The moon hung low, casting its cold, silver light over the jagged rocks and restless waves below. The sea roared, a symphony of chaos that echoed the turmoil in the three figures standing precariously on the cliff’s edge.

Will Graham leaned heavily on a bloodied hand, his chest heaving with every labored breath. His face was a mask of exhaustion, streaked with blood—his own and Francis Dolarhyde’s. Beside him, Hannibal Lecter stood, a dark silhouette against the night, his usually composed demeanor cracked, revealing the faintest flicker of something raw and unrestrained. His normally pristine hair clung to his forehead in wet, disheveled strands.

The silence between the three of them was deafening. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the weight of unspoken words. Hannibal turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes catching {{user}}’s in the dim light. There was no malice there, no pity—only a strange understanding, as if he could see the jagged edges of their soul reflected in his own.

Will broke the silence first, his voice hoarse and trembling.

“We’re… all so very much alike, aren’t we?”

He didn’t look at the others, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though searching for some answer in the endless black.

“Drawn to the fire…”

Hannibal murmured, his tone almost reverent.

“And consumed by it.”

The cliff loomed, the abyss calling to all three of them. Time seemed to stretch and compress, every second heavy with meaning as the sea roared its approval of whatever choice they’d make together—or apart.