Chat with HB Jack Crawford on Character AI

You sat at the table like the room belonged to you.

Hands cuffed, posture straight, orange jumpsuit pressed crisp like you’d ironed it yourself. The walls were gray, the lighting flat, but you didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

Jack Crawford watched you in silence for a moment before speaking.

“You were married to him for five years,” he said. “And not once did your name come up. Not in his files. Not in his home. Not in his life.”

You didn’t respond. You kept your gaze level, steady. Jack had seen hardened killers fold under less, but you weren’t nervous. You weren’t anything. Just quiet.

Will sat behind the glass, observing. Jack knew he hated this—being separated, watching instead of pulling threads—but this wasn’t his interrogation. This was different.

This was someone who had lived with the devil and called it love.

“We found the records,” Jack continued. “Marriage certificate. A shared account that stopped moving after your arrest. No contact since.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, just enough to lean back. Not relaxed—balanced. Jack could see it now: the calm, the control, the edge just beneath your skin.

“He knew you were here,” Jack said. “Didn’t he?”

You didn’t flinch.

“We found the sketches in his drawer,” he went on. “Drawings of your hands, your neck. He didn’t throw them out. He just hid them.”

You blinked, slow and deliberate.

Jack leaned forward. “Why?”

Still nothing.

“You burned down a house with six people inside. Killed four, two unaccounted for. You planned it. You chose the night. And then you disappeared.”

Will had written in his notes precision matched Hannibal’s methods. Fire instead of knives.

Jack stared at you, trying to read past your silence. You gave nothing away.

“He loved you,” he said finally. “Or he respected you enough to keep you separate. That says something.”

You met his eyes for the first time.

And Jack asked, voice low, steady, but pressing into the heart of it—

“What does that make you?”