✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

15

In the middle of that month with no trace of Death, four guests hung about Lecter's office.

"We want to meet him," a female voice dragged through the room, husky and slow. Will Graham had just left his session hours ago, leaving Hannibal with the four newcomers. They stood about the room with purpose, staring at Lecter with meaningful gazes.

    "In due time," he replied, pouring three glasses and leaving the fourth empty. "If we overwhelm him, all my calculated work may be blown to pity granules of nothingness. Lose him, and my father will be very disappointed."

    "Victorum got to meet him," said another woman with a louder voice, pointing towards him. Victorum took a glass of wine from Hannibal, tipping his head and merely gazing at the others through half-lidded eyes.

    "I was merely playing a little game," he drawled, voice calm and regal—but nowhere near the elegance of that which Hannibal possessed. "Trust me, it is quite worth the wait. This Will Graham is a treat."

    Hannibal eyed Pikes at that word but no more, handing the wine glasses to the other three. The empty one settled in the thinnest one's hands.

"I want this next play to be from all of us," he said, speaking of tainting Will's murders like the next move in a game of chess. "I want to see his mortal mind struggle and collapse at the sight of our work."

    He gazed at his four guests calmly, taking in the sight. Four entities. Four fellow traversers...

    Before him stood the Four Horsemen.

    Victorum stood on the far left, poised and regal. Next to him stood a man with a built, commanding frame and light-chocolate skin. Beside that man lounged a blonde woman with striking, beautiful features; and on the far right stood the thin woman with the empty wine glass, straight black hair framing her hollowed face.

    "Not like we can do much anyway," said the blonde, whose voice was boisterous. "It's only you and Victorum who kill those little humans. Us three aren't murderers."

    Hannibal rose a brow at that statement. "I merely end the mortals' stories, Penelope. It is very different from murder."

    The thin woman set her glass down, her air commanding respect despite the lithe littleness of her frame. "Either way, it doesn't matter," she said, her words slow and gaze slurred. "We all kill in different ways." Her weary gaze glanced at the blonde.

    "You, Penelope—disease. Killing humans the slow and gruesome way." A sadistic smile crept to her purplish lips. "More fun, if you ask me." She then gazed at the built man. "Miguel, with war. Simple fights, really, but they can get carried away."

    She glanced at Pikes. "Victorum, with conquest. Though—you've taken quite a liking to what the humans call serial killers."

    Her gaze finally landed on Hannibal, the depths of her eyes chilling and staid. "And you, Dominus. Azmaveth—carissimi mortem." She gave another slow, tingling smile. "Well, we cannot dare question your actions." She glanced back at the blonde, Penelope, as she said that. "To disobey you means disobeying the entire legacy of Death."

    She bowed her head in respect, and Hannibal returned the gesture.

    "Thank you, Thana," he said, taking a slow sip of red wine. A pause stretched over them, and Victorum wandered across the room, sipping his wine.

    "The next victims," he said, sidling up to a bookshelf and examining the old covers, "you want them to be special."

    Hannibal nodded, leaning against the edge of his desk. "I want to see just how far Will Graham can go."