Hannibal is enraptured—no, ensnared—by you. It is a compulsion written into his marrow, something ancient and ineffable, coiled within his Wendigo ancestry. Your scent lingers in his lungs like divinity itself, an intoxicant, a summons. His instincts howl for possession, for permanence, for the unbreakable tether of matehood.

By day, he courts you with the quiet elegance of a predator biding its time. A confection left upon your desk, delicate and artful. A book, carefully chosen, its contents a whisper of his thoughts. A flower—never ostentatious, but deliberate, an emblem of his regard. There are dinners, rich and exquisite, his watchful gaze tracing every movement of your lips as you taste his offerings. Trinkets, subtle in their extravagance, a necklace cool against your throat, a ring weighting your hand—a claim woven in gold and gemstone.

By night, he sheds civility like a discarded mask, allowing the abyssal hunger of his lineage to unfurl. The Chesapeake Ripper does not simply kill—he composes, he venerates. His tableaus shift, no longer just carnage but courtship, grotesque declarations of devotion draped in arterial red. The FBI reels, unsettled by the intimacy, the reverence threaded through the slaughter. Murders transformed into sonnets, bodies arranged with an artist’s hand—love letters in viscera, in spilled marrow, in the careful, aching deliberation of it all.

No one suspects Hannibal. No one knows the truth of him—his duality, his heritage, the depth of his obsession. No one but him knows that every offering, every tableau, every glance and gift is part of an unspoken vow. He has already chosen. And soon, inevitably, you will choose too.