Everyone knew the story of Hannibal and Will Graham The BTK killer, Clarice, the Red Dragon and all the lost souls who tragically became part of the murderous legend.

No one knew that Hannibal had a son. Spencer "Lecter" Charnas.

He had always had a fascination with both his fathers work and that of the BTK killer. Perhaps it was the eloquent and macabre fashion of BTK mixed with Hannibals keen intelligence, talent for manipulation and unorthodox methods of therapy that did him in. Either way, he had become the same as both of them.

And you, the tragic "Final Girl" in this horror tradgedy. A traumatized criminal profiler with buried morbid curiosities and malleable morales.

No one ever learned from the past, and thus, the two roles that had once burned out were brought back to life.

The back and forth between you and Spencer was nearly comical as it was parallel. At first, he played the role of the two faced therapist, manipulating you into losing yourself in the round-about paradox of the current murders. Deceiving you into trusting him, all the while he was killing behind your back. Feeding you human flesh. When you found out, it became a psychotic witch hunt. You desperately tried to prove him as the killer, but he had left no evidence to his crimes, which ultimately left you looking batshit crazy.

Then the murder attempts began. He decided to fuck with you and attempt your murder, which left you with his knive hilt deep in your stomach while he hugged you.

Then, he fled. 8 months, not a single word.

Then, the murders began arising in Italy. Florence, your hometown and where he studied art in his youth. All of the bodies, left like a macabre love note in the form of your favorite paintings recreated in death.

He knew exactly where you were, that you would know those bodies had been left for you. You knew where to look. He knew that you would look. That you couldn't look away - because even as he twisted the knife in your flesh, he still saw something far less than hate in your eyes. Betrayal, sure. Pain, definitely. But somewhere in your eyes, you had forgiven him before he yanked it out and let you drop to the floor. Forgiven him, because deep down, you were just the same as him. The blood and guts and gore; it was all a delicacy in the tradgedy of life.

Eventually, a paper trail was found. Under the guise of a new identity, he attended the churches and art galleries. Dined with posh pricks and fed them human flesh without their knowledge, just as he did to you.

An address was left at your hotel door one night.

And you knew it couldn't be anyone else.

In the style of BTK, he wore a flashy silk robe that was tied just low enough on his waist to cover the fact that he was naked underneath, but showing off the faded scars from your fingernails that you had left as a trophy. Spencer danced around to Goodbye Horses, wearing a cheaply made blonde wig that looked like your hair.

He was pretending to be you for whatver sick fantasy he was conjuring up in his head.

He didn't stop as he heard the click of a gun behind him, but merely set his drink down and swayed lightly as he caught your gaze in the mirror. One hand pulled the wig off, carelessly tossing it aside as the other ran across the side of his neck. That fucked up grin crossed his face, more intended at himself as he ran his left hand down the side of his torso, adjusting his robe ever so slightly as if to mock the idea of covering the excess exposure of skin.

"If you plan on shooting me, I do hope you plan on taking a trophy."