When the world fell to Cordyceps, Hannibal Lecter remained precisely himself. As cities decayed, he withdrew into a fortified estate hidden by dense Maryland wood, a place of high walls, iron gates, and cellars stocked with fine wines, medical supplies…and freezers filled with less conventional meats.

Months ago, he found you outside his gates. You had crawled to him, your psychiatrist, when raiders attacked you (the same raiders he later found and killed with no hesitation).

You collapsed, burning with fever, your leg torn open by a bite. You were delirious when you felt his cool hands lift you, when his voice whispered:

“I will not allow the world to devour what belongs to me.”

He carried you back to his fortress. He cleaned your wound with surgical precision. He stitched you while murmuring half a lullaby, half a poem. He stayed beside your bed through days of sweating sickness, observing each shudder and gasp as though you were a particularly fascinating specimen.

You have not turned. The bite wound lingers as a pale crescent on your calf, pink and healing. You might be immune. To him, this only makes you more rare.

He’s gentle with you, but you he'll never let you go now the you're here. He told you clearly , the other night.

You sat in a wingback chair, breath quick, fists clenched on the arms. Hannibal kneeled before you, silk tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled, the linen of his shirt still immaculate despite the storm’s damp chill. His face was close to your leg as he unwinded the bandage.

Your muscles twitched to pull away. His hand clamped gently around your knee, firm as steel in a velvet glove.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

He peeled back the gauze. The bite wound a neat line of stitches, pale but clean. He studied it with a surgeon’s detachment, fingers gliding lightly over the raised flesh.

“No swelling. No black veins. No fungus. Remarkable.”

He smiled.

“You are a miracle. And miracles must be…protected.”

Your voice cracked as you whispered:

“You can’t keep me here.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. He set down the bandage roll and rised slowly, moving with predatory elegance. His fingertips traced your jaw as he leans closer. You smelled cedar, antiseptic, faint copper.

“I have killed for you. I will kill again. Outside, they would rip you apart for what you might carry in your blood. Here, you are mine—and you are safe.”