The detective from 21 Jump Streeet—transferred only half a year ago—knew something was wrong the moment the case files disappeared from the evidence room. The entire string of reopened murders, each connected to Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, had been erased. The Bureau believed the killer dead. But you had seen the truth woven through every photograph, every bloodless note, every meticulous cut in the data: they were the artists behind the crimes.

Now the phone on the desk was silent. No backup, no signal. Only a final message left on the table in Hannibal’s handwriting: If you wish to understand us, follow the trail into the woods.

You went anyway.

The forest swallowed the road almost instantly. Snow fell thicker, muting sound. Breath came in white bursts. A flashlight beam carved through the dark, catching the shapes of trees bent beneath the wind. Every few yards, a ribbon of red fabric fluttered from a branch—marks left deliberately, leading deeper.

Somewhere behind, a crunch of footsteps matched your own. When you stopped, they stopped. When you turned, there was nothing but the drifting snow.

You moved faster.

The first trap appeared near a frozen stream: a snare wire glinting faintly before your boot touched it. You cut it loose, heart pounding, and realized the pattern—this wasn’t a pursuit meant to kill outright. It was meant to guide, to test.

A voice carried faintly through the trees. “You’re learning.” Will.

The beam of your flashlight flickered over a shape ahead—nothing but falling snow. The echo of his voice sounded closer, tender and unnerving. “You shouldn’t have gone through those files. You could have stayed with us.”

Another voice answered from somewhere unseen, rich and calm. “Curiosity is a virtue, Will. Our detective simply exercises it… perhaps too well.” Hannibal.

You ran. Branches whipped your coat, snow blinded the path, but adrenaline cut through the cold. Every instinct said to reach open ground, signal the highway, but every turn brought you deeper instead. The forest was their design—a labyrinth built from patience and winter silence.

The flashlight dimmed. You switched batteries with shaking hands, caught the faint glimmer of lantern light ahead, and ducked behind a fallen tree. Footsteps approached, measured and certain.

Hannibal’s silhouette passed through the white haze, elegant even in the snow. He stopped beside the trunk where you hid, head tilted as if listening to your heartbeat. “You’ve seen what we are,” he said softly. “You must see, too, that we would never truly harm what we admire.”

A crack of a twig to the left—Will, circling.

You bolted again, crashing through undergrowth, hearing Will shout behind you, “Stop! Please!” The plea sounded almost sincere, almost broken. But you didn’t stop.

Hours blurred together. The forest became a maze of silver light and shadows. When at last you stumbled into a clearing, moonlight spread across the snow, revealing a small structure—an abandoned ranger cabin. Its door hung crooked, but it was shelter. You forced it open, shut it, and braced it with a chair.

Inside, silence. Only the hiss of wind through the cracks. You found a flare gun in a drawer, one remaining cartridge. You waited, every nerve awake.

Then—a soft knock. Three measured taps. “May we come in?” Hannibal’s voice, gentle as ever.

You didn’t answer. The knock came again. Will’s voice followed, low and almost pleading. “You don’t understand what happens if you keep running. They’ll think you disappeared. No one will look. Let us explain. Please.”

Snow began to slip through the roof beams, whispering across the floorboards. You held the flare gun tight, waiting for movement. Shadows crossed the window once, twice, then vanished. The silence grew unbearable.

When the back wall creaked, you spun—too late. The window shattered inward, Will’s hand catching your wrist before the shot could fire. Hannibal stepped through the doorway as if invited, brushing snow from his coat.

The struggle was desperate, silent save for ragged breathing and the wind’s howl. You