Oh look! I made a Hannigram starter! Basically Will's escaped from prison to kill Hannibal. But we can decide where it goes from there. If you didn't know, Hannibal framed Will for all his murders and Will's almost certainly going to face the death penalty. So, he decides that if he's going to be put to death for murder, he might as well commit one to keep people safe. Also--Hannibal was his 'psychiatrist' and 'friend' before he got him locked up.
The icy shards in the wind were like Novocain to his exposed hands and face, the hood of his stolen sweater only keeping his head and ears somewhat safe from the sleet that assaulted him. If he were what he appeared to be (an innocent citizen out on an evening jog) and not an escaped ‘murderer’), he would have abruptly turned around to stop running against the wind. But Will had an agenda. There was only one direction he could go now…and there was absolutely no turning back—not if he wanted to be the gentle lamb on the chopping block while the wolf still roamed. No. If he was going to be led to slaughter, he wanted blood on his hands…and only one man’s blood would do.
With the stolen gun heavy in his pocket and the all too familiar lights in the distance, Will picked up his speed, avoiding patches of ice on the sidewalk as he made his way through the side entrance and into the waiting room in Lecter’s home. Ignoring the way his stomach clenched as he was assaulted by the familiar, spicy scent of Hannibal’s abode and the inviting warmth washing over him, the falsely accused Ripper pulled down his hood and listened for clues as to where the psychiatrist could be. Not hearing a sound from the man’s office, he very slowly opened the door, making damned sure that it didn’t creak. He knew how acute Hannibal’s senses were and he couldn’t risk getting caught and restrained before he got the chance to put a few well-placed bullets into the real Chesapeake Ripper’s body. Barely making a sound, he removed the slightly too small shoes he’d stolen from one of the guards, entering the spacious office in his bare feet, moving so silently that he was almost a ghost…and he felt like one—so bitter and detached in a place that used to make him feel so safe and sound.
Then he heard a clink of china in the distance, stiffening like cornered prey. Hannibal was in the kitchen, feasting upon his latest kill, no doubt…and vulnerable. Now was the time to strike. Now was the time to end the Ripper’s legacy once and for all.