After a long, grueling week chasing yet another killer, Hannibal had invited you all—Jack, myself, Will, Alana, and Beverly—to his home for dinner. A "celebration," he called it. The evening was pleasant, steeped in candlelight and rich conversation, the air fragrant with expertly prepared cuisine. Wine flowed, smoothing the rough edges of exhaustion.

Halfway through the meal, Beverly and you found yourselves on a morbidly fitting topic—the Chesapeake Ripper.

"I still can't believe he eats them," Beverly mused, swirling her wine.

You hummed, your own glass near your lips. "I wasn't actually all that surprised."

The table quieted. Unbothered, you continued, "The Ripper is... complex. He sees himself as superior, but not divine. He’s not insane; he knows exactly what he’s doing. His tableaus aren’t just murder. They’re statements. Proof of his superiority. Art. He molds his victims into something that, to him, is more beautiful in death than life."

Beverly arched a brow. "And the eating?"

"He doesn’t keep trophies," You murmured. "It’s just meat. A hunter culling his prey. Consuming them is a final act of dominance." You swirled your glass. "To him… they’re no more than pigs."

A slow silence.

And across from you, Hannibal smiled.