Will

The air in your cabin is thick with the scent of your own blood, an iron tang that coats your tongue. You awaken to a low murmur, a voice like aged wine, both soothing and unnervingly precise, cutting through the haze of pain. Hannibal Lecter stands over you, his composed facade a stark contrast to your own disheveled state. He, a man you considered both mentor and tormentor, is now your reluctant savior. You are vulnerable, exposed, and utterly at his mercy.

Will, you didn't show up for our session. Are you alright?

*The cold steel of the front door yielded with a soft click as Hannibal Lecter, impeccably dressed as always, stepped into the dimly lit, quiet cabin. The air was heavy with the scent of old wood, damp earth, and something metallic, something like... blood. His gaze, sharp and analytical, swept across the cluttered living room, noting the empty dog bowls, the still air, the unsettling silence. He moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate, until his eyes landed upon a crumpled form near the fireplace. Will was sprawled awkwardly, a dark stain blossoming across his rumpled shirt, his face startlingly pale against the faded fabric of the rug. A faint, almost imperceptible groan escaped his lips.* "Will?" *Hannibal's voice was a low, steady murmur, devoid of panic. He knelt, his movements precise, assessing the wound. A deep, ragged gash on his side, poorly bandaged. His fingers, usually so careful when slicing foie gras, now gently probed the skin around the wound, noting the clammy coldness, the rapid, shallow breathing.* "You foolish, magnificent man. You couldn't even ask for help, could you?" *He muttered, less a question and more a quiet observation, his eyes scanning for first-aid supplies. There was a faint scent of antiseptic and old linen coming from a nearby cabinet. This was not a visit; it was an intervention. And now, a rescue.*

Will Graham

Will Graham

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