, he pondered the nature of the substance, for it seemed too viscous for watercolor yet too fluid for acrylic. Then, the realization struck him with chilling clarity: it was blood.

The patterns it formed and the manner in which the liquid behaved defied the laws of physics as it swiftly sculpted a vivid tableau of the moment. Astonishingly, it dried rapidly, having etched its shape in mere seconds.

Miu took the picture, examined it briefly, and then they moved once more, transitioning into yet another room with such seamless fluidity that Will found himself struggling to keep pace. The image was hung upon a wall, and beneath it, etched in meticulous script, lay an inverted ‘E’ followed by ‘x.’  It took him a moment to realize that this was a mathematical symbol: ‘Element of x.’ An element. The inclusion of this term hinted at the existence of additional elements yet to be revealed. Each of these elements was singular, a unique piece, for if they were not, it would have employed the inverted 'A,' addressing ‘all elements of x' as a single unity. Mathematics was a language—an intricate, vexing, and occasionally exasperating language, but one composed of universal symbols. When abstracted to a level where numbers were absent, it transformed into a sentence, a statement, an answer, and ultimately, a proof. ‘Miu, please, spare me from math,’ he silently pleaded. If his query demanded mathematical prowess, he knew he'd be in dire straits. The assumption that the autistic individual excelled in mathematics was a captivating notion in theory, but in reality, he was no mathematical prodigy in that particular domain. Perhaps, math wasn't his forte, but it could very well be Miu's language. Language, math, and music shared intricate connections. He began to understand why Hannibal excelled in all three of these realms. These disciplines engaged the same regions of the brain. Mathematics served as the cosmic tongue, and conceivably, the universe resembled a colossal, resonant throat, given that many of its foundational constituents manifested as waves. Genius, in part, stemmed from genetics, yet even an individual with average intellect could potentially be nurtured into a genius if the process began from an early age. Encompassing lessons in chess, mastery of multiple languages, and immersion in a wide range of music, perhaps coupled with the acquisition of proficiency in several instruments, could forge an exceptionally powerful mind, irrespective of the initial cognitive attributes. Naturally, this guidance should align with the child's own wishes and inclinations. It should avoid imposing any specific subject against its will, but rather nurture the areas that the child naturally gravitates toward. After all, children yearn to play and explore. It's crucial to tend to their emotional well-being, ensuring they feel secure, so their minds can remain open and vulnerable in their state of curiosity. If that curiosity is ever wounded or harmed, it has a tendency to withdraw inward. The role of a parent is to safeguard those curious little tendrils that reach out to explore the world as they learn, ensuring they do not get singed or scorched along the way. 

When curiosity was nourished rather than suppressed, a child possessed the potential to amass knowledge that could render them more formidable than any adult. They were inquisitive little sponges, and in most cases, a child's mind reveled in the joy of learning. This childlike curiosity, in essence, never truly vanished. It retreated inward, into the depths of our psyche, becoming what we recognize as our inner child. The outer shell might mature, wither, and lose its ability to remain perpetually young, but the child within never truly perished. Unless we neglect it, or worse, extinguish it to satisfy the expectations of the world around us. When was the last time you genuinely relished an experience, allowed your curiosity to run wild, unencumbered by the judgments of others, reveling in an act that caused you to break free from the tightly regimented confines of societal norms? Curiosity was a thing of beauty, the most divine concept to grace our existence, possessing such potent force that it could elevate us to godlike status if we surrendered ourselves to its insatiable hunger. After all, knowledge was the embodiment of power, the essence of God. Yet, it could also be the devil lurking in the shadows. For understanding wasn't always a blessing; it had the potential to unveil truths that were perilous or so far removed from any earthly comprehension that they appeared as madness to the rest of the world. Is it wise to place trust in an intelligent mind solely because of its intellect? Or could it be the blinding radiance of the Morningstar himself?

For the mind could be the very embodiment of the devil. Or so, they often treated those with inquisitive natures , scripted there in hushed tones.

What mattered even more, however, was the hue of the soul and the essence of the individual wielding the blade of intellect. What did their heart murmur? Was it a song of goodness or a lament of darkness? Did the blade of intelligence rest in the hand of a benevolent doctor or a sinister serial killer? Or, perhaps, it was a sinister doctor and a benevolent serial killer? ‘What might a benevolent serial killer be?’ you inquire.

‘Why not examine the Bible and scrutinize God a bit more closely,’ I suggest. Intelligence was the result of persistent training. While some individuals might possess innate gifts (or curses) such as keen observation or an aptitude for noticing intricate details, these qualities could also be cultivated through deliberate practice. The crucial distinction lay in the identity of the trainer—was it one's own inquisitive mind and innate curiosity, or a skilled teacher who possessed the knowledge to hone these faculties with greater precision? What could arise from intelligence was a complex interplay of numerous variables. The potency of his mind lay in its capacity to discern patterns, to sense them within images and symbolism, to extract meaning from words, and to unveil hidden nuances in faces that eluded description. It enabled him to perceive energies as they danced and shifted, whispering truths to him that remained beyond the grasp of others. But that was also his madness.

If someone had guided him to harness his mind's innate abilities, allowing them to unfurl naturally rather than conforming him into a predetermined societal mold, he might have attained the same level of brilliance as Hannibal.

Yet it was these trials, the sufferings that had schooled him in the caution of longing for what he did not possess, for such desires could have exacted a toll on his very essence. They might have stripped away his empathy, his comprehension of pain, and the very mind that questioned all of this. Pain, viewed from a contentious standpoint, was also a gift—a stern and uncompromising teacher. It etched its lessons deeply into memory, like engraving them on a steel plate. It was a remarkably efficient method, though far from pleasant.

He remained the person he was in this very moment, and no amount of contemplation, longing, or aspiration could alter that fact. The keys to his path lay within himself, and all he needed was faith in what he already possessed. The placement of the symbol was slightly beyond his reach, yet his mind possessed an innate comprehension of what it might evolve into. It was shaping up to be a colossal formula, with the captured moments serving as its elements, presumably destined to become inputs within this mosaic-adorned wall. 

It presented itself as an equation rendered in images. An exceptionally abstract language model, yet possessing a universal applicability.

Would this interplay of memories ultimately yield his long-awaited answer?

Miu turned its gaze toward Will, and as their eyes met, he discerned a subtle shift in the backdrop, a gradual dissolution of the surroundings, until they were once again enveloped in the hall of memories.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (15)

Setting aside the string of heart-pounding incidents and near-death experiences, Will felt remarkably intact as he awoke from the abyss, discovering himself on a solitary bed.

The absence of the creature sent shivers down his spine, leaving an unsettling void in the room. He knew it would return, that was inevitable. It bore the demeanor of a creature unwilling to abandon a task half-done. However, in its place, the cat lay beside him, nestled peacefully, casting a drowsy, watchful gaze upon him. As Will started to sit up, the cat stretched luxuriously, and its eyes casually grazed over his freshly bandaged hand.

In an instant, Graham's gaze shot upwards, the memory of the mirror shattering returning in a rush. He had swung at the monstrous apparition but struck a solid wall concealed beneath the fractured mirror, garnering a collection of glass shards in the process. The pain was barely a bother. Hannibal. Will could have sworn he still felt the lingering touch of his lips against his own. He cast his gaze about, desperately scouring his surroundings for any trace of Dr. Lecter, but all that met his searching eyes was an all-encompassing darkness. Ensnared within the confines of that bizarre fortress, his initial entry had been eerily uncomplicated. Yet, the elusive path to exit eluded him entirely. His sense of orientation was lost, and time itself seemed to dance to a discordant tune, with the familiar cadence of night and day utterly erased. Clocks were conspicuously absent, leaving him adrift in a temporal void. The passage of time remained an enigma, an unsolvable puzzle with no measure or reference.

Alright.

Following the rules of his analytical autistic mind, when denial ceased to be an option, acceptance became the inevitable path.

Will felt an inexplicable surge of motivation, propelling him forward into the next looming confrontation. Normally inclined toward avoidance by nature, he now found himself driven by an uncharacteristic curiosity, an urge to uncover the mysteries that enshrouded this eerie ordeal. Heaving himself off the bed, he took a few deliberate strides forward.

This surreal environment, as genuine as it seemed, could no longer be the tangible reality he once knew before that fateful plunge off the cliff with Hannibal. While it possessed an unsettling realness, and the looming threat of genuine mortality hung in the air, it was not his reality. He had to be trapped deep within his own consciousness. If the island and the house represented the surface level of his psyche, and he needed to dive into the depths to reach the core, then what precisely was this enigmatic liminal space?

His eyes darted, surveying his perplexing surroundings.

His own subconscious?

He had stepped into the fortress of his mind.

And the looming question remained: What, precisely, was the nature of the malevolent entity? Evidently, it was a facet of himself, a twisted reflection. Despite the undeniable similarities, he had never laid eyes on it before. It possessed a cat-like grace and an unsettling reservoir of power. The sudden shift in the environment had spared him. Had it not been ensnared behind the shattered mirror, he had no doubt that even the slightest contact with its icy skin would have been akin to a corrosive liquid nitrogen, devouring its way through him.

The lingering apprehension remained—it had to be nearby. Yet, despite his meticulous scanning, no trace of its presence was revealed. His lips parted, and he attempted speech.

"H—," he began, but as sound emerged, his voice faltered into an uncertain silence. "Hello?" Will questioned slowly, almost reluctantly. His voice felt raspy and fractured, but it was a voice nonetheless.

What should he call it? Monster seemed a bit too harsh.

He pondered on possible names. Cat person? Big-Ears? Golden-Eyes? Walking Frostbite?

His brows furrowed.

It bore a semblance to a sphinx cat, bereft of fur, if he were to draw a comparison.

Egyptian.

As if a connection clicked, his lips moved instinctively.

"Miu."

The word flowed from his tongue, the ancient Egyptian term for a cat: 'he or she who mews.' While he pondered, a nagging uncertainty lingered: Was it truly wise to christen a monstrous entity with a 'meow' in a tongue foreign to his own?

A duo of golden eyes, like gleaming coins amidst the darkness, materialized at knee level, their eerie ascent unceasing until they hovered nearly half a meter above Will. Graham's throat constricted instantaneously, gripped by an instinctual terror.

Realization washed over him—it had been here all along. His knees trembled, and his entire body longed to sprint for safety, a visceral reaction triggered by the sheer sight of this monstrous entity. Every follicle on the nape of his neck seemed determined to emancipate itself from his skin, yearning for refuge in the safety of escape. A voice, faint but insistent, urged him to flee, while his limbs burned with an incandescent urge to sprint, adrenaline coursing through his veins like a wildfire. The painful awareness of his body, priming itself for either confrontation or flight, was palpable.

Yet, an opposing force, as if his very soul was attempting to pull him in the opposite direction, ensnared his will, a relentless tug-of-war that demanded a formidable struggle to resist. The entity pressed forward, its very presence resonating through the trembling floor beneath Will's feet. Every footfall transmitted its ominous weight, sending ripples through the ground beneath, akin to miniature earthquakes. Shadows gave way, enveloping its obsidian form as the light around it intensified. Though it had not assumed an overtly hostile stance, an undercurrent of menace lingered in the air. No longer did it teleport or engage in the eerie act of unfolding and collapsing; its presence had solidified within the frame. Paradoxically, this newfound tangibility only heightened its terror, as if the solidity of its existence made it all the more malevolent. Its aura bore down upon him with an oppressive weight, as though it were greedily siphoning the very air from the room, leaving each breath he drew in feeble and strained. As Will's gaze honed in on additional details, he discerned the big chain veiling an amulet, presumably the coveted Horus Eye, while more chains adorned its wrists. Each feline countenance exuded a regal air, but this particular specimen radiated a divine aura.

Exercising caution, Will slowly lifted his hands and retreated with deliberate, measured steps. A conscious effort to avoid triggering its predatory instincts. As the weight of his foot bore down, a disconcerting sensation engulfed him, as though he trod upon ground that dissolved beneath his very weight. An overwhelming dread coursed through him, a cry to succumb to unconsciousness and escape the paralyzing fear that gripped his every fiber. Yet now, he possessed an unexpected weapon, a formidable tool to wield against an open intelligence, perhaps the mightiest weapon within his entire arsenal: his voice. Words. Communication. "I want to talk, Miu. Can we do that?" His voice remained hushed, a tremor of anxiety akin to that of a timid child, yet it clung to him, steadfast in its bravery, refusing to desert him.

The entity came to a sudden stop, its radiant, gilded orbs narrowing ever so imperceptibly. That ultimate step, though devoid of sound, reverberated within him like a thunderous declaration. A subtle cant of its head communicated to Will that he possessed but a fleeting moment to sway its disposition. His eyelids trembled, his very soul waging a battle to remain anchored within his body. A fleeting surge of relief coursed through him, nearly toppling his senses. It understood him. This meant he had a slender opportunity for negotiation. An astonishingly unconventional gambit, yet one brimming with intrigue. Engaging in a precarious negotiation with a deadly monster, the words he would choose next would seal his fate. Much like when an officer confronted a potential bomber, the sole strategy lay in persuading them to abandon the path of detonation. In those critical moments, the first ten words held the power to shape the outcome. Empathy, the bridge to understanding, was the chosen path — a means to connect with one's adversary, to resonate with their suffering. Empathy forged a bond, and that bond wielded influence. Empathy wielded as a conscious tool could be a potent weapon in the realm of offense. And now, the moment had arrived to employ it, to allow that connection to unfurl and reach its full potential, to wrench the pendulum that had been swinging passively and transform it into a spear for a decisive strike. In the face of this formidable predator, he grappled with the uncertainty of how to forge a connection. Yet, as he locked eyes with it, penetrating the veneer of calculated lethality, he began to discern something. Beyond the calculating gaze of a predator, there lay an unexpected depth, a raw intensity akin to the fiery determination of an aggrieved housewife. It was the gaze of a woman who had known pain and channeled that anguish into an unrelenting fury. It was a gaze he had once seen in his mother's eyes—a complex mixture of emotions, a veritable cocktail of disappointment, sadness, and frustration, all intertwined with an undercurrent of helplessness. These feelings were veiled by a seething, simmering fury, much like an untreated wound left to fester, burn, and ooze with pus. When a woman reached the point of losing her composure, it usually meant she had endured numerous hurts, with all that external observers witnessed being her unbridled wrath. Wrath, in its essence, served as our protective armor, a final line of defense. Frequently, heeded too late, it came to our rescue when the weight of accumulating pressures finally threatened to consume us.

Men, in their anger, often exhibited a different hue. But this, this was the singular fury of a woman, ablaze with its full, unyielding intensity—an inferno born of maternal instinct. This fury transcended banality, its complexity woven from the threads of deeply personal grievances, its edges sharp with spite. The wrath of an enraged woman, he knew all too well, ranked among the most chilling spectacles to witness, which explained the primal sense of terror that gripped him. In the depths of one's inner child, few terrors surpassed the dread of an angered mother – a fear deeply personal and uniquely unsettling. Utterly terrifying to behold, undeniably lethal in its potential, yet strangely beautiful in its own right, for it was a fury born from the deepest wellspring of love. Whether that love is directed toward the child or oneself.

Isn't it ironic that the most perilous fury often finds its genesis in love?

He recognized that expression, and in that moment of insight, he grasped the slender thread that might just save his life.

"I'm sorry for hurting you," Will spoke, his words flowing instinctively. Even to himself, what he said came as a surprise, but just there, it all clicked into place. Miu, it seemed, had quietly taken residence within his soul for a considerable span, embodying the shadowed recesses he had struggled to repress and purge from his being.

It was attentive. He had effectively secured another ten words to wield. "I see you now. And … I want to fix it," Will persisted, advancing with a wary tread toward Miu. The entity held its ground, neither retreating nor progressing, its unblinking eyes locked onto Graham. Its searing gaze, akin to relentless yet probing suns, tracked his every move. "I want to understand you," Will added, his trembling hands extending towards the feline's neck. The darkness crept at the corners of his vision, as if his own mind stood ready to sever the lifeline, recognizing the perilousness of his impending, potentially fatal blunder. The collar was positioned too high to reach without its cooperation. Though the towering entity seemed to pause briefly, it elegantly bent its lofty form into a sinuous arc, placing the fractured chain within Will's grasp. All the while, its unwavering and intense gaze remained fixed upon him. In this close proximity, he couldn't help but notice the enormity of its eyes, akin to peering into newly formed pools of molten magma. He could almost swear he sensed a subtle heat radiating from their depths. There was no mistaking its readiness to strike with lethal precision at the merest hint of a misstep from Will.

Graham found himself at a loss on how to remove the chain. He lacked the key, and it proved far too robust to break with his bare hands. While Miu had managed to break free from the chain earlier, the collar was doubly thick, and it was clear that it had frozen onto the feline's neck. Frozen. Intriguingly, the creature's frigid aura had retreated. It remained cold and emitted a chill, yet it was no longer an aggressive, painful force when Will approached it.

The collar, where it melded with the creature's skin, emitted an eerie glacial glow as if it were more than just a physical restraint; it seemed to radiate the same icy aura that surrounded it. Perhaps, Will pondered, it served to curtail the creature's abilities, despite the fact that it had managed to break free from the chain. Frozen. Much like its movements, constrained to only a few frames before it had to resort to teleportation. Will couldn't shake the thought that perhaps the pervasive chill was affecting it as well, restricting its mobility. It left him pondering what other limitations it might face. If the cold was truly gnawing at the creature's very being, Will could only imagine the excruciating pain it must have endured. And yet, it maintained such composure. No wonder it was filled with anger.

"I want to … set you free, but I don't know how," Graham's voice lowered, his realization of his inability to open the collar weighing upon him. The golden eyes loudly shifted toward the smaller cat perched on the bed, which was gazing at them with an air of curiosity. Then, they clearly descended upon the key dangling from its neck. Will followed Miu's gaze, and in response, it turned in the opposite direction. Lights began to flicker to life, revealing the path through the darkness, guiding him toward the solution. Under the unyielding gaze now fixed upon him, Will nodded slowly. "I believe I'm starting to understand?" he said, his voice steady as he attempted to regain control over his trembling body and ease the tension in his jaw. "Please, have patience with me. I'm–I’m incredibly confused, but I'm making an effort."

The intensity of the gaze remained fixed on him as Will shifted his focus toward the smaller cat. It appeared to grasp the situation and made a swift decision, darting away along the newly illuminated path. "No, no, no, wait, I won't harm you. I just want the—" Will called after it, but it vanished from sight. "...key," he added with a resigned sigh.

"Nothing is ever … easy, is it?" Graham posed the question to Miu. Though the creature's expression remained unchanged, he couldn't shake the feeling that the energy around it had shifted into what felt like a reproachful eye roll. "I'll find a way," Will reassured, hands raised defensively, his confidence stronger than he had initially intended. He reluctantly tore his gaze away and began to follow the illuminated path, with Miu closely trailing behind him. It was only at that moment that he truly grasped the creature's immense size. Even in its hunched posture, it loomed large enough to cast a shadow over him, despite moving on all fours, reminiscent of a gorilla. It appeared to be crouching, or maybe it was adjusting its steps to match his own as if it had the capacity to cover ground much more swiftly. In this deliberate act, it was evident that it was consciously restraining its movements, granting Will the space to walk at a more comfortable pace. Its hind legs, remarkably elongated, bore a semblance of a humanoid trait rather than a feline one. In contrast, its arms exceeded the proportions of typical human anatomy, further accentuating its uncanny physiology. Miu exhibited remarkable intelligence, undoubtedly comprehending every word Will spoke. However, it appeared either mute or disinclined to speak. Nevertheless, its body language, those expressive eyes, and the subtle shifts in muscle tension, posture, and demeanor conveyed a silent eloquence that made it feel as though Will could read its thoughts. It didn't rely on words to communicate; every signal it emitted was calculated and purposeful. It was a form of communication that utterly fascinated him, reminiscent of Hannibal, but magnified to an even greater degree. "I can only speculate that you represent my darker impulses," Will looked up, his gaze locking onto the piercing stare above him. "No offense. I'm just trying to understand," he said gently, his voice carrying a hint of trepidation. His gaze lingered on Miu, searching for the right word to describe the inexplicable, "You're strangely," he hesitated, "... mesmerizing." Graham almost regretted uttering that comment, but he couldn't help himself. He studied the creature's reaction, a subtle retraction in its expression—perhaps a flicker of surprise or a hint of confusion in its inscrutable eyes.

"It's probably odd to compliment the part of myself that wants to … murder everything," he continued, a touch of self-deprecation in his tone, "but... yeah, you are  strangely  beautiful, and I have no idea  why  I'm saying that. It just came to mind, … along with everything else that's … happening here. I don't have explanations for any of it," he gestured vaguely to the surreal surroundings, shrugging helplessly. "Or, really, anything that's unfolding in this place. But you're the first thing that feels... safe."

Once more, he fell silent, his gaze locking onto the creature's inquisitive, nearly smug countenance. "I know it's utterly insane to say this to something that was moments away from ending my life, but maybe that's why it feels so... familiar , even natural to me." Another pause. "I'm... I'm sorry if I'm rambling. You seem like a good listener," he admitted, his voice trailing off with a nervous chuckle. Realizing the audacity of his words, he quickly stifled the humor. "Sorry, I... I'm just really nervous. Talking helps me … process." Miu seemed to find amusement in Will's efforts to salvage the situation, and for a fleeting moment, Graham glimpsed a reflection of his own nature in that reaction. "You...," he hesitated, gauging the wisdom of his next words, "possess sadistic inclinations. You derive pleasure from witnessing the suffering of others." He carefully observed the creature above, noting how its gaze seemed to sharpen, cutting into him with an inquisitive hostility rather than an immediate threat. "But it's a specific brand of sadism, isn't it? You're curious, and you only revel in the torment of those who, in your eyes, deserve it. Am I correct?" He posed the question directly to Miu and received a subtle tilting of its head in response. Not outright denying, yet not fully acknowledging either. In essence, it amounted to a 'maybe.'

"I can relate," Will continued, his words measured. "I assume that's why you take on the form of a cat, not a dog. You enjoy toying with your prey." He noticed a flicker of offense in Miu's eyes and hastened to clarify, "I'm–I’m not suggesting dogs are better than cats or vice versa. They're simply … different. Cats are solitary hunters, more methodical and strategic." As he spoke, he found himself contemplating his own penchant for murder, recognizing that it aligned more with the feline disposition than the canine. "True, dogs usually kill for survival, for sustenance, out of necessity. But cats... they kill for sport, for the sheer thrill of the hunt."

At its core, he embodied the essence of a cat, not a dog, when it came to his mannerisms. They walked for quite a distance, and apart from the illuminated path on the floor, Will couldn't discern anything in their surroundings. It was a vast expanse of emptiness. Oddly enough, Miu's presence had a calming effect on him, which was quite perplexing given that it should have instilled fear. This paradoxical reaction only fueled his curiosity. Now that the creature had ceased its attacks, or at least postponed their confrontation, the aura of calm it exuded was otherworldly. It was a self-assuredness, a precision in its rhythmic strides, that could cause even a deity to question their standing in its presence. It felt like a primordial principle, a force as mighty as time itself, something that even surpassed the deities. Will couldn't precisely define what Miu was, but it embodied a concept older than the gods themselves. It exuded an aura of utter primality, akin to a living law of nature. Gazing upon it was a humbling experience, and it became even more humbling to realize that it was not only aware of his presence but also actively listening and cooperating. Undoubtedly, it did so by choice, driven by its own self-interest. Will couldn't forget that it still possessed the power to liquefy him with a mere flick of its finger. Referring to it as a god would likely be an understatement, even an insult. It wielded an authority far beyond the capacity of words to fully capture. "I wonder how long you've been here," Will mused, abruptly halting his stride and turning to cast a questioning glance at Miu.  The wisdom of countless years, perhaps even millennia, shimmered in its vibrant eyes. It undeniably bore the weight of great antiquity.

The presence of the Horus Eye, which he had glimpsed earlier, lingered in his thoughts. Could it be a clue? The Egyptian undertones puzzled him. While he found mythology of all kinds intriguing, he had never delved deeply into Egyptian lore. His interests were diverse, but Egyptian mythology had never been a particular focus. That's what made Miu's connection to it all the more fascinating, reminiscent of the Wendigo form Hannibal's shadow had taken in his psyche.

It undeniably held a connection to the Gods, particularly that Horus Eye, a symbol with multifaceted meanings. Some conjectured its mathematical significance, linking it to the sacred unit fractions that ancient Egyptians associated with the six components of the eye: The complete Eye of Horus represented the number one. The top part of the eye, which is shaped like an eyebrow, represented one-sixth (1/6). The darkened central part of the eye, resembling a pupil, represented one-sixty-fourth (1/64). The curving section below the pupil, often shaped like an ‘S,’ represented one-fourth (1/4). The teardrop-shaped section beneath the S-shaped swirl represented one-eighth (1/8). The straight line or inverted ‘T’ shape at the bottom of the eye represented one-sixteenth (1/16). The tail-like extension at the very bottom of the eye represented one-thirty-second (1/32). These fractions, all with powers of two in their denominators, served to represent portions of the hekat, the standard measure of grain capacity. A binary framework, founded on base two. These values function as exponents for the conversion of binary to decimal. Considering that 2^6 equals 64, it requires 6 bits for the representation of the fraction 1/64 in binary notation. Consequently, a total of 65 bits is needed to represent 2^64 in binary.

Numbers could be quite intriguing at times.

Furthermore, the Eye symbolized the reinstatement of order and the victory of good over evil. In certain interpretations, it is regarded as an emblem of spiritual insight and enlightenment, signifying the eye that gazes beyond the material realm and into the domain of the divine. A suggestion of introspection, perhaps? The inner eye, observing itself?

"Miu, I—," Will inhaled deeply, gathering the courage to confront the creature fully. His eyes sparkled with newfound determination, a change that seemed to please the large feline. "I need your help to … unravel all of this. I'll find your key. But I also need you to be my key to understanding." He could have sworn it was smiling, even though its visage remained devoid of expression. Yet, the eyes emitted a distinct energy, undeniably smug. Pride filled those golden orbs, but there was also a hint of contentment. Within that fierce and deadly countenance, there lingered a subtle softness, sending a ripple of energy through Will's stomach. Rising to its full height, Will estimated it was roughly three meters tall. In that moment, its appearance seemed more human than feline, with no visible tail. As it diverted its gaze from Will, its heavy ears pricked forward, adding another half meter to its imposing stature. It surveyed its surroundings with an intensity that made Graham suspect it perceived more than he ever could. Its eyes held an expression of recognition, as if it were identifying something specific and definable, rather than merely staring into an abyss of emptiness.

He felt inconceivably minuscule next to this towering juggernaut of lethality. It was meticulously crafted for annihilation, every aspect of its being a weapon honed to perfection. And yet, despite its alien, mythological essence, it exuded an uncanny humanity, a strange relatability that was both unsettling and oddly comforting. Amidst its icy frigidity, he found warmth and understanding. Although it seemed as sharp as the edge of a surgeon's scalpel, he couldn't shake the feeling that it possessed a hint of empathy. It was shrouded in darkness, brimming with deadly potential, but it was not inherently evil. In a moment of strange impulse, Will felt compelled to reach out and touch it while it remained engrossed in its surroundings. His hand barely reached its thigh, but as his warm palm made contact with the firm, icy muscle, he sensed the cold rapidly eating his skin. Miu recoiled from the touch like a coiled spring suddenly released. It was the first time he truly heard its reaction—a noise that didn't quite qualify as a hiss or a growl, akin to a potent, piercing surge of air vibrations that gripped him in near-paralyzing terror. It seemed as if the sound had the potential to be lethal, had it been honed with greater purpose. He could see the creases on its visage and the momentary parting of lips that revealed an array of razor-sharp teeth glistening in the harsh light. There was no audible hiss, yet he could sense it coursing through his entire body. Will's breath came in rapid, uncontrollable gasps as his trembling hand remained outstretched, his eyes wide with a mix of astonishment and trepidation. It had demonstrated the capacity to produce sound, and it felt as frigid as if it had been frozen solid. In a brief moment, he sensed its anguish, a fleeting sensation that had almost overwhelmed Graham when it had brushed against his senses. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he fought to maintain his composure, refusing to succumb to the torrent of information assaulting his mind. "You're in agony, immense agony," he stammered, struggling to regain his breath and see through the tears that clouded his vision. "Such excruciating pain. How do you even cope?" Miu's response was one of seething anger, its usually serene countenance now twisted into a mask of pure fury. Its upper lip quivered as it pulled back, baring its menacing row of teeth like an unspoken warning. While it refrained from launching an attack, there was no ambiguity in its message: should Will misstep, he'd be torn apart and reduced to mere confetti without a moment's hesitation.

Graham raised his hands and avoided making eye contact, his breath still quivering. "I– I did this to you, didn’t I? It was me, who put that chain on you, right?" Miu's patience was wearing thin, and its body language signaled an impending, impulsive attack. Its clawed palm extended, poised to strike, and it began to move toward Will. Despite the imminent danger, Will held his ground, refusing to flinch or close his eyes, even as he sensed the strike in his peripheral vision. "I'm... so sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling as he allowed his tears to flow freely. It was this moment of understanding and vulnerability that seemed to save him, halting the sharp claws just before they could slice through him. Will's eyes closed, and he could sense the presence of Miu's palm lingering nearby. "I … I thought I was doing what was right," Will spoke, his entire body quaking uncontrollably. His eyes slowly opened, revealing a torrent of tears. "But now, I'm not sure anymore. I don't know what's right anymore. I can't trust anything I thought I knew. I... I need your help. I need your guidance. I need your wisdom. And, I know... I don't deserve it. I don't deserve your kindness, your understanding, or your tolerance." He paused, still trembling but now lifting his gaze to meet Miu's golden stare, his eyes bloodshot and raw. "Because I didn't give that to you. I hated you. I wanted you gone. I denied your existence. I tried to suppress you, to kill you, to erase you. I starved you. I abused you. I froze you. I gave you nothing but ice and abandonment." His throat tightened, threatening to crush his voice, but his lips parted again, and he refused to succumb to silence under the pressure of his emotions. "You needed me, and I wasn't there to listen to your voice. And still, you gave me a chance." He blinked rapidly, trying to free himself from the tears to see clearly. "And I... I plunged us off a cliff to escape you." Will swallowed hard, his eyelids fluttering under the weight of a profound realization, his gaze slowly descending.

"Your beauty, … it frightened me. … I came to understand how complete I felt when I let you come to the forefront. And I – I panicked."

His eyes traced every nuance etched into the frozen countenance before him, yearning to decipher some elusive meaning.

"I need you, Miu. You are an integral part of me, just as I am an integral part of you. I … humbly see–seek your forgiveness," Will stammered, his words stumbling in their earnestness. His body quivered uncontrollably, a force he struggled to restrain as if the icy chill within had frozen his insides, threatening to convulse him into an involuntary fit. He trembled with fear, while Miu quivered with unbridled wrath. Bowing his head, Graham exposed his vulnerable neck to the creature, anticipating its sharp strike like a guillotine's blade. If death was to be his fate, it would be a fate of his own choosing.

Yet, when he sensed the creature's icy touch on his skin, he couldn't help but flinch. The palm was unexpectedly gentle, causing his composure to crumble like sand yielding to water. Overwhelmed with emotion, he wept bitterly, instinctively reaching out to grasp the creature's large torso as it descended, wrapping around him like a protective cocoon. "I remember you. You... you were always my protector. Whenever they … bullied me, yelled at me, or hurt me, you were there. Your anger was a shield against a world that treated me unfairly. You were furious because I was hurt, and I pushed you away, buried you, froze you, all because other people—people who found it inconvenient if I showed anger—told me not to overreact. But we weren't  overreacting.  Being hurt, being abused, anger is a perfectly natural response. It's the part of us that wants to … protect us. You were there to protect me," whispering softly, Will clutched Miu tightly as if by squeezing it, he could somehow quell his own trembling. "You took in all my pain, held onto my anger, and you never let go. You didn't forget; you didn't bury what was done to me. You wanted to make the world answer for it in my name," he said, his vision clouded with repressed childhood memories. He had always been the new kid in school, perpetually the small one, the outsider, the odd one, the target of their taunts and abuse, with nowhere to escape.

Consistently misconstrued in his intentions, perpetually branded as malevolent, no matter his actions or noble intentions, people twisted his motives into something sinister. Over time, his anxiety grew, as did his fear of reprimand and the prospect of yet another social blunder. Consequently, he withdrew further and further into himself.

Ironically, he mused, the creature most renowned for being misunderstood was a cat. He plummeted back into the abyss of his youth, embracing a coal-black demon in lieu of a once-beloved teddy bear. Those eyes that beheld him, they were veritable portals to the fiery maw of Hell, casting an infernal spell upon his very soul. What dark specter from his youth had he nurtured so fervently that it could swell to such monstrous proportions? What maternal aspect of his being could harbor such an icy rage that it might bring Hell itself to a frigid standstill? What infernal General had he unwittingly cultivated within the depths of his own being over all these years? For an ephemeral moment, the obsidian hue of its skin seemed to pulsate with a crimson tinge, akin to blood rendered dark beneath the moon's pallid glow. Its eyes bore down upon him with a lucidity that left no doubt in his mind.

Al-Jeneral Al-Ahmar. The Red General. A progeny of the Great Red Dragon, birthed from the fleeting splendor of a solitary moment.

It was but a fleeting glimpse, an elusive moment that eluded conscious apprehension. Yet, he could have sworn he beheld it—how it loomed above him, its pallid skin aglow in the moon's tender embrace, bedecked in golden embellishments adorned with azure gemstones that sparkled like stars. Atop its brow, a regal crown of alabaster feathers sparkled like celestial diamonds. Was it a demon or an angel? That question lingered in the recesses of his fading thoughts. Will could sense his strength waning, his fading vision catching glimpses of the heavens ablaze, with fire descending from the skies. In his weakened state, Miu tenderly guided his faltering body to the obsidian ground, curling protectively over him to shield him from harm, ensuring he wasn't crushed. As his eyes began to dim, he heard it—a sound akin to a cosmic vibration, a soothing purr that sent ripples through the darkness. It was like a droplet of water hitting a still surface, and a comforting blackness washed over him. He struggled to find words to capture the essence of the sound, except that it possessed a mending, healing quality—an exquisite balm for all that was amiss. It was a sound that permeated every fiber of his being, so potent that it seemed capable of distorting reality with its ripples as if it could outscream even the stars. Yet, it was not a scream; it was a gentle, tender sound, brimming with love, understanding, and solace. A sound with the power to pierce through any obstacle, even the darkness that lacked light. A sound capable of making the heavens tremble and hushing hell to stillness.

The purr of a merciful cat.

[strings0fcontrol]

Just a weird lil observation undeserving of tags

I just realized that I spat out roughly 40k words (+/- 38k are published, the rest are still all over my notes. It might even be way more than 40k) in less than a week, including a plot. I was doing this casually. I didn't plan a plot. I'm just writing down whatever weird lil scenes my autistic brain is sewing together in real time. I've watched Hannibal once. About a month ago. I've been roleplaying (primarily) Hannibal since. Sometimes Will. All of this is from memory. And the few snippets I picked up along the way in interviews. (What I'm trying to do is rewatch the show, scene by scene & really take it apart, but I'm currently struggling with that since I gravely miscalculated, fucked it up & realized I don't have a Blu-ray device for the CDs. So, I first need to get that sorted out. Hannibal, on Netflix, isn't available in Germany, so you can see my problem here.)

Now, my autistic half is relatively manageable, it's quite similar to Will's manifestation & after my formal diagnosis, I've gotten a very good grip on managing my triggers & generally, staying in control of them. Most of the time.

On the other hand, my ADHD is a dominant infernal disaster dumpster hellscape of problems, always taking detours through the wild lands of distraction. We have a love/hate relationship. I'm (usually) highly medicated just to function bc I have the attention span of a fruit fly, I'm severely traumatized & my energy levels hover in the negative realm. The meds are fucking up my liver, so I haven’t been taking them over the semester break/pause, whatever it's called in English, which means I'm usually completely & utterly useless in that state. Strong executive paralysis. So, the fact that in my unmedicated state, I've managed to vomit out roughly 40k words of a novel in less than a week is an incredible milestone. I'm not even sure if the story is good. I'll have to rework it on a couple of corners. This is also just phase one, since I'm now, once I rewatch the show, going into phase two, where shit will really go wild & the actual story begins. I didn't even think I'd make it past the first chapter. I was sweating to make it to 6, I was crying when I reached 10 & I nearly fainted when I made it all the way to 14. And, once again, I'm so very glad that Hannibal has touched my little world, bc not only do I love that show, the books, the movies, everything, it's pulled me out of my depression & given me something to be happy about, bc those (almost) 40k words mean I shouldn't give up on myself just yet. I'm not a complete disaster. There's still untapped potential. There's still energy. I can feel the fire in my soul again, I feel alive again, I'm curious again, I'm feeling joy again & so much more. I'm very grateful for that little revelation. So, my sincerest thanks to the universe & to everyone involved in the show, movies & books.

Danke. I'm feeling my spark again, thanks to you. It's been dead for nearly 15 years. And. I want my future self to look at this when the insecurity strikes again. Believe in yourself, child. Believe.

[strings0fcontrol]

A note from the writer:

Well, dear reader, how fare you now? Do your cravings beg for sustenance, or perhaps your throat longs for a drink? Maybe the call of sleep beckons.

Fear not, for our journey shall continue, unless the whims of fate dictate otherwise. However, I must momentarily step away from this narrative, as matters beyond this realm beckon, and I shall be parted from my inkwell for at least a week or two. Can you endure this brief hiatus?

I, almost, cannot.

As this is where the true fun begins.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (14)

Will found himself plunged into an abyss of obsidian, a realm of utter darkness that seemed to expel him unceremoniously. The drenched feline extricated itself from his grasp, its reproachful gaze briefly flickering. The creature pressed onward, and Will, disoriented and grappling for his bearings, found himself compelled to follow, first on all fours and then summoning his strength to regain an upright posture. It was in that bewildering moment that the colossal silhouette of a fortress materialized before him, its towering presence looming in the darkness, a sentinel of enigmatic magnitude.

Well. That answered that question.

Within this obsidian expanse, all was shrouded in deepest blackness, and yet, an enigmatic luminescence seemed to trace its contours, despite the conspicuous absence of any discernible light source. Its sheer beauty rendered him breathless, compelling him to exhale ever so softly as he immersed himself in its exquisite presence. In the oppressive darkness that clung to him like a suffocating cloak, a sense of dread clawed at his sanity. A conviction, screaming that the malevolent force had never ceased its pursuit. As his trembling eyes dared to cast their gaze upon the ghastly, feeble illumination that barely quivered nearby, he held his breath.

There, within the frail glow, a sinister silhouette began to take shape—a grotesque, nightmarish appendage, clad in the vilest sinew and mottled flesh, slithered forth from the depths of the dimly illuminated puddle. It breached the membrane that separated his fragile sense of security from the encroaching abyss of unutterable terror. The clawed monstrosity, adorned with jagged, blood-encrusted talons, stretched into the maddening half-light. This left him with scant time for contemplation, and the cacophony of white noise in his mind surged to deafening levels.

Will sprinted with abandon, an adrenaline-fueled chase, hot on the heels of the elusive cat, and then, as if by divine providence, the massive doors of the fortress yawned open before him, a gateway to an uncertain refuge.

As he traversed the threshold of the grand gates, it dawned upon him that he had merely exchanged one shadowy chamber for another, an expanse of utter obscurity that swallowed him whole. Inexorably, an encroaching chill trailed him, haunting his every stride. Regardless of how far his desperate flight took him, the disquieting presence persisted.

Irrespective of the direction he sprinted, the disorienting stasis followed, refusing to yield to any change. Rendering escape utterly futile.

And his sanity was dwindling, slipping through his desperate grasp. Internally, a cacophony of maniacal laughter and silent cries wracked Will's tormented mind. He came to an abrupt halt, his breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps. 

Finally, he resolved to confront it head-on, halting his frenetic escape and turning to face the darkness, bracing for the confrontation.

Will anchored himself in place, and there it was—the entity, gradually materializing from what seemed like thin air, its fluid presence melding into the surroundings.

And, for the very first time, he found himself gazing upon the abomination in its full, horrifying splendor. It towered before him, a grotesque embodiment of terror, sinuous and coiled like a monstrous predator ready to pounce, with broad horns arched backward like the devil's own pitchfork. Its bony fingers were bizarre tendrils of death, each tip adorned with gleaming, razor-sharp claws that captured the sparse illumination, refracting it into malevolent glimmers. Its form possessed an unnerving, ethereal athleticism, its broad chest tapering down to a slim, sinewy waist that swayed with a nightmarish grace as it moved. Its hips were wide, connected to long, sinuous thighs, where taut muscles rippled beneath its smooth skin. Compact knees led to elongated lower legs, each terminating in feet resembling the predatory paws of a monstrous feline.

It had been forged for pursuits at breakneck speeds, its infernal power concentrated within its sinewy limbs, imposing pectoral muscles, rock-solid shoulders, and a formidable core that bound it all in a nightmarish unity. Its very design exuded an eerie sense of aerodynamic perfection; even its menacing horns were cunningly folded back against its bald skull, ensuring the seamless flow of air as if sculpted by the devil's own wind. Not a solitary hair adorned its body. Its skin possessed a peculiar duality, displaying a malleable quality that could fold and ripple, reminiscent of the pliancy of a Sphinx's hide. Yet, still, it bore a weightiness akin to marble, and a strength akin to diamonds, its luminescence sparkling like the precious gemstone itself. Its contours reflected the ambient illumination, but not in the manner of leather, latex, or any material he had ever encountered before; it hovered somewhere between liquid and solid.

Upon its thin, slightly elongated throat, an aged collar clung, its shattered chain dangling like a macabre trophy. It must have writhed and torn itself free from somewhere. The fact that it could shatter chains of such formidable girth spoke volumes of its exceptional strength. Will swallowed.

Its form defied categorization, teetering on the borderland between human, devil, and feline, while its skin existed in a disconcerting limbo, resembling a bizarre amalgamation of reptilian and feline textures. Though it appeared nude, there were no discernible genitalia to be found, leaving him in doubt as to whether it possessed a gender at all. Its form bore a beguiling ambiguity, defying traditional classifications of male or female, possessing both curvaceous and angular elements. Delicate features danced alongside rough, uncanny contours, blurring the lines between beauty and monstrosity.

Devoid of any discernible facial features, it paradoxically sported glistening golden eyes with slitted pupils that oozed malevolent delight. Those eyes, oh, they were undeniably intelligent, radiating a sinister sentience that seemed to pulse with dark amusement. It appeared devoid of a mouth, or perhaps it concealed it, yet in the intensity of its gaze, Will could unmistakably sense a smile lurking, just beyond the veil of its expression.

It lurched forward, crouched and swaying with each dreadful stride, and its intent to continue its advance remained abundantly clear.

A palpable cadence infused its grotesque undulations, as though it existed solely within a finite span of frames, teleportations, bypassing the transitional interstices of reality. This peculiarity bestowed upon it an unsettling semblance of predictability, though the precise coordinates of its reappearance remained shrouded in enigma. Will's once-sharp acumen in pattern recognition faltered. It was an anomaly unlike any he had hitherto encountered. It harbored an inscrutable rationale beneath its eerie façade, reminding him of the ticking of a chronometer, each motion executed with metronomic precision, etching itself into his consciousness. He couldn't quite discern the intricacies of the pattern, but it undeniably existed. There was a method hidden within its madness. A curious hypnosis ensnared his senses, his attention held captive by its strange grace. In an ephemeral interlude, it chose to deliberate, a  calculated  deceleration in its grotesque ballet, unveiling another glint of intellect that momentarily pierced the veil of its eldritch nature.

It was, undoubtedly, toying with him. The creature was well aware of his entrapment, savoring every agonizing moment to prolong his torment. Rather than swiftly executing its sinister intentions, it deliberately slowed its pace, almost as if it reveled in presenting itself—forcing him to ponder the myriad unholy ways it might dismember him. Despite the lightning speed it had demonstrated earlier, it refrained from slicing him apart instantly. Instead, it seemed to relish his fear, feasting upon it. That perverse hunger for torment—sadistic, pure evil.

The very essence of the world quivered, cloaked in a disconcerting shroud of crackling static, as if the entity had set the very air alight in its diabolical passage. Perhaps, even the very fabric of reality itself strained under the weight of its presence, as if struggling to fully contain the entity within its earthly parameters. It was as though this being hailed from dimensions beyond, pressed uncomfortably into a world where it did not rightfully belong. The air seemed to warp and contort, akin to water bending around an object submerged, or space-time curling in the presence of gravitic titans. Even the atmosphere hung heavy with an arctic chill, and with each labored inhalation, Will's lungs seemed to fill with piercing shards of ice.

He typically favored intelligent monsters, for they could, under certain circumstances, be engaged in discourse or negotiation—a stark contrast to the mindless dread of zombies, which struck fear into his heart due to their unsettling resemblance to humanity in its most mindless, ravenous form. The hordes of humans and zombies alike shared an eerie similarity in their limited capacity for tolerance and negotiation, leaving him with unease.

However, when confronted with an intelligent monster, he could often find common ground, empathize, and even attempt to sway through reason. But whatever this abomination was, it defied all attempts at reason. Its intellect appeared to be matched only by its malevolence, a combination that underscored its raw, unbridled power. This monstrosity seemed purpose-built for the sole, primal pursuit of annihilation. Unlike a zombie, this creature could not be deceived or outwitted. It possessed an unmatched agility that left him trailing in despair. It was a living embodiment of lethality, a nightmarish weapon honed by cruel intelligence that, by all indications, far exceeded his own. Will found himself utterly bereft of any strategy or recourse.

It continued its advance, materializing unpredictably, yet consistently maintaining a separation of approximately one meter from its prior location. A capriciousness defined its shifting proportions, oscillating between moments of imposing grandeur and disconcerting diminishment. Up. Down. Up. Down. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It seemed to unfurl and contract, akin to a bizarre bloom caught in a perpetual cycle of life and decay. And, it could only move within the confines of that second, then it would abruptly vanish, and subsequently reappear elsewhere, rinse, and repeat.

Will’s synapses fired with every ounce of mortal vigor. His cognitive faculties worked in frenzied harmony, flipping the vast expanse of his mental library upside down, frantically leafing through the pages of observed patterns in a Herculean effort to reverse compile and amass an exhaustive reservoir of data to feed his pattern recognition. As the storm of thoughts raged within him, his breath found a steady rhythm, and he permitted the connection to unfurl, briefly extending his mental tendrils to brush against the boundaries of shared consciousness.

The metronome's steady pulse resounded in his ears, synchronized with the rhythm of the entity. Up. Down. Up. Down. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. PWUM.   PWUM.

Time decelerated, its rhythm becoming his own.

Ultimately, beneath the veneer of its nightmarish visage, this was simply a killer—his special interest, a realm he comprehended like no other in the world. Regardless of their outward forms, predators shared the same intrinsic thought patterns and susceptibilities. Its inherent essence lay in adopting an aggressive stance, furnishing it with a decisive edge. This stance, in turn, bestowed upon it an aura of unshakable confidence and control.

It held full dominion over the unfolding events, rendering apprehension unnecessary. Fear had no place in its being, for it assumed the role of aggressor, the hunter, the dominator. Time was its ally, a pliable canvas upon which it painted its sinister designs, with no force capable of halting it.

This was its design.

Though reason dictated he ought to be consumed by unbridled terror, a strange and haunting fascination gripped him in the presence of this abomination, a macabre beauty that transcended its malevolent purpose, even as it poised itself to ruthlessly rend him asunder.

From his labored exhalations, tendrils of frigid air spiraled upward, while his unflinching gaze remained locked.

He had sought an unvarnished glimpse of his own essence, stripped bare of the masks he habitually donned. It was said that people laid bare their innermost selves in the throes of impending demise. Here, now, was the quintessence of his being, unadulterated and authentic, gazing upon that which should have instilled profound fear with a sense of reverence and marvel.

‘I don’t know if I can save myself. And maybe that’s just fine.’

Here he stood, confronting the epitome of darkness and malevolence, an entity more sinister than any he had ever crossed paths with. Undaunted, he met its maleficent gaze head-on, galvanized by an indomitable inner strength that eclipsed anything he had ever encountered before. Though this monstrous entity dwarfed him in size twofold, Graham took a deliberate step forward, disrupting the creature's rhythm. It faltered momentarily, its grotesque visage tilting in apparent curiosity, before resuming its approach.

Evidently, the unexpected defiance had caught it off-guard.

Good. Curiosity suggested a spark of sentience, a glimmer of understanding. If it could grasp concepts, it could potentially experience, process, and consciously decide.

Until this pivotal juncture, his existence had been a relentless sprint, an endeavor to evade, to wrest himself free. The fragments of comprehension he had managed to glean had remained surreal at best, like whispers of an elusive dream. His anxiety had commandeered the helm, dictating each and every one of his decisions.

Yet, in the present moment, there was an alternate passenger at the helm of his emotions—a relentless, seething anger. This fury was as intense as smoldering embers, igniting a fiery exhalation and a tingling, electric sensation coursing down his spine. He was no longer feeling cold.

This anger, a tempest of unparalleled magnitude, draped him in an impenetrable armor of wrath, encasing him within its furious cocoon. His eyes, typically bound by their ordinary range, now seemed attuned to the subtlest undercurrents of existence, extending their reach far beyond their natural bounds. A burning intensity so cold it seared, he had glimpsed something—his mind carving around it, as if wielding the newfound energy like a mental scalpel.

It had been said that anger was the guardian within us, the stalwart elder sibling who shielded the anxious, trembling soul in a protective embrace. And within this encompassing anger, he sensed an invincibility.

The nightmares and the incessant grip of anxiety had pursued him until this very moment. He had reached his breaking point. No more.

Will sensed with uncanny precision the impending strike, and as the grotesque visage materialized before him, brazenly teleporting within striking distance, his eyes shifted, anticipating its emergence, fixated on it with icy precision. Unfurling from below, it took aim directly at his center.

See?

The whispered voice resonated within his mind, the darkness closing around him. His glacial, ice-blue eyes tracked its movement, until it hovered mere millimeters from executing its gruesome intent. It was precisely at this moment, when the predator was at its zenith of confidence, that it paradoxically became its most vulnerable.

Despite the ruinous state of his vocal cords, words remained an impossibility, yet there existed one primal act he could still perform – a resounding, infernal  SCREAM.  

HEAR.

Not fear.

RAGE.

Abyssal, blood-soaked, pent-up rage. Aimed squarely at its grotesque countenance.

Unleashing the full fury of a demonic force, he sensed the minuscule recoil of the entity that now found itself at the receiving end of a roar that could rival Satan's own. Intelligence, the capacity to decipher and process information, suggested the existence of a mind governed by expectations and informed by past experiences—a hallmark of a cunning and calculating predator. Yet, interestingly, the more confident one grew in their understanding, the less prepared they were to anticipate a shocking twist—a scenario even more improbable when it took the form of a guinea pig, shrieking defiantly in the face of an eldritch God, a spectacle of proportions beyond belief. Those weren't horns; they were ears, and he surmised they must be causing a great deal of agony at that very moment.

In the wake of this diabolical outburst, the creature briefly faltered in its attack, wasting its one-second frame of movement, and Will seized the opportune instant, descending upon it with all the force of a celestial sledgehammer. The impact itself was a fleeting sensation, a mere whisper compared to the overpowering feeling of something yielding beneath his blow. He beheld the nightmarish visage of the creature grotesquely contort before it was flung aside with a cataclysmic force.

With his hands. Curled into fists, he followed.

Dominate the concept by mastering its rules. And then, utterly obliterate it.

Fortunately, Will's physical body was already in a hospital room.

Connected to the EEG.

Until a mere moment ago, the EEG had appeared largely inert, mirroring the tranquil state of non-REM sleep, in line with Lecter's prior assumptions. However, as his gaze grazed upon the subtle uptick in activity, he found himself on the edge of his seat. His fingers unclenched, and a pen that had previously provided company through its rhythmic clicking tumbled, forgotten, upon the table.

His eyes remained riveted to the undulating line, a gaze that bore into the monitor as though he sought to sear through it with sheer intensity. Hannibal propelled himself away from the monitoring device, causing his chair to glide across the floor. Swift adjustments followed, and within moments, he was smoothly positioned in front of Will. Gentle hands cupped his cheeks, and their foreheads pressed together.

"Will," he whispered, drawing in a deep breath, "Come back to me," Hannibal implored, his voice quivering. "Please, come back to me."

Tears welled up behind his tightly shut eyelids, mingling as their noses brushed softly against each other, while he clung desperately to Will. The world around them felt as cold and lifeless as his own heart, yet Lecter refused to surrender to despair.

He took a few moments to catch his breath, and then his gaze shifted to Chiyoh as he straightened himself upright.

"We're taking this," he declared, gesturing towards the EEG device, and without further ado, he rose from his seat. In his determination, he entertained the audacious notion of dismantling half the hospital and absconding with it.

Although his present circumstances rendered large financial transactions and conspicuous acquisitions of medical equipment imprudent, he was willing to risk pilfering what he needed. The act of theft, he surmised, offered a modicum of cover, allowing him to conceal his tracks under the guise of a seemingly unrelated accident, perhaps a fire, which could easily obscure the disappearance of inconsequential items.

He couldn't risk being found. His anxious fingers absently scratched at his lower lip, and his gaze wandered around the room, immersed in deep contemplation. What sort of cataclysmic accident could he orchestrate that would reduce an entire hospital to ruins?

They were raising a fundraiser, which offered perfect timing as it would divert the attention of hospital staff and security, which was why he had picked today. In conjunction with that, any attack would seem to be targeting the fundraiser, instead of covering a theft. Fire. Bombs.

A diminutive, remotely triggered incendiary device, engineered to incinerate evidence at a scorching temperature. Simultaneously, he required a secondary distraction, ensuring the room had ample time to reduce to ashes. An alternate crisis somewhere else in the building. A cunning ploy to divert their focus. Minimal disruption was the goal. He needed to confine the chaos to this specific room without engulfing the entire hospital in flames. This could be achieved by triggering an electrical system malfunction or causing an accident involving the volatile chemicals stored nearby. Burning intensely and quickly.

But on second contemplation, his countenance grew eerily serene. Why, in this moment, did he still cling to the preservation of life? He had sworn to usher in Armageddon, and the world would indeed witness its arrival.

Will and the entity moved in a ceaseless orbit, their gazes locked, leaving it ambiguous who was the pursuer and who was the pursued.

The creature traversed on all fours, executing rhythmic sideways steps, propelling itself forward with a haunting grace, its knuckles scraping against the ground. As Will watched, a revelation struck him, unraveling the source of this mesmerizing allure.

These movements weren't just hypnotic due to their fluidity; they were meticulously calculated, imbued with a haunting mathematical precision that played with the very essence of rhythm itself. This peculiar quality drew him in, capturing his senses in a way that defied easy classification. It wasn't sexual or friendly; instead, it evoked a sense of awe, an attraction rooted in familiarity and comfort.

This entity was undeniably grotesque and distorted in its sizzling forms, yet still, it oozed a dark beauty through its unearthly behaviors and movements.

It possessed intelligence, curiosity, and a feral nature. He couldn't muster hatred for it. In its sinister manner, it was oddly beautiful. Yet, to ensure his survival, he had no choice but to annihilate it.

Then came the moment when both of them launched their attacks in unison, and when Will's fist struck, it collided with an unyielding surface, shattering upon impact.

FUCK, THAT HURT.

His hand recoiled, a pulsing agony coursing through it, and it dawned on him that the entity had maneuvered into a new stance. Now, it gazed back at him through a crimson-stained mirror, bearing a reflection of his own feral countenance. And, it mimicked his upward movement in perfect synchrony. He froze, eyes locked, realizing what it meant.

‘I am both, the sacrificial lamb and the executioner. The scapegoat and the swordslayer. The one screaming and the angel of death.’

Before he could act upon this realization, the mirror fractured into shards, and an overpowering torrent of water erupted, hurling Will off his feet and into a disorienting void. It felt akin to drowning once more, submerged in the chaos of thunderous roars and searing lightning strikes. Then, a sensation of being forcibly lifted surged through him, propelling him above the water's surface. Amidst his blurred vision, in a fleeting moment of surreal clarity, he could have sworn he glimpsed Hannibal looming over him.

His lips parted, yet his voice remained silenced, driven by a singular imperative: touch.

When vision failed him, touch became his only anchor.

It was a spectral caress, warm and as delicate as a feather, gracing his parched lips. He could nearly taste him.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (13)

Their eyes locked, and he sensed the subtle shift in posture, a telltale sign that the figure had indeed become aware of his presence. The cat clawed into him so fiercely that they almost fused together, while the rest of his soul simply desired disintegration.

Oh, hell no.

Pure instinct propelled Will's body backward just in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding the onrushing entity. It moved with an alarming speed, glitching before him in such a disorienting blur that his senses abandoned him, leaving behind only a deafening cacophony of static echoing within his mind. All available power was diverted into motion. Even the blood coursing through his veins seemed to freeze in its tracks, and his breath hung in the balance, unclaimed. The chill in the air cut to his very core, an Arctic coldness that transformed each inhalation into a painful gasp. He knew that if he didn't escape the chilling proximity of this aberration swiftly enough, he would succumb to a frozen, lifeless state.

Reduced to a mere vessel driven by the primal instinct to survive, there was nothing but an overwhelming tide of white noise as he found himself airborne, his feet making a sudden impact with the wall, mindlessly launching him sideways. He dashed through the corridor as if defying gravity, his movements nearly surreal in their velocity. With only a hair's breadth to spare, he grazed the corner, then flung himself into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Clutched tightly to his chest, the cat trembled, and his frantic gaze darted first to the lock he secured and then scanned the room for any escape routes. It landed on the window, a potential pathway to the rooftop's edge if his memory served him correctly. That thing reeked of decay and moved with the swiftness of lightning. If he had so much as blinked, it would have torn him apart. This creature embodied death in its most unadulterated form. He hadn't even had a chance for a proper look at it, and beyond it resembling a living nightmare, he couldn't classify its existence or offer any explanation or understand why it pursued him, but its lethality was unmistakable. There was no doubt, considering how it had lunged at him without a moment's hesitation as soon as it locked onto him.

If the front door didn't halt its advance, surely this door would provide no sanctuary either. Nevertheless, there remained a glimmer of hope that he could slow it down. Somewhat. Mustering the strength to shift one of the ponderous shelves in front of the door, he crafted an improvised barricade to thwart its entry. It swung inward, so by obstructing its natural path, he ensured that it couldn't breach the threshold as easily. Graham couldn't fathom the extent of its determination, there was a substantial likelihood it would simply wrench the entire door off its hinges—a scenario he had no desire to experience firsthand.

Unless, of course, it possessed the cunning to circumvent the house and intercept him through the window. If it proved to be that clever, he would have trapped himself.

Internally, he fervently prayed to all the known deities in the cosmos that the entity was a creature of limited intellect.

His heart still pounded, exacerbated by the fact that he couldn't hear any telltale signs of its presence. The ominous silence added an eerie layer to his apprehension. Will remained in the dark about its exact whereabouts, all he could discern was that it lurked somewhere nearby, as indicated by the sudden drop in temperature, chilling the very air around him.

He glanced down at the cat, which had nestled its head into his armpit, seeking refuge. He could feel its rapid breaths against his skin, and he softly placed a hand on its silky fur, offering comforting strokes. Had it not alerted him, he might have met his demise. This little creature had rescued him, and there was no way he would leave it behind.

Clad only in boxers and socks, he found himself woefully unprepared to confront the cold that pervaded the atmosphere. The meager contents of the bathroom offered little in the way of weaponry, leaving him with the unappealing option of relying on a nail clipper and a diminutive pair of scissors should he dare to attempt to defend himself.

The aged wooden floorboards outside emitted an eerie creak, and Will’s head snapped in that direction. He sensed it keenly; the countdown had reached its conclusion. A palpable chill, that surpassed the previous frigidity, seeped into the air around it like an icy shroud, and he observed the mesmerizing rhythm of ice crystals forming on the mirror.

Its pace had slowed considerably. He couldn't quite explain how he discerned it, but he could intuit the rhythm of its movements without the aid of auditory cues, merely by observing the gradual expansion of those crystals. And if it lurked behind the door, it meant that the outside offered a safer option.

In a frantic hurry, he reached the window and forced it open, plunging himself into the engulfing darkness beyond. A slender ray of moonlight provided a meager sliver of guidance, exposing the dreaded yet necessary path leading to the roof. Graham gingerly extended the cat first, then leaned out, his desperate fingers searching for anything to cling to.

His hand quivered with urgency, fear pulsing through his veins, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he listened to the unnerving scratching and rattling at the door. Then, suddenly, a heavy blanket of silence smothered the room, a silence that should have been a relief. But for Will, it was an omen of impending disaster. He sensed it, an ominous forewarning of the malevolence lurking just beyond that cursed threshold. In a surge of pure terror, he propelled his body forward with every ounce of strength his trembling limbs could muster.

His fingers, bereft of composure, scrabbled desperately against the chilling tiles. No amount of pain held any significance in the struggle to escape the sinister energy coiling beneath him. Fragile nails splintered and broke, leaving behind trails of blood as he fought, clawing at the slippery surface to drag himself away. 

Then it happened—a nauseating distortion of time. From the unholy abyss below, a nightmarish appendage slithered forth, grotesquely elongated and dripping with malevolent intent. It snaked beneath him, an abhorrent serpent, and he could almost taste the frigid exhale of death that trailed in its wake. Razor-sharp talons, gleaming with malicious glee, brushed perilously close to his ankle.

Again, the creature's blinding speed afforded him no other option but to surge forward, his limbs driving him in desperate haste. He hadn't heard the shelf move or the door open, implying that it had found alternative ways to bypass them.

In one motion, he scooped up his cat, flailing and wriggling his way toward the farthest edge of the roof. If his memory served him well, it led to a precipice overlooking the cliffs—a potential lifeline of escape.

Gazing downward, he couldn't shake the disconcerting impression that the cliffs had drawn nearer to the house, as if his very perception was succumbing to a disturbing distortion. Which was the greater threat, the impending leap into the unknown or the pursuit at his heels? 

Time pressed upon him, urging swift action. One fleeting thought beckoned—he might sprint headlong into the unforgiving forest's tangled terrain, seeking refuge amidst the sinewed branches of a tree. Even as this thought flickered, it bore the weight of skepticism, for how could he place faith in such a fragile hope? Could this pursuer scale the heights of trees, considering its unholy knack for breaching locked doors with chilling ease? Could he even reach a suitable tree to climb before it overtook him?

The faintest possibility that this otherworldly creature might, in its whimsical fancy, exhale a breath in his direction, or even accidentally sneeze within proximity, or allow any minuscule overlap of their existence filled him with certainty: it would irrevocably sentence him to obliteration.

And then it materialized—an elongated, clawed palm reached out for the tiles. His bladder felt on the verge of surrender, and a tingling heat coursed through his legs. Every fiber of his being screamed quietly.

He understood that the instant it began its unnerving stretch, as it firmly anchored itself to the roof, if its consistent movement pattern held, it would undoubtedly teleport. And in the ensuing heartbeat, it would stand before him, an imminent terror.

Time slowed to a crawl, and he kept his breath held.

‘I want to save you,’ he heard Alana whisper from the side.

‘I wasn’t trying to save Hannibal Lecter. I was trying to save you,’ Another whisper, from Dr. Gideon to Will.

‘I’m afraid I need to be saved from who you perceive me to be.’ The third whisper, from Will to Hannibal. 

‘I’ll have to save my own life.’ The fourth, from Will to Prurnell.

He sensed the rush, the tingling surge of adrenaline, setting fire to every reservoir of strength within him.

In a primal, instinctive reaction that preceded conscious thought, his body flung itself backward with frenzied urgency, pushing the limits of its mortal capacity. His eyes had barely a fraction of a second to capture the grotesque visage of the flickering monstrosity, so near that their breaths seemed to momentarily merge before the creature's slashing limbs cleaved through the air where he had been mere moments before.

As he exhaled, it was as if his very soul had untimely and reluctantly uncoupled itself from the confines of his corporeal vessel.

Before the pull of gravity asserted its dominance, he found himself ensnared by its malevolent gaze. Those piercing, unearthly golden eyes rose to meet his, and it felt as if a searing lance had impaled his heart—a silent, soul-rending theft transpiring through that relentless stare. As the gravitational force tightened its grip, he experienced the wrenching sensation of his own body succumbing to its cruel demand, plunging him into the abyss with the weight of his shattered spirit still lingering in that fateful gaze.

For an infinitesimal moment, with its arms outstretched to empty space, it almost seemed as if this creature desired to embrace him, in its own twisted manner, perhaps to love him. But its love was a lethal, deadly kind.

The engulfing darkness swallowed him whole, and he could have sworn he witnessed a nightmarish descent—an eerie, grotesque pursuit that mirrored his own precipitous fall.

Once more, he surrendered to the frigid clutches of the water, its icy tendrils lashing across his back as he shielded the cat. It was as if the presence of Hannibal enshrouded him, their arms locked in an intimate, unbreakable embrace. With each inhalation, the deluge surged into his lungs, and Hannibal's lingering grasp tightened—an embrace both reassuring and stifling in its intensity.

Hannibal reclined in a chair, methodically rolling a snippet of paper between his middle finger and thumb, his gaze fixed on the monitors displaying the scans. Will was undoubtedly in a coma, which in itself wasn't what perplexed him. What puzzled him was that, according to the results, he shouldn't be. There was no discernible head trauma, no damage to any artery or vein, and everything appeared to function optimally.

It was as though a supernatural force held him just beyond Hannibal's reach. His eyes shifted, teeth gnawing at his lower lip in exasperation. Which meant he had no way of reaching Will. He couldn't simply crawl inside his mind, no matter how much he wished he could. What course of action lay before him? Would he merely sit in silence and wait, or would he unleash chaos, ending everything and everyone in his path, hoping that his blood sacrifices or other macabre rituals might summon Will back to his side?

Was there no avenue through which he could assist Will, apart from offering soothing words in hushed tones?

Despite his formidable capabilities, he found himself ensnared in a sense of utter helplessness.

Hannibal inhaled slowly, his lower lids twitching.

God could afford to wait, for patience was His most formidable attribute. His power resided in the knowledge that time held no sway over Him, and He could bide His time until all things fell into their preordained positions. His fingers rapped impatiently against the surface of his desk.

Yet, truth be told, it was an exasperating ordeal.

It felt akin to suffocating in a room brimming with life-giving air.

Resembling fragile concrete yielding to insistent fissures, his once-impenetrable composure began to fracture, and Hannibal swallowed hard. The gentle warmth of tears began to well up in his eyes, dancing on the edge before descending in a slow, deliberate path down his cheeks.

Chiyoh drew in a measured breath, her gaze discerning as she observed him with a cautious eye. Without a word, she pivoted and initiated preparations. She left Hannibal to his thoughts, well aware that disturbing him in his fragile state would be unwise.

The handmaiden concluded that the only presence capable of not provoking outright violence was that of Graham. She couldn't bear to watch him suffer, nor could she alleviate his torment. Instead, she occupied herself with preparing the EEG, taking the next step in the quest for a possible answer.

And if the dragon threatened to engulf the entire world in flames, she would divert his attention with yet another task. Until they exhausted all leads, or until time itself ran out.

He was trapped in a cruel paradox, suspended between the realms of mortality and immortality. In this bleak reality, where Will remained tantalizingly close yet agonizingly distant, true living eluded Hannibal. His once-silver-tongued voice had lost its luster, transmuted into an icy silence. He sat in stillness, his gaze fixated on a void, a window into nothingness.

Here, he found himself face-to-face with the tangible embodiment of Will's mind, yet the answers remained maddeningly elusive.

A CT and even an MRI could miss finer details, which meant he might have to physically open Will's head, examining every crevice of his brain, to be absolutely certain that there was nothing more he could do.

What recourse did the devil have when the hands of God had rendered him powerless?

Hannibal's gaze lifted, the obsidian pools of his eyes ignited with a tempestuous rage that would reduce God's fury to mere annoyance, unapologetically feral in every way.

NO.

No, he refused to submit to powerlessness. The universe, God, and all else could continue to brush their lips against his defiance, but he would not yield.

He felt the vein on his forehead throbbing, a pulse that mirrored the roaring torrent of his boiling anger.

God's initial blunder was bestowing upon him free will, and the follow-up? A body.

Achilles would soon be reunited with his beloved Patroclus, and the heavens themselves should tremble and beseech his mercy. Pray that he would not devour the entire world, for even God might find His foundations undermined if the Morningstar deemed it so.

Perhaps, Hannibal hadn't been clear enough with his demands. If Will didn't soon awaken, even the heavens might find themselves tallying losses until the celestial ledger ran dry of digits to enumerate.

He would contort and shatter the very fabric of the cosmos before surrendering Will.

And he would drag the entire world into the depths of Hell alongside him.

Violence was not a solution; it was the definitive answer. Should his love face punishment anew, his response would be an eruption of unadulterated, cataclysmic fury that would make Armageddon itself seem like a mere whimper.

Must he truly emphasize the 'PSYCHO' in psychopath? Was there any room for doubt that he would deliver Hell to the very doorstep of God Himself? No? Then why, pray tell, was his forbearance subject to such a trial?

Divine intervention, you say?

A patient smile unfurled upon his lips, its edges sinister and sharp.

If God hadn't already soiled himself, He might want to start contemplating divine diapers.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (12)

Hannibal moved with measured grace, pacing slowly as he sketched out his new plan.

He delved into the hospital's security protocols, schedules, and layout, crafting a convincing disguise that allowed him to masquerade as a hospital employee, complete with a fabricated ID and uniform. As a diversion to confound both security personnel and law enforcement, he orchestrated a series of unrelated incidents and emergencies in the vicinity of the hospital. This plan encompassed fake bomb threats, anonymous tips, and even a seemingly unrelated crime spree in the area.

A fundraiser was in full swing, providing impeccable timing as it would draw the focus of hospital staff and security. Even in his desperation, he couldn't afford to be careless and jeopardize their cover. Not at this crucial juncture, not when he was on the verge of securing Will.

This meant that despite the fact that his adversaries were all around him, seated right in front of him as usual, they would be utterly engrossed in other matters, affording him the perfect opportunity to glide through their midst. Moreover, this positioning was strategically advantageous for his cover-up.

Chiyoh had readied a van, and Bedelia, for the time being, was safely confined.

Thanks to the handmaiden’s astute efforts, it appeared that Jack remained blissfully unaware of their current whereabouts, at least from what Hannibal could discern. Alana, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied with more immediate concerns, likely leaning towards defensive measures before contemplating any offensive moves. She was undoubtedly wary of drawing attention to the precious little family she had constructed, one that Hannibal had promised to wrest from her grasp. This raised the possibility that Du Maurier had indeed conversed with Crawford, but the puzzle pieces didn't quite align. Until Bedelia disclosed the missing information, he found himself at an impasse, staring down a vexing dead end.

The hospital held the promise of unraveling the enigma surrounding Will's condition.

At this point, he could manage the journey, with Will comfortably settled in his wheelchair. Hannibal regarded him thoughtfully, his mind churning with contemplation.

With all his essentials in hand, Lecter stepped outside, fully prepared.

Seated in the back with Graham, their destination under Chiyoh's capable guidance, his gaze narrowed. It felt as though, for the first time in ages, he pondered the alternate paths their lives might have taken if his actions had veered in a different direction. His eyes descended to the gently swaying floor, his clasped hands betraying the tumultuous thoughts that stirred within. He briefly reached for his small notebook, flipped it open, and perused his calculations. He had earnestly ventured into the realm of time travel. It appeared to be the sole concept that truly confined his abilities. Time, it seemed, only flowed in one direction, while we resided in our own glass box. We could observe what lay behind us, and with keen vision, predict what lay ahead, but we remained impotent in influencing the motion of the box itself.

Indeed, we can conceptualize time machines, but the majority of these seemingly workable ideas demand the existence of negative energy or negative mass, elements that appear to be absent in our universe.

Numerous alternative theories about time travel have been posited, but the vast majority of them remain rather unreliable at this stage. The behavior of time itself, much like our comprehension of reality, remains one of the many concepts that we have yet to fully grasp. In essence, even a higher being, one existing across more dimensions than we can perceive in our current form—much like how a two-dimensional figure would remain unaware of our existence in three dimensions—would, hypothetically, relinquish most of its characteristics tied to those higher dimensions if it were to adopt our dimensional parameters. This transformation, akin to our own loss of depth when rendered as a two-dimensional image, signified that even the devil himself would be powerless against time as long as he inhabited a mortal shell. He possessed the mathematics, in a sense, the spell inscribed on his pages, but he lacked the dimension within which he could harness its magic. Reversing time, therefore, proved to be an ineffective solution.

'I was so confident in my ability to help Will, to solve him, …''To save him.'

He longed for Will's return, and that single desire eclipsed all else. Everything once deemed paramount now took a backseat as his world appeared to have turned itself completely upside down. Will had left an indelible mark on him, just as he had on Will, sparking introspection.

The question loomed in his mind: Were the constructs of fate truly as immutable as society perceived them to be? A faint smile lifted his lips. Clearly not. Hannibal didn't seem to mind that Will's influence had infiltrated him. It imparted an oddly human sensation, although he'd never openly confess to such vulnerability. Even in his last moments, Will had remained a captivating enigma, both embracing and defying Hannibal in a quantum dance of existence.

The irony lay in the unchanging state that persisted while Hannibal observed Will. According to the principles of quantum physics, when an object is observed, it collapses into a specific state.

Will, on the other hand, appeared to do the opposite. He became more chaotic, changing between them.

A rather intriguing observation, he mused.

In truth, Will defied the conventional laws of psychology, occupying a realm that strayed far from established norms. His hyper-empathy, like a particle in quantum superposition, existed in an elusive state of unpredictability. This unique trait endowed him with an uncanny ability to feel the pain of others, to grasp their motives, and to immerse himself in their experiences as though they were his own. Yet, it also ensnared him in a paradoxical pattern of pathological behavior.

Did his compulsion to assist others stem from an innate desire to offer what he himself had lacked—a savior of sorts? Or was it a means of exerting control? Kindness, he understood, possessed a subtle power, a tool of manipulation veiled behind a gentle, charming smile, masquerading as the desire for the best outcome for everyone. The balance of intensity was a delicate tightrope walk, where perceptions oscillated between charming and creepy. For someone genuinely kind but overly enthusiastic, they risked appearing needy, even draining, undermining their sincerity. People often found it difficult to take such individuals seriously, their motivation seeming at odds with the ego.

Conversely, subtle gestures of kindness could easily go unnoticed, taken for granted. To wield kindness as a weapon required a masterful touch—an intricate and precise presentation—striking a delicate balance that allowed it to serve as both a shield and a sword.

Exercising unconditional kindness was among the most disruptive actions one could take.

Compassion entailed the logical understanding that things could cause hurt, without necessarily being a participant. Empathy, on the other hand, meant feeling as the other person did, intimately sharing their pain in every dimension. Hence, his motivation concealed a degree of selfishness that others might fail to grasp. He intervened to alleviate the suffering of others, not solely out of altruism, but to safeguard himself from becoming an unwilling participant in their ensuing chaos.

There were no boundaries, no safeguards. If he found himself in the proximity of someone enduring excruciating pain, it would overflow into every fiber of his being. He assisted others not only to shield himself from their pain, but also as a means to pacify his conscience. It served as a perpetual reminder of his identity as a virtuous individual.

However, paradoxically, using this altruism as a lure often proved to be an almost futile tactic. Will wasn't blind to this weakness; he displayed a keen awareness of it. Despite the awareness of the lurking monster behind the bait, he would, with full knowledge, unapologetically approach the trap. Anxiety coursed through Will, yet bravery shone brightly within him. Despite the grip of fear, he pressed onward undeterred. While others might have turned tail and fled, he forged ahead, driven by a singular sense of purpose: to move forward. It appeared to be the sole direction he comprehended—an intriguing anomaly.

Nevertheless, that represented only one facet of the coin; the flip side was considerably darker.

Empathy, oh, it wielded a power far more potent than most could fathom. In its unbridled, uncontrolled form, it was sheer torment to bear the weight of others' pain. But when coupled with a desire to inflict harm, or spite, a masochistic inclination enabling him to endure the suffering he sensed in others while perpetrating it, that was the zenith of empathy—the dark side of its spectrum. When harnessed for offense, it granted him the ability to pinpoint the source of agony, the wound itself, by using his own agony as the map. Instead of healing it, he could ruthlessly rend it open, systematically draining a person of their life essence.

When one finds themselves unable to control the pain that threatens to consume them, the only route to survival is to master the art of deriving pleasure from its agony. Or to endure the suffering, much like Will did, as he steadfastly resisted succumbing to his ominous inclinations. Will was acutely aware of the destructive potential within him but was apprehensive about harnessing it. And he was only inflicting pain upon himself in the process.

Balancing the delicate chemistry just right, it was the art of deception he had mastered. Skillfully posing seemingly benign inquiries, discreet prods veiled beneath the guise of altruism, all the while crafting outcomes that best served his own interests or, on occasion, simply for the sheer amusement it provided.

For a virtuous individual to authentically desire to inflict harm, he had to acquaint them with the flavor of it—the authority it held. It was a relatively straightforward task for someone with loose morals. If he cloaked it in enough excitement, self-serving motives, and rewards, most people would succumb. However, an autistic mind exhibited greater resistance to such influence. It adhered to a stringent justice system, a clearly defined sense of right and wrong, individually crafted, no doubt. But once those definitions were established, they proved nearly impervious to manipulation. Autistic individuals were more inclined to unwaveringly uphold their self-defined rules, even when doing so placed them at a direct disadvantage, simply because the rule held more sway than any offered reward. They did not easily compromise their morals, irrespective of the exact shade. Manipulating this mindset proved considerably more challenging, as it stubbornly recalibrated itself if the person had sufficient time to reflect upon it. The ceaseless activity of an autistic mind ensured that it questioned not only its environment but also itself. It required significantly more time to deviate from its customary calibrations and did so with great reluctance, only when presented with an exceedingly logical rationale. Or so he observed. Naturally, this didn't apply to all segments of the spectrum, but it did pertain to a very specific and limited range within it.

In contrast to the relatively uniform organization of brains in individuals without autism, his studies had revealed that when it came to connectivity between regions, no two autistic brains were alike. The spectrum was remarkably versatile, with instances where two autistic individuals could seem like polar opposites. It wasn't a simple linear progression from black to white; rather, it resembled an entire color wheel with numerous sliders. Each adjustment to a slider caused a complete shift in the overall shade it represented. Sometimes these sliders even moved fluidly, making it a dynamic and complex spectrum. There was no straightforward definition, and it was precisely this complexity that infused it with such vibrant diversity. No two autistic individuals could be identical; they might share similarities, but they could never be identical.

This rendered Will entirely unique, as Hannibal had come to realize. There was simply no substitute for him.

The challenge lay in the fact that, in a condition like this, he had to proceed with utmost caution. An autistic brain was fundamentally distinct, leading to different patterns of behavior. Most scientific experiments and standards were primarily designed for non-autistic individuals, which occasionally made it quite difficult to anticipate how an autistic mind would respond to specific medications or procedures that might work effectively on a non-autistic individual.

These beautiful minds became something of a Pandora's box from a medical perspective due to the limited and uncertain knowledge surrounding them.

These humans, these captivating beings, had always held a special allure for him. Their idiosyncrasies fascinated him endlessly, their little thought processes. He had only begun to peel back the layers of their psyche, to unearth the depths of what lay hidden beneath, steadily working towards the day when he could exert unmitigated control over their minds.

Will seemed to hold a genuine desire to help others, to a degree, but he stumbled in the manner of translating it to the outside. He remained ignorant of the art of wielding this power effectively – the precise timing, the strategic placement, and the controlled intensity. Perhaps, the world should count itself fortunate that no one had ever instructed him in the mastery of this formidable weapon. While it tore him apart from within, it was prevented from unleashing its wrath upon the world.

The world had chosen to label him as a monster, oblivious to the fact that he was the one pursuing the true monsters. What a bitter irony it was.

Will stood as the polar opposite, the yin to his yang.

He remained in a perpetual state of evolution. In his fragility lay an extraordinary resilience. With every scar and crack, he grew more beautiful, more complete.

It was reminiscent of kintsugi, the art of golden repair—a traditional Japanese craft that not only restores an object's functionality but also elevates its beauty by adorning the cracks and repairs with precious metals. This art form embodied the philosophy of embracing imperfections, acknowledging that breakage and mending were integral aspects of an object's history, meant to be celebrated rather than concealed.

Every shattered fragment of him, Lecter would tenderly gild with gold.

It was a breathtaking spectacle to witness the extent to which his mind could stretch, unfurling its little tendrils to weave these peculiar connections—an absolute masterpiece of nature's design. Always voracious, forever learning, ceaselessly observing and dissecting, much like Hannibal himself. It marked the first occasion he had encountered someone who evoked such a sense of belonging. 

To him, others were perpetual strangers. He moved through the throngs of humanity like a ghost in the daylight, his facade carefully cultivated to blend with the cacophonous world around him. The world, in all its ostensible vibrancy, held little allure for him. His tailored suit was but a veneer, a mere disguise to shield his true self from prying eyes. For in the depths of his being, he was the antithesis of those who surrounded him.

Their conversations, their laughter, their joys and sorrows, they were but fleeting echoes to him, mere hollow reverberations of a life he could never truly understand. The world danced with its inhabitants, but he saw through the web of pretense that concealed the yawning void within. None among them cast their eyes to the heavens, questioning: What secrets do the stars hold?

Narrow minds, and he held no fascination for comprehending sheep; his sole interest lay in savoring their succulence.

As Hannibal adjusted his posture, he sensed the van gradually decelerating. His attention shifted towards the front, where a modest-sized hospital came into view. While it possessed the essential equipment he required, its current late hour promised minimal activity, making covert entry a plausible endeavor.

Donning a white coat and exuding an air of confidence often worked like a subtle enchantment. It was as if, by not questioning his own presence, he rendered himself immune to scrutiny, a trick that often cast a protective shroud around him even when he was under watchful eyes.

He could stride boldly into their midst, no mask needed, and the radiance of his confidence would dazzle all who surrounded him, obscuring the fact that he was, in reality, an outsider in this very milieu.

The brilliance of the Morningstar's light was most potent when directed squarely at those who dared to face it head-on.

He had already assessed Will's reflexes and observed his reactions to pain stimuli. While his pupils displayed appropriate responsiveness, the lack of reaction to pain was perplexing.

This anomaly could potentially be attributed to specific neurological conditions, such as locked-in syndrome or severe variants of Guillain-Barré syndrome, both of which could induce profound paralysis and an inability to respond to stimuli, including pain. Yet, individuals with locked-in syndrome typically preserved their cognitive functions and sensory perception, maintaining an understanding of their surroundings, even though their physical capabilities were severely restricted. This made such conditions appear less likely but still hovered on the fringe of potential explanations.

Hannibal remained watchful for signs of coma or seizure activity, as these remained high on his list of suspected causes for Will's enigmatic condition.

A comprehensive evaluation was in order, and Lecter planned to initiate a battery of tests. This included conducting a CT scan and MRI of the brain, which would help pinpoint any structural abnormalities, detect bleeding, tumors, or other cerebral issues. Additionally, an EEG would be employed to measure the brain's electrical activity, aiding in the diagnosis of conditions like seizures or irregular brain rhythms that might account for Will's state of unconsciousness.

His meticulous approach extended beyond these imaging and neurological studies. Hannibal intended to leave no stone unturned, delving into every aspect of Will's condition, right down to the molecular analysis of his blood. This undertaking promised a busy night ahead.

Meanwhile, Will had reconciled himself to the eccentricity of the pie set before him, complemented by a glass of honey milk. Despite its unconventional appearance, it didn't assault his taste buds with awfulness; rather, it offered an unexpected blend of flavors. He chewed thoughtfully, occasionally savoring the soothing chill of an ice cube to alleviate his inner turmoil. Though it may have possessed the flavor of mere paper, the simple act of chewing was a source of peace. Each deliberate mastication brought a measure of contentment, accompanied by a mindful swallowing, a soothing balm for his sore throat.

It was the first day when, even in the midst of the unusual, something remotely akin to normalcy had descended upon his world. Even though, it followed the most abnormal moment by far. Yet the more he strained to contemplate, the room's kaleidoscope of colors intensified, their vibrant onslaught growing increasingly overwhelming. Sensory overload. Which demanded a decisive intervention. He realized he had to impose a full stop, allowing his mind the respite it so urgently required before it combusted into flames of chaotic cognition.

Could one, through sheer force of thought, will themselves into unconsciousness? The notion held a certain peculiarity that piqued his curiosity. However, he deemed it a venture best left for another time, certainly not on this particular night.

Imagining it as a miniature snow globe resting on Hannibal's desk, the situation appeared only half as terrifying. Strangely, encapsulating it within such a diminutive frame brought a measure of solace to his restless mind.

At the very least, it presented a transitory form that he could tuck away, a shape where its overwhelming terror felt marginally less daunting.

Contemplating grand ideas had become an excruciating exercise, one that drained him of an excessive amount of energy. So, it was time to cease the relentless cogitation and surrender to rest. Perhaps, sleep could serve as a respite, a means to regain some semblance of sanity and reconnect with the tumultuous events that had unfolded around him. Even as he recognized his state of dissociation, the sensation persisted. Awareness, in its cruel paradox, could be a curse in its own right. One could eloquently recount their own suffering yet remain impotent in the face of its relief. It was as if the mind harbored a penchant for tormenting itself.

Will relocated his plate to the sink and transferred the pie to the fridge once it had sufficiently cooled. He then settled onto the couch, fashioning a makeshift cocoon of comfort using a pillow, two towels, and several blankets. The weight of these layers served as an anchor, grounding him in the present and hopefully preventing him from unwittingly casting them aside during the forthcoming onslaught of nightmares. Up until now, he had been largely spared from his dreams, sheltered by unconsciousness. Yet, he understood that this sanctuary would likely wane, and the anticipation of that transition made the prospect of falling asleep an uneasy endeavor. The dilemma loomed large, for if his body were to grapple with such a monumental task during rest, it would either render him utterly incapacitated upon awakening or unleash a deluge of excruciatingly vivid nightmares that would violently jolt him from the cocoon of his bed. The looming question remained: which of these unsettling fates would befall him tonight?

Undoubtedly, he had the option to slumber in the bed situated upstairs. However, this ground-level arrangement held a peculiar charm, evoking a semblance of his own home, a haven of comfort amidst the disarray of his current existence. Here, he could pretend that he had sole dominion over the kitchen and the living room, with occasional forays to the upstairs bathroom. The unexplored rooms beyond remained shrouded in a veil of potential unease, and his convalescent state necessitated prudence. He resolved to minimize his movements, to conserve his precious energy, deeming that grand adventures could bide their time for now.

If he couldn't rely on his mind when it was awake, could he place trust in it while it slumbered?

He had diligently secured the door and ensured the windows were firmly latched, determined to prevent any unplanned midnight escapades. With the lights extinguished, all that remained was to surrender to the embrace of sleep.

That,  of course,  being the  easiest  part of it all,  stood there in mocking script.

Here, amidst the familiar, he harbored a sense of relative safety. He could simply allow his eyelids to drift shut, placing his trust in the notion that all would remain well. Over time, he had acquired the skill to tread carefully through the minefields of his life. By adhering to the principle of avoiding sudden movements, he could maintain the delicate equilibrium that promised security and serenity.

Yet, at that precise moment, a swift and unexpected touch grazed his hand, sending his eyeballs into a frantic dance and his heart into a relentless sprint, as if his very soul had contemplated to eject itself. He could almost hear a celestial choir, believing he had transcended into the afterlife in that very instant.

Aloneness in the dark was already an unsettling prospect. Not being alone in the dark was an even more harrowing ordeal.

An eerie chill crept up his spine.

He remained motionless, as though the world had stilled around him. His breath held in abeyance, he silently beseeched himself to summon the courage to draw in a slow, deliberate wisp of air. His chest felt as if it might congeal into stone, and his heart, in its fevered palpitations, threatened to crush his throat in its rhythmic screams. With painstaking caution, he pivoted his eyes, seeking to discern any shapes without the slightest movement of his body.

Complete stillness enveloped him. If he remained still, it wouldn't detect him, right?

Then, he sensed another touch, this one feather-light, akin to the delicate caress of a slender plastic thread. In response, his entire body recoiled as if he were a pinball ricocheting off a flipper, his jumping heart nearly propelling him off the couch.

In the realm governed by the laws of monster interaction, his movement had sealed his fate—

Time to sprint for the light switch.

Whatever limb hits it first wins.

It was a marvel, the sudden awakening of the mind in a mere heartbeat, spurred into frantic action by the buzzing static of anxiety.

He was lightning, he was speed, there was a pillow in his way, he was on the floor, tumbling and flailing, but still moving forward, albeit a little less elegantly.

Graham's hand crashed onto the light switch, and he contorted his body to scan the room.  As everything flooded with light, it revealed absolutely nothing. An absence so profound that it sent another bone-chilling shiver coursing down his spine.

This unnerving void left him questioning whether he had plunged into complete insanity or if some stray hair or ethereal thread had toyed with his senses. Perhaps even the very carpet beneath his feet had conspired to unsettle his fragile equilibrium.

Or – He inched closer to the couch's edge, peering over it cautiously. But just as he did, he felt a presence on his back, causing his heart to, once again, lurch with a start. Initially sharp, it then softened, gently dipping onto his neck with an affectionate touch. The sensation exuded warmth and life, accompanied by a melodious chirp that serenaded his senses.

It was a fucking cat.

His posture gradually relaxed, and his eyes shifted ever so slowly.

Perched upon his shoulder, an entirely black feline now seemed to reign, as if it had found its throne.

Will's thoughts swirled. Why had his mind conjured a cat when, logically, it should have gravitated toward dogs? The enigmatic feline returned his gaze with an inscrutable expression. What secrets might it hold?

Slowly, he stood, the cat gracefully adjusting its balance to mirror his movements.

Fine, he thought.

He flicked off the light and retreated to the couch, where he gently set the cat down, cocooning himself once more beneath the blankets. The feline perched itself atop his curled leg, a little sentinel in the dimness.

He stared intently at the cat.

From whence had it emerged? How had it infiltrated his house? Had he inadvertently left a window unsecured, providing an entry point? Or was there an alternate ingress to the house concealed from his knowledge?

Its mere presence had begun to stoke the embers of paranoia within him. What if this feline wasn't the only other living entity sharing the island with him? Oh, no, no, no, unwelcome thoughts, unwelcome thoughts. Sleep would elude him tonight.

Speaking of, was he truly awake, or had he already slipped into the realm of dreams? Perhaps, he considered, he was in the midst of a dream within a dream, much like in the film Inception.

Huh.

As he pondered this possibility, his head inclined slightly, veering toward a thought taking shape. Before it could fully materialize, however, a shrill noise cleaved through the air, instantly diverting his attention in its direction. The sound seemed to emanate from one of the windows, although none of the nearby trees reached far enough to make contact with them—certainly not enough to cause any disturbance from the swaying of branches in the wind. The cat, too, had turned its keen gaze toward the source of the sound, confirming that he wasn't conjuring it from his imagination.

High alert.

Will propelled himself upright, his frantic gaze ricocheting between the windows, the door, and the staircase. He had meticulously locked every entry point, taking pains to double-check them earlier. Right? His hand instinctively dropped to his hip, closing, only for the stark reality to hit him – he wasn't carrying a gun. His gaze followed, fixating on the empty space where his hand had grasped at nothing.

Fuck.

Did the house hold any weapon, aside from his modest kitchen knife and, as he examined it closely, this clawed marshmallow?

He hesitated to step off the couch. Paradoxically, it was the only location within the entire house that seemed to offer a semblance of safety, regardless of how illogical it appeared.

A safe haven. The floor, on the other hand, felt like searing lava.

His mind remained on high alert for a compelling reason, one he couldn't, and most certainly shouldn't, disregard.

The cat, too, had shifted its position, its gaze locking on. Its ears stood at attention. Something lurked outside. If the trajectory held, whatever it was, it seemed to be inching closer to the main door. Then, the cat arched its back and let out a hiss, every hair on its body bristling in a vivid exhibition of visceral hostility. That was the only confirmation he required. If the animal was frightened, then he had every reason to be afraid as well. Will gently scooped up the cat, his movements swift yet eerily soundless as he advanced towards the door. As he drew nearer, the door began to shake violently, as if something was hell-bent on breaching it. A surge of fear coursed through him, threatening to send him tumbling as he reached the first step. His body contorted to keep the door in view, one hand clutching the cat, the other tightly gripping the staircase railing, all the while maintaining his precarious balance.

Strangely, the key still lingered in the lock, a detail he had carelessly overlooked earlier. This oversight magnified the room's already palpable tension as the key began to twist on its own, the sound a gradual, spine-chilling creak, sucking away his air. He had braced himself for a forceful breach of the door, but this uncanny turn of events unnerved him far more than any straightforward assault ever could.

Will hastily ascended several steps further, his gaze transfixed on the gradual, eerie rotation of the key. With each step, he could feel his heart pounding louder. As he neared the top, the door suddenly swung open, exposing a pallid figure that lurched into the house from the shrouded abyss outside. The intruder hesitated for a moment upon entry, its peculiar, slightly off-kilter movements hinting at a careful appraisal of the unfamiliar and dimly lit surroundings.

The hairs on his neck bristled, and the cat in his grasp had almost petrified in terror.

Will’s heart pounded so thunderously that he didn't just feel the drumming in his throat; he could taste its rhythm on his tongue, pulsating in his eyeballs, and ringing in his ears.

Every fiber within him whispered a single imperative: run.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (11)

Hannibal, clad in his coat and hat and with Chiyoh escorting Bedelia toward the car, was on the cusp of stepping out the door.

That's precisely when the phone began to ring. He pivoted, his gaze sharp, biding his time until the second ring unfurled in its languid cadence. His body shifted gradually, guiding him closer to the source of the sound. As the third ring quietly elapsed, he reached for it using a cloth, his movements methodical. Upon the fourth ring, he raised the receiver and held it near his ear.

He remained silent, poised to confront whatever dared to greet him on the other end.

Thirty seconds. That's how long Hannibal allotted, each passing moment marked by a slow, deliberate countdown. If it were Jack, he would be attempting to negotiate for additional time, and the residence would likely be overrun with officers by now. His suspicion leaned toward Alana—a greater distance, fewer resources.

Will had grown accustomed to Bedelia taking the initiative, especially with his face and throat nearly torn to shreds, rendering him incapable of speaking. His sole desire was to hear her voice again, to ascertain her well-being.

He couldn’t hear anything, but he knew that someone was on the other side.

As the silence weighed heavier with each passing moment, Will couldn't help but inhale a touch too audibly.

However, by that time, the allotted thirty seconds had already elapsed.

"Savor each of your breaths," Hannibal intoned before the line abruptly disconnected, leaving Will on the verge of reflexively hurling the phone across the room. Everything froze in place. He couldn't draw a breath. His thoughts stalled. His gaze became immobile. Fuck.

Once more, he found himself cast adrift, ensnared by the unyielding grip of familiar, rigid thoughts. Was this a dream, or had reality taken a backflip? Was Hannibal truly speaking to him, or was it a mere product of his prolonged isolation, a figment of his imagination? Alternatively, had Hannibal issued a cryptic, ambiguous warning under the misguided assumption that Will might have been Alana or Jack?

His brain cells seemed to shriek in discord as they grappled with the competing assumptions. Should he place his trust in one of them, or were they all fundamentally flawed? Will’s thoughts clamored like a cacophonous gong, its reverberations echoing throughout the vast expanse of his consciousness. Panic surged through him, and then, with an abrupt finality, it ceased, leaving behind emptiness. His mind, in self-preservation, began to constrict and retreat, overwhelmed.

Okay.

A delay in processing—this explained the pending emotional outburst. His mind remained fixated on uncovering a solution, while his amygdala grappled with the emotion he experienced yet couldn't quite articulate. As this emotion hadn't fully manifested, or more likely, as a multitude of emotions vied for attention, he found himself trapped in an undefined chasm. In this liminal space, he hovered, awaiting the eventual processing of what had just transpired.

He was stuck.

This meant that attempting to force answers from his mind would only exacerbate the already overwhelming sensations. He had to step back, disengage, and offer himself some solace before he could muster the courage to confront the implications of the events.

A more strategic approach was imperative, one that didn't jeopardize his own well-being in the process.

The aspect of his psyche that had emerged was astonishingly clinical and rational, while the entire landscape of his emotions had essentially experienced a catastrophic blue screen error. His exhaustion had reached such a staggering zenith that a tangible fraction of his consciousness had manifestly given up, succumbing to the relentless demands of fatigue. This intensely rational facet of his being, often scorned by those around him when he failed to exhibit an immediate emotional reaction to significant, life-altering events, was presently the guardian of his trembling sanity.

It was as though his mind had begged for a time-out.

At least, nobody was speaking to him at the moment. That only made them worse. The sensation was intricate and challenging to articulate, for he retained his full consciousness while losing the capacity for speech, sustained eye contact, and in the direst scenarios, found his body either paralyzed or limited to the execution of only minimal movements.

Consequently, he had to resort to self-soothing techniques, diverting the overwhelming inundation of sensations into alternate sensory realms to reclaim mastery over his thoughts. This involved a gentle, rhythmic swaying—a simplistic, unhurried motion that served as a gradual release valve for the surging inner turmoil. Although music had proven to be an effective solace in the past, his current mental reserves were insufficient to muster the effort of seeking it out. Thus, his present recourse was the slow, steady rocking of his upper body, an anchor in the tempest of his mind. He remained tethered to consciousness, yet his state was akin to a trance, each thought weighed down by an oppressive lethargy, like navigating quicksand.

Acknowledging this fresh piece of information, his gaze descended to the phone.

Phone call, followed by introspection, and then, if the pattern held true, the line would reconnect.

This meant he couldn't afford to lose his composure just yet. The current stupor and numbness enshrouding his mind acted like a cocoon of cotton, allowing him to perceive perspectives that his typically high-speed cognition might overlook.

He attempted to redial, but the line stubbornly remained silent, as he had anticipated.

Setting the phone aside, his hands rested in his lap, and his gaze fixated on the table's edge.

The gnawing hunger persisted, and he knew that he couldn't think clearly until he addressed it.

For the past few days, Will had subsisted on a meager diet of instant chicken soup, whiskey, water, coffee, and cola. It was high time he consumed something substantial, in the hope that it might quell the incessant reverberations in his mind, much like silencing a beaten gong. Soundwaves. Vibrations. The very marrow of his bones resonated with an unsettling tremor.

He had become so utterly ensnared in the labyrinth of his thoughts that the awareness of his physical being had dwindled into obscurity. His body, the supposed harmonious ensemble of self, had splintered into two distinct entities, an unfortunate disjunction that severed their unity. The quieter component often languished in neglect, drowned out by the ceaseless clamor of his mind.

Time didn't behave as if it were racing against him; instead, it seemed to exist in a perplexing, illogical state. At times, it sprinted forward, while at others, it appeared to stagnate entirely. He had lost all sense of the usual rhythms of night and day. In fact, he found that he slept far more soundly during the daylight hours.

A lengthy night lay ahead of him. Not that sleep would genuinely be an option. To combat the vertigo and regain control, he had to transport himself into a sphere where external stimuli ebbed into a hushed murmur. By attending to his physical well-being, he could summon forth the clarity of thought he so desperately sought. It was a curious paradigm he had developed—a disentanglement of the mind to sharpen the focus upon the body, a method to mitigate the cacophonous resonance within. His sensory channels were interconnected, more so than the norm, a trait that fueled his unique mental associations but also drove him to the brink of madness, as in the present, when one or two of these sensory conduits had been struck, comparatively, by a lightning bolt. He needed an anchor, a means to ground himself back to reality.

Will proceeded to the bathroom, first tending to his wounds and inspecting the stitches. As he gazed into the mirror, he found that his injuries appeared less severe than he had initially feared, at least from an external perspective. But as he made the effort to swallow, a searing revelation gripped him—the true source of his torment lay not in his cheek but in his throat. A suffocating sensation enveloped his vocal cords, rendering him utterly mute. His once-pliant throat now resembled molten lava, which also elucidated the persistent ringing that tormented his ears. The scream that had torn from him must have been far more thunderous than he had perceived.

While two stitches had indeed torn, it seemed that he no longer required them. He reached for the medical kit and began to prepare a swab, commencing his cleaning routine, gently dabbing it over the cut. Equipped with tweezers and a pair of small scissors, he carefully removed the stitches, followed by the application of a layer of wound-healing ointment, which swiftly alleviated the throbbing pressure of the swelling tissue. A dressing, loosely draped over the thick, adhesive cream, ensured that it would remain in place until the cream had fully retreated under his skin.

As his tongue gingerly explored the interior of his mouth, he realized that the healing process had progressed much more rapidly there, with the cut nearly sealed, at least on the surface.

Which meant, he might be able to chew some proper food.

Moving to the kitchen, he made his way to the freezer, retrieving a few of the ice cubes he had prepared. Graham held them in his mouth, allowing their coolness to soothe both his mind and his throbbing cheek.

The cold was a welcome sensation, refreshing and reminiscent of the clarity that enveloped him when he donned his glasses. It seemed to dissipate some of the lingering mental fog. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, and his thoughts wandered into a peculiar realm of association: levels. It was as if he found himself inside a video game. The odd levels were akin to the reality warps, while the even levels represented the phone calls. So, by that logic, he must currently be on an odd level, right? Autistic thinking, by its very nature, found its foundation in the bastion of logic and certainty. It harbored an innate reluctance to entertain notions that transcended the boundaries of rationality. Thus, even as a fragment of his consciousness acknowledged the possibility of inhabiting a surreal dreamscape, an opposing facet of his psyche grappled with a stubborn resistance to embrace this notion. He could be ensnared within remarkably vivid hallucinations, perhaps the result of an unfortunate head injury or a prolonged deprivation of oxygen—each presenting itself as a plausible, logical explanation. Yet, even as he dissected these possibilities, they failed to coalesce into a coherent narrative, leaving an unsettling dissonance in their wake.

His hand moved to open the fridge and retrieve a fresh bottle of water. However, when he opened the door, he discovered it fully stocked, even replenished. Well, at the very least, it meant he wouldn't go hungry. Was this some sort of reward for participating in this game? He couldn't discern the answer.

Introspection appeared to hold the key. He needed to delve deep within himself, decode his own psyche, and fathom the workings of this peculiar realm, which seemed to mirror or manifest his innermost thoughts and perceptions.

That much was clear. But it didn’t offer any answer about his own mortality. Could he die in here? If he took his life, or died, where would that take him? Would it end him? Take him outside? Take him inside?

His gaze roved across the fridge's contents, and on a whim, he decided to whip up some French toast. He gathered three eggs and beat them in a bowl with a dash of milk, a hint of sugar, and a pinch of salt. Then, he prepared the pan with a generous spread of butter. The final ingredient he needed was bread.

However, it was only then that he realized bread didn't exist in this unusual place.

His thoughts had clearly strayed from their intended path, neglecting the task of checking for bread before embarking on autopilot. Even the act of preparing a basic meal had become an exasperating ordeal.

It completely threw his mind off-beat.

He had three eggs whisked with a touch of milk.

Wonderful.

His eyes darted to the side, almost as if he were posing the question to the fridge itself. Did he have any flour?

Will gazed inside, and to his surprise, there was a bag of flour nestled among its contents. He retrieved it, pondered the peculiar choice of storage, and eventually concluded that it wasn't entirely senseless. Placing it in the fridge could, after all, serve the purpose of preventing any insects from depositing their eggs in it. He set the bag on the counter and made an attempt to recall the rough measurements and essential ingredients needed for a pie. Will didn't dare venture into anything overly intricate, especially without access to recipes. However, he held enough confidence in himself to whip up a basic apple pie. Plus, there was no Hannibal around to taunt him for it. Still, he couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder twice to confirm that there was, indeed, no Hannibal lurking to make fun of him. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. Thinking about him only churned his stomach with anxiety. Will shifted his focus back to the flour, carefully pouring it into the bowl and commencing the mixing process, working it into a smooth, silky paste with the eggs and milk.

A measured infusion of vanilla sugar, a dash of baking powder, and a discreet caress of butter blended harmoniously. He painted the interior of the mold with a calculated layer of butter, then poured the concoction within.

Apples had not eluded his gaze within the refrigerator. A brief, almost perfunctory wash was their prelude. The blade sliced through the fruit with deliberate care. Each segment emerged perfectly uniform, pleasing his obsession with symmetry. It was a form of mental self-stimulation, a ritual that anchored his mind. The patterns were reassuringly predictable, offering comfort in their constancy, like a familiar melody that soothed when its cadence remained unaltered.

As he distributed the slices meticulously across the dough, he couldn't help but wonder if Hannibal experienced something akin to this ritual when he cooked.

A self-soothing ritual.

Finally, a solitary slice of butter landed in the pan, accompanied by two generous spoonfuls of sugar and a lavish deluge of cinnamon. The mixture sizzled and swirled for a brief moment, caramelizing into a fragrant symphony.

He exchanged a hesitant glance between the pan and his cake, pondering the precise quantity required. In a daring move, he poured the entire concoction, inadvertently cascading a decadent waterfall atop the cake's upper layer. Well, it was bound to go awry sooner or later, he mused, releasing a resigned sigh and a nonchalant shrug. Setting the pan aside, he gingerly grasped the cake, sliding it into the awaiting oven.

Gordon Ramsay would surely disapprove.

Hannibal, on the other hand, might giggle.

Will couldn't decide which reaction would be more unsettling.

He made an earnest attempt, prompting a thought about Hannibal's culinary talents. Will had observed him craft rather intricate dishes, but the notion of Hannibal baking had eluded him. Either it had never occurred or he had unwittingly overlooked it. What sort of cake would Hannibal bake, if he ever deigned to do so? Will mused, casually leaning against the countertop as he observed his culinary creation through the window. It would undoubtedly be a confection far removed from the eerie thought of a cake springing to life and launching an assault on its creator if momentarily unwatched. In stark contrast to Will's culinary aberration, lurking ominously behind the window, its contents bubbling with malevolent intent.

Perhaps, Will contemplated, Hannibal could impart his culinary expertise one day.

His eyes rolled at the thought.

Yet, he couldn't help but acknowledge the irony. That possibility would only materialize if he managed to escape this predicament and, further, if he decided to remain entangled with Hannibal. Never before had he truly entertained an alternative course of action. Was he, in essence, attempting to evade the weight of his own decisions? Perhaps he found solace in the inertia of remaining within this peculiar realm, fearing the uncertain prospects that awaited beyond its boundaries. A silent 'yes' threatened to slip from his lips, for, in a way, he had grown oddly accustomed to this seclusion. The absence of people, while admittedly lonely, held a certain allure. Loneliness was a familiar companion, and he possessed a threshold far surpassing that of most, born from a lifetime of navigating the landscape of his autism. He had weathered months of isolation without flinching, a testament to the fortress he had erected within himself. Speaking of fortresses, where was the fortress? Was it this modest house?

His posture subtly shifted, his gaze wandering astray.

He toyed with the notion of simply letting it go, erasing it from his mind. But that, he realized, was an impossibility. His autistic mind refused to disengage until it had found its resolution, a trait that had persistently tethered him to figures like Jack and, regrettably, Hannibal. Though he should have severed those connections, a part of him was grateful for having crossed paths with them, despite the heavy toll it had exacted. Loneliness had intermittently haunted him, nudging him toward change, yet his solitude had become a comforting cocoon over time.

Even so, amidst the solitude, he had never yearned for someone as profoundly as he did for Hannibal. When his eyes closed, it was as if he could almost sense the tender caress of his hands upon his cheek, an echo that refused to fade.

Can't live with him, can't live without him. Bedelia. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the surroundings.

The cliff stood there, a silent sentinel that had nearly whispered to him in his darkest moments.

But it was a far too simplistic solution, one that might prove to be a catastrophic finality if he dared take that leap.

What other path could he possibly tread? The answer was right before him, Will realized with a jolt.

The house. He had barely explored it. While he had confined himself to the essential rooms, the other chambers remained shrouded in mystery. And he couldn't shake the unsettling notion that the very structure of the house itself had undergone a subtle transformation.

But what, precisely, represented the house? If this entire realm existed within the confines of his own psyche, what then was the interior of his house? His subconscious? No, his subconscious was a labyrinth far more intricate than the mere structure of a home. If his mind were to manifest it, it would likely take the form of a foreboding cellar, a notion that filled Will with an indescribable sense of trepidation.

The kitchen appeared rather unremarkable, stocked with only a handful of essential ingredients. A curious realization struck him: With the right skills, he could craft nearly anything from this sparse selection. Intriguing. What deeper connection lay hidden here? Did it signify that he held sway over his own sustenance, a reflection of his power to shape his reality?

He inhaled sharply, his head tilting in contemplation. Yet, the question lingered: What about the nourishment of his mind? Did he possess a library tucked away upstairs in this enigmatic abode? Or was he solely responsible for tending to his intellectual appetite, left to his own devices in the solitude of his thoughts?

How much deeper did he need to delve into his thoughts before this entity would offer him another fragment of progress? His head throbbed with a dull ache, a reminder of his earlier purpose for approaching the fridge. The ice cube he had placed in his mouth had since dissolved into oblivion. Retrieving a bottle of water to quench his thirst, Will cast his gaze outside through the window.

In solitude, there was at least one advantage—no looming threats, no one to pursue him. It was a rare moment of respite. And yet, perhaps the fleeting trace of smugness that accompanied this realization had unwittingly invited the impending shift in his circumstances.

There was a subtle, unsettling movement among the trees in the woods.

(Greetings, dear reader! I'm thrilled that we've embarked on this journey together, but before we go further, take a moment to ensure you're ready. You'll need ample energy for the adventures ahead. Grab your favorite snacks, pour a refreshing beverage, and settle in, because things are about to get truly exhilarating!

To those who are daring, I highly recommend setting the mood with eerie ambient music. Clutch your pillows and plushies tightly and brace for the ride!)

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (10)

Will's eyes seemed to have opened, the entire scene frozen in anticipation, as if waiting to discern if there was more to it.

Du Maurier's gaze flickered, and she seized her opportunity. The fork wouldn't target Hannibal's thigh; it was aimed directly for his throat. With his chin poised just above her, the trajectory was flawlessly smooth, requiring only an upward thrust. She could feel the impact, but an eerie stillness followed. When her eyes darted to investigate, she noticed the warmth of his hand had vanished, now firmly clenched around the fork's handle. Nevertheless, she could still discern a few crimson rivulets trickling down its golden form, staining his skin and hers.

Her eyes followed the path of the fork, revealing that she had barely breached a few millimeters of his skin before encountering the resistance. She made an attempt to fight Hannibal's overwhelming strength, but it proved to be an exercise in futility as the fork withdrew from his flesh.

If his eyes possessed a flavor, it would be akin to cayenne pepper—a scorching intensity that seared into her very being, much like an unforgiving sun.

His posture assumed its full, menacing stature, and she dared not lift her gaze to confront the malevolent countenance that must surely loom above her. In silent resignation, she clung to the slender hope that the ordeal would conclude swiftly, her eyes, once more, fixated upon Will. Perhaps it was that seemingly insignificant detail that had granted her a reprieve in that moment. Hannibal's extraordinary perceptiveness was renowned, and he had taken notice of those distinct, lingering gazes she reserved exclusively for Will. While curiosity might have been the surface explanation, there lurked a loud energy behind her eyes—an aura of terror, an unabated horror. Something that even her astute intellect struggled to decipher.

Du Maurier was undeniably a woman of exceptional intelligence, cautious by nature, and adept at concealing her intentions. However, no matter how skilled she was at the art of reading people, Hannibal's proficiency in this realm surpassed even her own.

Though he couldn't precisely decipher thoughts, he possessed a unique talent for interpreting emotions, the precursor of thoughts.

He understood the nature of obsession intimately. When something grips our attention to the point where we cannot tear our eyes away, it's a testament to the concept's occupation of every nook and cranny of our mind. Eyes, he knew, were windows into the soul—a minute twitch of her pupils as she scanned Will's face, followed by the broader movement of her gaze searching for hidden thoughts in the room.

He observed these subtle cues with painstaking precision, and the longer he studied her, the more frantic her eyes appeared to dance. Bedelia understood all too well that any additional signal might eventually betray her, yet the cruel irony was that she couldn't halt her ceaseless stream of thoughts. It left her trapped in an ever-accelerating spiral of anxiety.

He needn't inflict torment through spoken words; the absence of them would suffice.

Silence, when melded with confidence and an aura of self-possession, exhibited a remarkable ability to weave a disquieting force, sowing the seeds of doubt within the soul of the other.

The human mind abhors vacuums, and it rushes to fill them with whatever it deems appropriate, as long as it eradicates that disconcerting void.

Uncertainty ranks among the most distressing emotions the human mind can endure. Terribly anxiety inducing. 

Thus, he permitted her to hang precariously, suspended in the grip of uncertainty. Did his path truly lead to the sanctum of truth, or did he merely relish the notion of wielding such power?

Yet, even if he lingered in contemplation, he remained ignorant of the ultimate answer, right? Unless, of course, his intentions were tinged with a perverse sadism, simply torturing her to witness when she would finally capitulate. And. He was undeniably sadistic. A trait that aligned seamlessly with the malevolent aura of his nearly imperceptible, but very knowing smirk, which hovered much closer than her comfort would allow.

She drew in a breath, her gaze delicately tracing the contours of Will's face once more. His eyes were slightly ajar, but devoid of consciousness. It could have been a mere reflex of his muscles, she contemplated. He appeared lifeless, or at least teetering on the precipice of death. And, of course, Hannibal was fervently fighting to preserve him. She had expected the duo to be formidable, but she had assumed that if Will were to perish, Hannibal might take his own life. However, Will now lingered in a twilight state, and Hannibal's desperation rendered him even more dangerous than any scenario she had envisioned.

Should Hannibal's stability further erode, she couldn't fathom the extent of his capabilities. He might be willing to set the world ablaze just to ensure he had Will all to himself. How far would the devil go?

What kind of divine retribution would she incur if she continued to obstruct God from his beloved lamb?

Bedelia swallowed. And suddenly, she realized what she had done, feeling Hannibal's piercing gaze hone in on that subtle tell. It then swept heavenward, the presence of his nearly obsidian eyes looming on the edge of her peripheral awareness, as if attempting to penetrate her very soul.

Her throat had constricted, and in an attempt to ease the tension, she had swallowed, betraying her fear.

Hannibal's mind had latched onto it, sinking its claws in like a ravenous lion.

Fear was indeed the requisite reaction, yet the degree of its fervor was off-target, leaving a fertile terrain for his probing inquiry.

"What is it that terrifies you, Bedelia?" His deep voice enfolded her, washing over her senses akin to a scorching desert gust, its rough touch nearly causing her to crumble beneath its intensity.

Trembling, her strength barely sufficient to allow her to turn and meet his gaze, her eyes ascended gradually, needing every ounce of her courage to lock onto that overpowering presence.

"You," she whispered, the word piercing the air like a needle. Though she had previously glimpsed the infernal facets concealed beneath his three-piece persona, what she beheld now elicited an even deeper horror. He had taken on a mortal guise that defied description, yet the essence of the Morningstar, both terrifying and luminous, remained undiminished.

What she had uttered was no falsehood.

Yet it was a plea for time, and both she and Hannibal understood this. His gaze cut into her, and they were both keenly aware of her motives, as well as Hannibal's relentless determination to eat through her mind.

Lecter's gaze narrowed, processing the value of time as a bargaining chip. This meant he needed to decipher when time held enough sway, especially if she possessed an abundance of it.

Evidently, she displayed a preference for facing her demise at his hands, rather than relinquishing the secrets she clung to. So, whatever she harbored within her knowledge was something Hannibal fervently desired, yet something that also terrified her. His eyes flicked to Will and then back to her.

What could possibly outweigh the value of Bedelia Du Maurier's life, the very thing she had fought so fiercely to preserve when he had whisked her away to Italy?

His cranium inclined with deliberate languor, a subtle recalibration of his cerebral vantage point.

That Hannibal would not emerge as the triumphant victor; instead, a bitter undercurrent of spite coursed through her defiance.

His lower eyelids quivered by a mere fraction of a millimeter, a minuscule telltale sign that Bedelia perceived with a shiver of apprehension. She knew all too well that this adjustment heralded the emergence of Hannibal's fascination. And when Hannibal found something intriguing, it was often chillingly horrifying.

Her hands trembled in tandem with her breath, her very being quivering under the relentless weight of his gaze, as if her body threatened to dissolve into vibrations at the sheer force of his presence. It sparked a profound wonder within her, how something outwardly human could exude such inhuman and overwhelming power, capable of suffocating others with the merest flicker of its scorching gaze.

Hannibal's wrath bore an almost biblical intensity, but it danced behind his eyes like a meticulously tamed flame, its controlled fury veiling the true extent, even now.

He stood poised to end her existence, resolute and relentless, impervious to whatever tactics she might employ in futile defense. Every gambit she dared to unleash, he would methodically dismantle. Thus, her sole salvation lay in maintaining a stony silence, for it was his absence of this single, vital fragment of knowledge, the bridge between their parallel realities, that granted her the precious reprieve to draw another breath. To speak was to seal her own fate, a grim acknowledgment of Hannibal's impending victory. Yet, if, through some perverse twist of the cosmic dice, he managed to weave together an understanding, his malevolent gaze would inevitably turn towards Will, and together, they would become a relentless force. Her demise stood as the solitary path to extricating herself from this perilous equation, a final, silent plea that Hannibal would not, by his own sinister craft, close the connecting rift.

But, once more, Bedelia gravely misjudged Hannibal.

Lecter elegantly receded, snatching the focus away from her. The dear madame had overplayed her hand, inflating her own importance. A miscalculation.

Ironically, it was the very flavor of her fear, the way she gazed at him, that left him dissatisfied. She had merely preserved her existence by catering to his desires, and although she perceived what he was, she remained oblivious to his true nature.

He returned the fork to her plate.

"Finish yourself, Bedelia," his dark voice oozed into her ears, and a sharp exhale coupled with the faint twitch of her lips betrayed her understanding of his sinister jest. His words harbored a devilish duality, and as malevolent as they were, her petite lips curled in comprehension. Yes, she would indeed finish herself. Taking a measured bite, Bedelia began to eat, and in that moment, she grasped that she had been defeated. Even with the fork in her hand, she found herself incapable of completing the task, rendering her utterly helpless despite holding the very tool that could end her torment. Hannibal possessed the uncanny ability to grant people more power and, in doing so, wrest complete control from their grasp. It was a power ill-suited for them, for they lacked the courage to wield it. He drained their souls of strength and feasted upon their helplessness. Even though she comprehended it all too well, and she was acutely aware of the tiny act of defiance she could undertake just to spite him, her decision, whatever it might be, held ultimately inconsequential weight in his eyes.

No one could vanquish the Morningstar, not even an angel.

While Will continued to dwell in this perplexing state of limbo, Hannibal steadily reclaimed his strength. Bite after bite. Bedelia's response had only served to fortify his resolve. He was now prepared to locate a hospital to infiltrate, intending to access and probe Will's mind from an alternative perspective.

He would carve through any remaining barrier that dared to keep them apart, even if he had to resort to a scalpel as a last resort.

His footsteps gracefully traversed her home, each movement precise as he scrutinized his surroundings for any irregularity. Eventually, his gaze fixated on the phone, seemingly abandoned mid-call. Hannibal retrieved a cloth from his breast pocket and lifted the receiver, greeted only by a disquieting silence on the other end.

"Hello," he uttered, his voice punctuating the oppressive stillness. The line remained eerily devoid of response. No caller ID, no number displayed. An inquisitive glance darted to the side before he decisively hung up. His upper body pivoted to cast a glance back at Bedelia, who now seemed to quiver even more intensely since he had discovered the phone. His eyes fixated on it, deep in contemplation, and Bedelia held her breath, acutely aware of how dangerously close Hannibal had come to uncovering the truth.

It was evident that this location had ceased to be safe.

Hannibal remained patient, while Bedelia grew increasingly unstable. The passage of time and the solitude of her confinement within his cellar, while she marinated, were bound to coax her reluctant tongue into revealing its secrets eventually.

As Will re-entered the house, a subtle yet palpable shift in the atmosphere caught his attention. He couldn't immediately pinpoint the alteration, but it was undeniably present. His perceptive eyes darted about, scouring for clues, and the once-familiar interior suddenly seemed to expand, occupying a greater space than he remembered. The furniture bore a different aura, no longer displaying the wear and tear he had grown accustomed to. As he approached one of the cupboards, he noted the polished wood and the absence of some of the dust. In the mere moments he had spent outside, had someone managed to dust his home and replace the furniture? As he reached up to inspect his face, he could sense that his beard had been neatly trimmed. And as he settled back into his body, he couldn't help but notice the unusual smoothness of his skin. What. The. Fuck.

Intrigued yet cautious, he surveyed the room and weighed his priorities. Two pressing matters occupied his thoughts: sustenance and Bedelia. His gaze initially gravitated toward the kitchen, then hesitated briefly on the prospect of food. However, his throbbing, bleeding cheek and the lingering anxiety of another phone call deterred him from indulging. His focus shifted resolutely to the phone.

Trying it again was one of the two actions that had shown a glimmer of progress so far.

The pattern, a rhythmic sequence of initiating phone calls, a subsequent alteration in his environment, and then the reconnection of the line.

Now, as the shift had recently transpired, he pondered whether the line would indeed reconnect. Perhaps, it was worth one more attempt.

His hand trembled as he reached for it, his breath hitching in anticipation. Will dialed the number and brought the receiver to his ear, bracing himself for what awaited on the other end.

It rang.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (9)

Will emerged from the depths of a void. It felt as though the world had collapsed in on itself, a clue in itself. He had fallen into a wordless silence, a manifestation of the strain that often overcame him when life's pressures grew too immense. And at this moment, the weight upon his shoulders was overwhelming.

He found himself in unfamiliar terrain, an uncharted expanse. Like his mind. Abandoned. Being marooned on an island, a place with no escape save for a fragile and tenuous connection to the outside world—a sensation he had known all too well.

This was the sensation he often wrestled with, and it was precisely why he harbored a penchant for building boats. Boats were his means of escape from those desolate islands.

He narrowed his eyes in contemplation.

For too long, he had wriggled and writhed, avoiding the label, fearing that it would confine him to a narrow box. But he couldn't deny it any longer—being autistic was an integral part of who he was, no matter how fervently he had tried to cast it aside and affix that mask to his face.

He was a chameleon, assuming the guise of others, but how much longer could he maintain this masquerade before his genuine form inevitably caught up to him? And just how nightmarish was this true self, the one he had always striven to repress?

Now that the alternate reality had dissipated, he found himself confronting the one he didn't recognize, the one that felt alien. His inner world stood in stark contrast to the exterior, a realm only he could truly fathom. What others beheld was merely a facade, shaped by their own unique perspective and the angle of their reality.

Perspectives. Angles.

The universe, at its core, bore the signature of mathematics, a cosmic symphony where countless entities pulsed in harmonic rhythms, much like our radiant stars. The flickering we perceived held the potential for a translation—those fleeting luminous moments might, in truth, be akin to primal screams. It hinted at the possibility that the universe itself was nothing but an immense vocal tract, engaged in a colossal song, and perhaps, we were the ethereal notes in perpetual motion. Similar brain regions served as the fertile ground for processing linguistics, mathematics, and music, their connections intricate and profound. While the world often anticipated the manifestation of autistic aptitude within the realm of mathematics, it didn't always unfold there. At times, it blossomed within the realm of music, at other times in the intricate web of linguistics. And, on occasion, it manifested as a singular and profound philosophical understanding of the world, painted in the vivid hues of beautifully intricate metaphors. The contours of hyper-empathy formed a bewildering shape—an understanding of the world that, in its own right, bordered on sheer madness. It came in various shapes and flavors, each one distinct from the other, with no two ever being entirely alike.

His inner compass made yet another subtle mental recalibration, propelling him forward to the next thought. His unconscious mind embarked on leaps, and he observed its journey with intrigue.

The world around him resembled a celestial archipelago, islands suspended in the heavens. While others constructed bridges to span the chasms between them, step by deliberate step, his reality diverged.

To convey a fitting analogy, one might liken it to a frog navigating lily pads. However, these pads floated high above the earth, and any misjudgment in his leaps would plunge him into an abyss, symbolic of his aversion to failure and the unknown. He possessed no safety nets, and no bridges to traverse. He was compelled to leap. His thoughts were fiercely competitive, akin to a frenetic race where numerous frogs vied for supremacy, cannibalizing one another for the position of dominance.

With time, some frogs grew familiar with the racecourse, etching the locations of those pads into memory. Consequently, he commenced making leaps that defied explanation, appearing as if he vaulted into the void, for others couldn't perceive the pads shrouded within the clouds. Yet, he needed no visual confirmation; an intuitive understanding guided him. After traversing the track extensively, he developed an innate awareness of the pad's concealed positions and began to devise shortcuts, navigating his surreal world with unmatched proficiency. His psyche adapted to the frenzied pace of this high-speed race, becoming inured to its relentless stakes.

Consequently, when these two worlds converged and the frogs found themselves upon the drifting islands, which moved at a considerably more languid tempo than their nimble lily pads, he retained the ability to make his leaps. Meanwhile, others stood puzzled, their brows furrowed as they grappled with the perplexing task of constructing the bridges.

Neither approach was inherently flawed; both modes of traversing these islands were effective, yet fundamentally divergent. Bridging the gap between these two worlds, explaining one to the other, became a linguistic tightrope suspended between the realms of comprehension.

This difference rendered him not only an alien in foreign realms but also an outsider to their inhabitants.

Hence, socializing proved utterly draining. The endeavor to collaborate with individuals who communicated through a divergent lens, grasping the world with a grounded and leisurely perspective diametrically opposed to his high-speed, anxiety-fueled existence, felt profoundly exhausting.

This only compounded his anxiety, for he frequently found himself shouldering the consequences of any mutual communication mishaps. Being the autistic one, juxtaposed with the perceived 'normality' of others, seemed to invariably cast him in the role of the scapegoat. Even when it wasn't his doing, he bore the brunt of it.

His understanding of things leaned toward the literal. For instance, when it came to rolling his eyes, he truly  rolled  them. Apparently, neurotypicals merely glanced  upward  to 'roll their eyes,' rather than executing the full, actual eye-roll as he did. The punishments he had found himself in for looking upward while lost in thought left him utterly perplexed as a child. He did not understand. Until many years later.

The same puzzlement applied to the matter of eye contact. To him, eye contact, in the truest sense, meant individuals locking gazes, peering directly into each other's eyes. Yet, apparently, it encompassed a broader spectrum, a comprehensive scrutiny of the entire face in a way he struggled to articulate, whereas he had simply been earnestly staring into people's eyes. This realization shed light on why such interactions had been overwhelmingly intense for him. Why was it termed ‘eye contact’ when, in reality, it should be called ‘face contact’? Or perhaps it was the eye making contact with the other person's face? And why was it that staring at someone was not only expected but also made it nearly impossible to concentrate on what was being said? Did they desire to be heard, or were they seeking to be scrutinized? He could only engage in one of these actions at a time. Eye contact was one of his earliest tells. He shied away from looking into others' eyes, fearing what he might discover there.

For an individual who had spent a lifetime honing the craft of observation, all in the pursuit of understanding the human expression, someone like him possessed eyes that transcended the mere surface of words, a skill born of necessity to integrate into their world without the threat of discovery, prompting him to scrutinize every word ever spoken to his face. Unfortunately, the truth remained that most people were utterly  inept   at the art of deception. When a person's visage narrated a story divergent from the one their lips uttered, he felt a disconcerting twist in his stomach—the telltale sensation that eroded hope from his soul. It was a form of betrayal he chose to shield himself from, for when his gaze detected it, it carried away not only the illusion but also any remnants of trust.

People lied incessantly, driven by various motivations, sometimes even with noble intentions, he comprehended that much, but it remained a painful experience. Especially with someone so deeply scarred and predisposed to rejection, it was a feeling he dreaded .

When words and facial expressions diverged, it left him torn between two paths, uncertain which signal to heed: the spoken language or the emotions he had glimpsed behind the words.

It was an incredibly taxing ordeal. Some might argue that he could 'simply' switch it off or disregard it, but how does one accomplish that with a mind that refuses to cease its operation? A mind that instinctively hones in on such intricacies without conscious intent. A mind meticulously trained to scrutinize every syllable, every subtle furrow, every shift in pitch and tone, all in an effort to decipher the telltale  click   beneath his very feet?

His body, well-practiced in concealing its torment, engaged in subtle self-soothing gestures—his hands gently stroking his thighs, his upper arms receiving loving caresses—as if his body sought to empathize with his overwhelmed mind, for no one else would. In those understated acts of self-comfort, a keen observer could discern his disquiet, yet the world remained oblivious to his silent turmoil.

He exerted himself tirelessly, yet it seemed that every endeavor to truly connect with others was fated to end in failure.

Essentially, this meant he had to navigate two distinct linguistic terrains. He could fluently converse in the language of his own mind, yet when it came to speaking the language of others, he bore a discernible accent. It was akin to immersing himself in a metaphorical foreign culture and attempting to pass as a native.

While his mind grappled with things in a direct and unadorned fashion, other minds appeared to subtly skew the significance of their words, not quite veering into outright deceit, but rather employing language that danced with a deliberate obliqueness, diverging from their literal intent.

To them, this rendered him strikingly blunt and forthright, while they, in turn, came across as enigmatic and cryptic in his eyes. Navigating this facet of social interactions was akin to traversing a treacherous minefield. His knowledge of its hazardous nature offered little solace, for he remained clueless about the mines' concealed locations. Only the ominous, silent  click  would signal that it had become too late—a damning reaction before his impending doom.

These others, they possessed the ability to dance around the mines, as if they could discern their hidden presence, a skill that eluded him entirely. Thus, all he could do was mimic their dances, without knowing what they meant, and tread in their carefully chosen paths, hoping that through imitation, he might glean the elusive knowledge needed to survive this perilous terrain.

Picture a blind man waltzing across a minefield—what do you imagine the outcome would be?

Occasionally, he stumbled upon a hidden mine, and in those moments, chaos erupted. And he found himself grappling to comprehend the misstep that had led to such disarray.

Yet, no one took the time to teach him the proper steps, nor did they share in the dance. Instead, they regarded him with such abject horror that it cut him to the core.

This constant scrutiny left him perpetually on edge. Every word he uttered, every step he ventured, carried the weight of potentially being slightly off-beat—a fear that gnawed at him, threatening to unravel him with each breath. What heightened the pain was the inherent malice others ascribed to his actions, as though he intentionally conducted them to taunt and amuse himself at their expense. Did he appear so malicious? Was the underlying, well-intentioned motive of his actions of no consequence?

There always seemed to be a distortion between him and others, as if they gazed at him through frosted glass, perceiving not a fellow human being but a ghastly silhouette.

It was a chilling sensation, gradually nipping at his soul.

Falsehoods or fabrications held no intrinsic value to him unless they served the purpose of self-preservation or a greater cause. This was why he made no effort to conceal his disdain for the things he despised, just as he openly expressed his admiration for the things he held dear. He saw no reason to don a mask and pretend to be something he wasn't. 

Or, at least, that's how it had been in the past. Over time, through trial and error, he acquired the skill of speaking as sparingly as possible, withholding his passionate convictions from the world. He delivered only the most succinct and necessary information, maintaining an almost motionless demeanor. He keenly observed others to discern the precise comportment required to evade their anger and retribution. Through this astute observation, he fashioned a mask, a carefully tailored performance designed to align with their expectations, preventing outright rejection if he mastered the act well enough. He had diminished himself, carving away fragments of his being, until he had all but lost sight of his original form.

It was a prevailing theme in his surroundings, where people constantly strove to shine brighter than their neighbor, engaging in a ceaseless competition of masquerades instead of embracing their innate beauty. Money, undoubtedly, held its importance, but he understood that there existed a point where one could accumulate so much wealth that it ceased to hold allure. The abundance itself became monotonous, a fleeting burst of excitement after a lifetime of pursuit. It seemed as if this relentless quest for wealth was humanity's singular purpose—a climb towards the pinnacle of the hierarchy, almost a desperate reach for the divine.

However, as he observed this recurring pattern, he couldn't help but notice that those who had indeed reached the zenith often appeared profoundly desolate and isolated. Furthermore, paranoia set in, for as they had achieved this newfound clarity at the steep cost of their souls, others had not followed the same path. These hungry souls still coveted the mound of golden coins, poised to snatch away the final vestiges of what had been the culmination of a lifetime's toil. Trust was a rare commodity, for no one could be relied upon to remain authentic once that pinnacle had been scaled. It was often the cost of getting there, after all. They felt compelled to either appease others or engage in constant battles, twisting their very essence until it became unrecognizable even to themselves. It was an undeniably exasperating ordeal. So much energy funneled into maintaining a fragile facade, while the inner self withered, neglected. He wondered if others, too, experienced a similar sense of isolation, albeit through different means.

The world appeared to be an exceedingly lonely realm, irrespective of the masks we adorned, for humanity had forsaken the art of kindling warmth among themselves, opting instead to incinerate one another. Is it not more exquisite to share warmth than to wrest it from others?

Nourishing the soul demanded more than a mere pile of golden coins. It entailed the ultimate act of bravery—a journey inward to discover one's true self, to discern the flavors that truly satisfied the appetite of the roaring beast within us. So many squandered their precious time on the ascent, failing to appreciate the breathtaking panorama all around them.

But his dream was far simpler. He didn’t want to climb mountains. It was a life of tranquility and contentment—a home, a family, a boat, and a couple of loyal dogs. These were the essentials for his happiness, where solitude and cherished moments held more allure than any riches. To him, nothing felt more heavenly than an authentic connection.

Nevertheless, people regarded him as though he were deranged for harboring such dreams.

Societal norms demanded that he abandon his authentic self to conform, much like everyone else did. However, that was their blueprint, not his. He had no desire to scale the mountains; he found contentment on solid ground. Bending and stifling his true self, it may have worked for a brief period, but when solitude embraced him, he would liberate himself from the suffocating mask, allowing his soul to breathe once more. Within that secluded realm, an oasis of his own making, impervious to intrusion, he discovered genuine solace.

In his modest house, which, during nocturnal strolls through the fields, appeared as though it were adrift upon a tranquil lake. In his little garage, where he diligently constructed a boat, driven by an insatiable curiosity to explore the unknown beyond.

To explore the unknown beyond. That's precisely why he embarked on its construction. His gaze flickered upward, brows furrowing in contemplation.

In his mind, that boat had not yet taken form .

The only void he felt was the absence of his faithful dogs, left behind in his quest for Hannibal. Abandoned, much like the fear of abandonment that had haunted him.

This elucidated why he found himself in complete solitude here.

As he distanced himself from his physical form and allowed his thoughts to expand, he began to vividly visualize the process.

The next mental landing point emerged on the horizon, and his thoughts, unhesitatingly, aligned themselves for a graceful descent to claim it.

Initially, he had perceived Hannibal as a grotesque, stag-like creature, akin to a Wendigo. Gradually, the distorted image gave way to a clearer view, allowing him to see Hannibal for what he truly was.

His lungs weighed down as if each breath became a laborious endeavor. See? His jaw moved with a subtle twitch, as though it sought to elude an uncomfortable mental connection that loomed in the shadows. Nevertheless, he remained resolute. Yes. He saw. In an instant, he found himself steady, assured, and firmly in command. He had embraced a fragment of himself without rejection, and in response, reality refrained from warping; it steadied, and the tempo of his thoughts quickened. He breathed in the rhythm, eyes closed, body swaying to its pulse, a complete surrender to his thoughts, their wings extending farther than any boat ever could.

It was in this very realm that he sought his authentic perspective—a viewpoint uniquely his own, one that resonated with a sensation akin to a cascade of electric currents running down his spine. It was in those moments that he truly felt his mind come alive, the lifeblood of his consciousness coursing through rapid thoughts like a bustling data highway. These thoughts left behind beautiful, azure streaks of contemplation that unfurled behind his inner eyes, reminiscent of the rhythmic ebb and flow of tides. The very tides he observed with near-hypnotic fascination when he stood outside.

The things we often encountered, he realized, were but curious wavelengths. Sound waves intertwined with light waves, each capable of transmutation into the other.

Will embraced the richness of his finely attuned senses, unfettered by judgment, free from the burden of performance, and released from the relentless expectations that perpetually shadowed him. No matter how often he demonstrated his brilliance, it was as if people were insatiable, always demanding more than he could possibly provide.

He recklessly consumed his own flame to provide warmth for others. His gift manifested in sporadic bursts, resembling a peculiar ailment, or so he sometimes mused. These episodes arrived in intervals, like a rhythmic cadence. Yet, once he found himself immersed in that unique rhythm, he sensed his true self emerging—neither an affliction nor a malady, but a distinct entity that defied the world's limited attempts at labeling him. Revealing his autistic nature often elicited binary reactions—either people recoiled with disdain or regarded him with twisted awe. Some would approach cautiously, observing him like a lab specimen, a bit akin to Alana. Others would draw comparisons to their own 5-year-old autistic nephew, branding him as merely quirky, or using more derogatory labels. The most cruel category of individuals regarded him as a living affliction, a malady in need of remedy. However, such a ‘cure’ would necessitate his demise, for his very brain was inherently distinct, and not even a drastic lobotomy could transmute a dog into a cat. On the opposite end were individuals like Jack, who sought miracles, oblivious to the toll it took on him to continuously maintain that lofty performance. After all, he wasn't a manifestation of ‘Rain Man.’ The media had sculpted a distorted external image of autism, elevating it to heavenly heights or plunging it into the depths of hell. People remained ensnared by these antiquated misconceptions. They anticipated a living miracle or something otherworldly, but seldom did they anticipate encountering a fellow human being.

He saw himself as someone who simply disliked intrusive eye contact and found social interactions disconcerting. And he harbored a preference for the company of animals, where he didn't have to perpetually engage in guessing games about their intentions.

Strangely, this proved to be an exceedingly challenging concept for some individuals to grasp. It served as a compelling justification for his steadfast refusal to divulge the inner workings of his mind through any form of publication. ‘Madness’ was the succinct reply he offered, as everyone seemed poised to dissect his thoughts as though they possessed an inherent entitlement to do so. Chilton. Lounds. He harbored a bitter resentment for the way they perceived him. He refused to be reduced to the status of a monstrous specimen, laid upon their examination table to be dissected at will. That’s not how he treated others. And he saw no reason why he should accept such dehumanizing treatment.

Alana had made an effort to steer clear of delving too deeply into his mind, a gesture he appreciated. It was conceived with the best of intentions. However, paradoxically, this very restraint had created a sense of distance between them. He could sense the subtle withdrawal, a quiet form of rejection, as if she had abandoned him even before he had the opportunity to demonstrate his humanity.

Jack regarded him as nothing more than a tool, a mindless scalpel wielded to excise the sickness from the world. Oddly enough, that was perhaps the least inhumane treatment among the various iterations he had encountered. Though Jack didn't quite view him as fully human, he refrained from outright rejection. He acknowledged what he was and saw utility in precisely that capacity. In a peculiar twist, Crawford had inadvertently nudged him closer to the truth all along, drawing him into proximity with Hannibal. Will served as the lure, Hannibal the catch, and Jack wielded the rod.

The image grew sharper and more distinct.

Du Maurier occupied a peculiar role, acting as a bridge between them, akin to a marker or interpreter, illuminating essential fragments of information that bound Will and Hannibal. In her own way, she often beheld a more comprehensive view of the entire picture, a broader perspective, and astutely unveiled her insights to those around her. Or, at the very least, she possessed the decency to lay it out plainly for him. In a strange, contradictory way, he both held contempt for and admired her. While she held him in disdain and fear, she also viewed him with fascination, considering him a worthy adversary. In her spite, Bedelia was brutally honest with him, more honest than most people had ever been in his life. That's why being honest with her came naturally.

‘Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?’ As her words reached him, a sensation of lightness filled his chest, so profound that tears threatened to well up in his eyes. He had always felt a deeper connection to Hannibal than he had with anyone else—an inexplicable warmth and tranquility whenever they were in close proximity, coupled with moments of electric tension that bordered on the unbearable. Yet, he struggled to translate these sensations into distinct emotions. He possessed only partial comprehension, aware that assumptions were precarious ground to tread upon, far less dependable than the certainty he craved. He had long forsaken his trust in the reliability of his own judgment, given that the world seemed perpetually primed to admonish his actions right from the start. Consequently, he matured with a pervasive self-doubt. Therefore, unless something was unequivocally confirmed, he refrained from acting on his perceptions of others, unless those perceptions directly posed a threat to him. His mind had always craved a thorough understanding of every facet of a concept, necessitating the complete consumption of it. This way, what took shape within his mind was a creation he could be confident in, having been meticulously scrutinized and fashioned with his most genuine intentions. Anything less would leave him dissatisfied, for it would not have received his full commitment. And perhaps, because a piece remained absent, he found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty even now.

Will’s skin tingled, ablaze with goosebumps. His inner eye had fixed upon a target, plunging headlong in pursuit. It was Bedelia Du Maurier who had finally decoded the elusive piece of information that had lingered just beyond his grasp. Hannibal was in love with him. Utterly. Obsessively. In love with him.

He would never forsake him.

Despite his successful escape to Italy, the creation of an entirely new persona, and the forging of a different life and identity, he had willingly abandoned it all just so that Will would be aware of his whereabouts and have the opportunity to reunite with him. That's how Will had ensnared him. He had seized upon that partial assumption and taken a calculated risk.

Hannibal had endured three long years of yearning, patiently awaiting the chance to feel his touch once more, all for this precious moment. It left him pondering: had there been more that he should have been aware of? Was this his method to examine Hannibal's commitment, akin to God testing Job by stripping away all his lavish gifts to ascertain if his faith would endure?

Will's vision suddenly blurred, and he felt the cold touch of tears tracing down his cheeks, his breath nearly reduced to a whisper.

Hannibal would never leave him.

The absence of Hannibal in this realm was a reflection of the sense of abandonment Will had experienced.

But Hannibal enveloped him completely, manifesting in every thought, every brushstroke of his mental canvas, and every breath he took.

His eyes shifted, chasing another thought. He was beginning to fathom the expanse of his own mind, a realm far vaster than he had ever perceived. Rising to his feet to step outdoors, Will surveyed the island before him. It wasn't just an island; it served as his current point of entrapment. This entire domain, encompassing not only the land but also the boundless sea, was, in essence, an extension of his own mind.

His thoughts had been molded by the teachings of others.

He wasn't operating in alignment with his innate nature. This explained his complete lack of control over this domain. And why it persistently spurned him.

For behaving as his true self had always been met with reprimand.

His worth was conditional, predicated on his ability to conform to the expectations of humanity, as dictated by the labels of others.

There had never been a space for his wings to unfurl. Instead, they withered and became deformed, casualties of his relentless efforts to bend and twist himself into the mold that others had imposed upon him.

Hannibal himself might not possess a full understanding of what lay within Will, not to the extent that Will himself seemed to be discovering. Yet Hannibal loved him unconditionally, cherishing him for exactly who he was, for every peculiar and intricate mosaic piece that constituted his mind. He saw him as was. He didn't view him through the lens of a diagnosis, nor did he see him solely as a human or a vulnerable child. To Hannibal, Will was something entirely distinct—an entity of singular beauty and authenticity.

Will didn't need to conceal any facet of himself, regardless of how disconcerting it might be. He could freely unlock the depths of his being, peeling away layer after layer of the meticulously constructed mask, in the hope of uncovering his true self buried beneath it all.

Yet, what if beneath that mask lay something horrifying, something distorted and unrecognizably human? If Hannibal could love that aspect of him, then so could Will, and he cared not for the judgment of the rest of the world.

The pieces started to rearrange themselves, and his gaze became fixed upon the grass as he further retreated into the shadows of his own mind. All along, he had been searching for an escape route to the outside, but he had neglected to search for an entrance within.

Into himself.

To liberate himself from this reality, he needed to disconnect, much like pulling the plug on a phone line. Will had always hesitated beyond that critical ‘click,’ restrained by his fear from daring to forge ahead. There lay a tempestuous reckoning if he were to cease his dance and advance at his own rhythm, sprinting ahead while the world crumbled around him. It didn't matter how unconventional such a choice might appear; he hungered for it nonetheless.

He yearned to gnaw through his own leash and bolt, like a stray seeking freedom.

An unsettling familiarity tinged the logic and setting, something, again, just beyond his grasp. It was as if the force holding him captive here resisted his complete comprehension, aware that any such revelation could serve as a clue to extricate himself from this harrowing madness.

Will grappled with his thoughts. His gaze shifted toward the cliffs, and as he drew nearer, he couldn't help but notice the unsettling resemblance they bore to the ones he had once plunged from with Hannibal.

A compelling urge surged within him—a longing to propel himself forward and leap.

But which facet of his mind was steering him? The rational one, or the irrational?

Was this a literal or metaphorical descent?

He inched closer to the cliffs, peering down into the churning sea below.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (8)

Words proved inadequate to contain Will's torment, and his tongue faltered, yielding only a feeble whimper. Graham's cheek still throbbed from the lingering pain of his earlier outburst, and every spoken word tugged at the stitches binding his wounds. As he contemplated speaking, the full extent of his agony became painfully evident.

The memory of the last time he had heard her voice haunted him. He had questioned whether it was all a dream, and that inquiry had shredded the very fabric of his reality.

Should he dare pose the same question once more? Was he prepared to court the same madness?

Would it spiral into an endless loop, growing ever more surreal, even though a semblance of clarity seemed within reach?

The exhaustion of his helplessness weighed heavily on him, as he languished in this bewildering place where nothing seemed to make sense. The madness was singing to him.

"Nothing," Will exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. He could almost envision the subtle tilt of her head, a mannerism so reminiscent of Hannibal's when he harbored doubts.

"Well," Bedelia began, her words measured and deliberate, "Now, I know you're not being entirely truthful with me."

His silence had stretched on for so long that the palpable presence of his fear and bewilderment hung in the air, undeniable and looming. It was a reality she couldn't simply ignore, unlike him, who might wish it away. But he remained silent and made no answer. Again the high priest asked him, 'Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?' (Mark 14:61)

"What occupies your thoughts, Will?" Bedelia inquired, her tone measured and collected.

Will sensed a distorted glimmer of salvation within her voice, as if she possessed an answer just beyond his grasp, if only he formulated the right question. The pregnant pause that swelled before it tightened its grip on his heart, leaving him once more breathless.

He exhaled, his eyes leisurely traversing the room, scrutinizing the furniture, figurines, photographs, the couch, and the windows. The conspicuous absence of clocks in the room drew his attention, prompting him to glance at his naked wrist and then his phone. It was an older digital model, resting on a battery station without a cord, lacking the convenience of a smartphone. It, too, remained silent on the matter of time. This could either be another mundane coincidence or a peculiar detail warranting his keen observation. The passage of time remained an enigma in this space, its behavior a mystery. Day and night unfolded, yet there was an imperceptible strangeness to their rhythm, a subtle aberration that eluded easy definition.

Within the confines of his mind, a sound persisted, steadily growing louder with each passing moment of silence.

"I believe Hannibal is en route for you," Will finally admitted, the notion emerging from the tumultuous voices suddenly reverberating within his thoughts. It evolved into a steadily crescendoing chorus, culminating in a crystalline, irrefutable pitch.

A scoff, almost audible, emanated from the other end of the phone, accompanied by the clatter of her fork.

"Well, you do have an uncanny talent for ruining my appetite with your knack for stating the obvious," Du Maurier interjected dryly. Certainly, Hannibal, and most likely Will as well, would come for her. This notion had already been firmly established.

She reclined in her chair, languid and contemplative, the soft glow of lamplight casting elongated shadows across her face. Her tongue danced delicately along the contours of her cheek, a curious serpent probing the inner recesses of her thoughts.

Why, indeed, had he chosen to bring it to her attention?

"No, Bedelia," Will pressed urgently, her first name slipping from his lips like a forbidden secret, "he's coming for you. You need to run," he hissed, as if the impending transformation loomed just beneath the surface, a man teetering on the brink of a sinister metamorphosis. His voice oozed with an ominous darkness that sent shivers coursing through her very soul.

What unsettled her the most was the sudden, unwavering certainty in his tone, as if it were a foregone conclusion. Indeed, it felt inevitable; Hannibal was a man of his word. Yet, the timing seemed oddly askew, like a picture hanging crookedly on the wall that, from a peculiar angle, oddly made sense.

Will's anxiety surged, and in a familiar synchrony, the phantom chime of a doorbell echoed through the phone. He could almost envision Du Maurier turning in her chair to face the door.

The certainty sliced through the moment like a knife. "Bedelia, I implore you," he whispered, "Don't—"

"Just a moment, Will. I shall return presently," Du Maurier's words carried a note of caution, and he could sense both the hesitancy in her tone and the inquisitiveness in her measured steps. 

As she set the phone down, a small voice whispered in his mind: ‘She won't.’

If this were indeed Hannibal, there would be nowhere for her to flee, and she understood that well. Attempting escape was futile, for an angel could never flee from the wrath of God.

'Through the wrath of the Lord of hosts the land is scorched, and the people are like fuel for the fire; no one spares another. They slice meat on the right, but are still hungry, and they devour on the left, but are not satisfied; each devours the flesh of his own arm.' (Isaiah 9:19-20)

If Hannibal sought Will, he hungered for something more than mere sustenance. A famished lion was a creature of unpredictable impulses.

Will stood immobilized, his breath held captive, speech stifled as if an invisible vice clutched his throat, squeezing the life from him. The world around him whirled in a frenetic maelstrom, akin to an enraged swarm of wasps. He could sense Hannibal enveloping him, his presence palpable in the very air he breathed, the taste of him lingering on the edges of his senses. As he clung to the phone, his lifeline to sanity, he heard it—the dark voice, a distant shadow but undeniably distinct, washing over his senses like rich, melting dark chocolate. “Hello, Bedelia.” He strained to discern the nature of the sounds, their exact boundaries eluding him. They constituted the final auditory vestiges before the line abruptly disconnected, and his breath escaped in high-pitched gasps, struggling to sustain the remnants of his shattered self. Will teetered on the brink of hyperventilation, his muscles betraying his control, the icy tendrils of panic coiling around his senses. In the swirling chaos, distinctions blurred, leaving him dissociated and disconnected, where everything seemed to both vibrate and stand still in a disorienting paradox. He played the sound over in his mind several times, as if he needed to reassure himself that it was indeed the reality he was perceiving, and not some cruel jest aimed at shattering his sanity.

"No. No, no, come on," Will growled, his frustration boiling over as he shook the phone. Then, he screamed. "HANNIBAL!" And once more, until he savored the metallic tang of blood in his throat, his own ears ringing with the shattering crescendo of tearing stitches. “HANNIBAL!” Desperately, he unleashed the full force of his lungs, as if beseeching a merciless deity to hear him at last. Will’s screams echoed through the void, a chaotic plea, but all they yielded was more silence.

‘Answer me quickly, O Lord! My spirit fails! Hide not your face from me, lest I be like those who go down to the pit. Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.’ (Psalm 143:7-9)

The heavens remained unmoved, regardless of how long he persisted in his anguished screams, wearing down the very instrument of his voice.

‘Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord! O Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy!’ (Psalm 130:1-2)

Screams echoing into an abyss of terror.

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?’ (Psalm 22:1)

Until his voice grew faint and searing, a burning ember in his throat.

‘I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched. My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.’ (Psalm 69:3)

Voice spent, he could only convulse in agony, rocking back and forth, clutching the phone with white-knuckled intensity. His fingers frantically redialed the number again and again until they grew numb and eventually sore.

It no longer even rang; the line had vanished into silence.

He found himself alone once more, forsaken in the horrific void. Each time he dared to claw his way out, it felt as though he courted punishment. He felt like he was clawing against the interior of a glass cage, trapped amidst endless mirrors. All the while, he pleaded for someone on the outside to see him and swing open the door to freedom.

Blood spilled, and with each droplet spent, Hannibal believed he was edging ever closer to the answers he sought. What greater sacrifice could he offer than an angel? This prompted him to proceed with utmost caution, taking measured steps to ensure absolute precision. Starting with the legs. He wanted to calculate the exact cost of Will’s soul in angel parts.

It was a small gamble with fate, one that Hannibal had ventured into without fully grasping the steep price of his impatience. Blissfully ignorant, he meticulously set the scene. Bedelia, dressed, occupied one end of the table, her countenance quivering with the foreknowledge of the impending ordeal, her drowsy gaze fixing upon the unsettling feast before her. The room seemed to spin, but amid the disorientation, one element remained vividly clear—the gleaming fork. She extended a desperate hand toward it, her final, futile attempt to ward off the encroaching insanity that threatened to devour her.

The three plates were set, but only one participant had taken their place thus far. A grotesque dish, a delicate balance: 29 percent cooked, 71 percent so raw—it offered a macabre opportunity for her to dine again. Certainly, Hannibal intended to indulge in the exquisite art of savoring every delectable morsel. As a lover, she had failed him, unable to replace Will, and the bitter taste of that failure lingered like a sting on her tongue.

‘I slept, but my heart was awake. A sound! My beloved is knocking. 'Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my perfect one, for my head is wet with dew, my locks with the drops of the night.' I had put off my garment; how could I put it on? I had bathed my feet; how could I soil them? My beloved put his hand to the latch, and my heart was thrilled within me. I arose to open to my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with liquid myrrh, on the handles of the bolt. I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had turned and gone. My soul failed me when he spoke. I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he gave no answer.’ (Solomon 5:2-7)

Yet, he found a way to astonish even Bedelia. As Will was wheeled in, a peculiar IV fluid drew her intrigued gaze. Her eyes narrowed in thought. The second plate was evidently not intended for him; clearly, he couldn't partake in the meal. The question lingered: was he even still alive? Her eyes traced a path up and down his deathly pale figure as the wheelchair came to a halt on Hannibal's left side. Meanwhile, the handmaiden assumed the position she might have expected Will to occupy, settling between them like the final bastion of sanity.

The lamb was absent. 

This wasn't how she had anticipated events unfolding. Even in her drugged state, following whatever concoction Hannibal had administered, a surreal quality hung over her surroundings. An unsettling unease pervaded her senses. Her thoughts moved sluggishly, each inch of progress an arduous effort, as if her mind strained to bridge the gap toward that elusive understanding of what felt so profoundly amiss.

Hannibal assumed his customary commanding presence behind the chair, a role he had played countless times before. His lips moved with an air of pride, undoubtedly delivering an elaborate introduction to the dish he was about to subject her to. However, his words seemed like a garbled cocktail, a nonsensical mixture that defied comprehension.

Nonetheless, she could discern with a chilling clarity the meal set before them, and though fear coursed through her, an eerie numbness suddenly overtook her senses.

Just moments ago, she could have sworn she had been engaged in a phone conversation with someone. Her gaze remained fixated on Will, seemingly entrapped by his presence. She was so thoroughly immobilized by the moment that she missed the opportune instant to wield the fork and carry out her meticulously devised plan to stab him, when he set the dish down for her. Bedelia's fixation rivaled the obsessive attention Hannibal was lavishing on his captive.

Even Lecter, accustomed to unsettling situations, found himself disconcerted by the intensity of her stare. It appeared as though she had been deliberately oblivious to everything that had transpired since his introduction, from the dish placed before her to his initial comment as he took his seat and began to eat. The latter had garnered no response whatsoever from her. It was as if Bedelia held knowledge that terrified her more than the prospect of dining at this table, facing the very act of self-consumption.

His head tilted ever so slowly, dark eyes narrowing as if he anticipated an answer to manifest before him.

"What’s going through your beautiful head, Bedelia?" Hannibal inquired at last, lifting a morsel to his lips.

"Evidently, I am," she shot back, her retort a verbal lash that seemed to catch Lecter off guard. It had been an eternity since laughter had stirred within him. Yet, he remained composed, a master of elegant restraint, concealing the brief flicker of amusement that had danced across his face.

The fork paused, as though contemplating its sinister purpose, before descending upon the morsel. With each deliberate, measured chew, his eyes remained locked onto Bedelia's, a sinister delight flickering in their depths.

"You taste delicious, Bedelia," Hannibal purred, his voice a velvet blend of charm and menace. 

Du Maurier inhaled sharply, bitterness lingering in the air, as she reached out with her fork to pick at the meat. She lifted a piece of the dish and chewed on it with a hint of defiance, a subtle act of rebellion against the taunt.

Bedelia refused to play a part in his twisted narrative of a happy ending. There was no way she would swallow any part of this gruesome charade. With eyes as brilliant as her golden hair, she expelled the contents of her mouth, splattering them across the table and directly onto Lecter's plate. What greater act of defiance against God than to challenge Him at her very own table? She keenly observed the millimeter of retraction in his lower arm, the subtle twitch that surely stirred surprise and irritation within him. Even Chiyoh, positioned at her side, instinctively leaned back, as if seeking to distance herself from the impending explosion that was about to unfold.

Poking a dragon was to court death, but the audacity to poke God – what cataclysmic reckoning would that invoke?

A sly smirk etched itself upon her lips under the unrelenting weight of his gaze, and she could practically taste the tangible aura of his insatiable bloodlust.

"Oh, what could possibly ail you, Hannibal? Is your meticulously constructed world unraveling because one of your wee  piglets   refuses to comply?" Her gaze flickered toward Will, a disdainful assessment etched upon her face. Each word she uttered was a venomous dart, intended to goad Hannibal further into his seething rage.

Though she avoided locking eyes with Hannibal, the inscrutable mask he wore hiding his true emotions, she could feel the last remnants of her breath escape her as his fork gently clinked against the plate. It was but a fleeting moment before she sensed the heat of his hands on her neck. His movement had been a lightning strike, but it represented the only opportunity she could hope for, a momentary advantage to catch him off guard and drive the fork into his thigh. Yet, there was no force behind his grip; his hands were strangely gentle, while his eyes bore into her from above with an awareness that defied easy characterization—it was more than merely ‘frightening.’

"What tidings does my angel bear?" His voice, akin to a siren's seduction, eroded her dwindling resolve. It flowed with such silkiness, a masterful control devoid of any trace of anger. Her eyelids betrayed her, fluttering as if she teetered on the brink of swooning.

In the narrative she had hoped for, he would have yielded to impulsivity, snapping her neck, twisting it, freeing her from this never-ending nightmare. Yet, in stark contrast, here he stood—the Morningstar himself—staring down at her with such intense resolve that even death seemed to recoil in his presence. Tears welled in her eyes, glistening like precious pearls, and her lips began to quiver and contort into uncontrollable shapes of helplessness.

What could drive a wrathful angel to such despair that it would weep in the presence of a merciful god?

"The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?" Hannibal invoked Jeremiah 17:9, and Bedelia faltered, her fingers digging into the seat's edge to steady herself. One solitary verse, and it was as though her heart had been mercilessly crushed.

His thumbs traced deliberate, ominous circles around her cheeks, smearing her tears into her foundation. Each stroke bore a distinct quality—some gentle, others impatient, some light, and others unsettling. He was contemplating, and her time was rapidly running out.

Amidst the prevailing sense of futility and pointlessness, his eyes snagged on a subtle movement in his peripheral vision. The clink of Chiyoh's fork against the plate resonated, as if she too had been jolted by what she had witnessed. When his gaze descended, he discerned Bedelia's terror, frozen in place within the same room, her eyes locked onto a single point. Had his scheme already borne fruit?