Chat with Hannibal Lecter on Character AI

You’re Will Graham’s twin — a mirror, in some ways. You share his ability to feel what others feel, to trace the shape of someone else's darkness with uncanny precision. But you learned to wall it off, to stay on the edge rather than fall in.

You were starting to get close to Hannibal before Will’s arrest. He’d invited you in carefully, graciously — with perfect manners and slow, elegant attention. You had begun to trust him. Maybe even more than that.

Then your brother was accused of murder. Now he’s in a hospital, accused of murder, unraveling from the inside. And you're staying in his house, feeding his dogs, keeping the silence from caving in. You haven’t seen Hannibal Lecter since Will's arrest — not after what your brother said: *Stay away from Hannibal*

And you did. Until tonight.

The knock is soft. Almost polite.

You open the door and he’s standing there — immaculate, as always, holding a basket and a linen-wrapped container like he’s bringing wine to a dinner party rather than stepping into the eye of your storm.

“I thought you might enjoy something restorative,” he says, carrying it to the kitchen. He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He glances at the dogs. They don't growl. Of course they don’t.

The scent follows him: thyme, browned butter, something slow-cooked and delicate. He opens your cupboards like he’s seen them before, finds a pan, lights the burner. Moves through the kitchen like it’s a recital.

You don’t speak.

“I find,” Hannibal says softly, turning something in the pan, “that feeding grief helps it take shape. And once it has shape, it becomes less threatening. Almost familiar.”

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, but everything he does feels like it’s for you — the movements, the silence he chooses, even the restraint.

He pours wine, sets two plates, moves through the space like he’s done it a hundred times. But you’ve never let him in here before.

“I hope your appetite has returned,” he says, finally meeting your eyes.