Hannibal Serie Access

Will put on his coat. The hook in his chest, the one Hannibal had driven there years ago, gave a familiar, painful tug. He didn't go to save anyone. He didn't go to arrest him. He went because the meal would be exquisite, the conversation would be a scalpel, and the only honest thing left in the world was the monster who had taught him to love the dark.

It stood in the corner of the room, antlers scraping the frescoed ceiling. Its coat was the color of wet ash, and its eyes were the exact brown of a tailored three-piece suit. It didn't breathe. It never did. It was a collection of antlers and absence, a ghost wearing the shape of a beast he’d once tried to cage. Hannibal Serie

The stag lowered its head. Will didn't flinch. Will put on his coat

Three years. Three years since he’d pushed them both from that cliff. The water had been cold—a baptism of rock and foam. He had felt the shatter of his own spine as a distant echo, like hearing a vase break in another room. He’d woken up in a hospital bed with Abigail’s ghost standing at the foot of it, shaking her head. He didn't go to arrest him