Will Graham is a hero, and Hannibal Lecter is dead.

To Will Graham's knowledge, it has been two months since he killed Francis Dolarhyde and coerced Hannibal Lecter to die alongside him. Three men were to enter and none were to get out with their lives. Will Graham got out with his life, and with only a scrambled brain, a broken spine, and a cruel, perching thing on his shoulder to show for it. A perching thing that cackles its favorite phrase:

Hannibal is dead.

the wooden stairs creak as he ascends them,  and with every step,  the mehmeti son feels himself riddle with   energetic nerve.      kel isn’t  used  to feeling anxious,  isn’t   equipped   to deal with feeling divided ;    he is always so very sure of himself,  so certain of his goals and convinced by his methods.    but  this fateful night,   one that has been building for a number of silent days and pressing hours,  was bound to come by sooner or later ;     he has his work cut out for him to win dunham back.     standing by the white wooden door of ira’s office,  there - in is a touch of grappling hesitation.     how ought he to approach this ?     in true fashion of himself,  though,  he pays shrunk time to this mindfulness ;    it’s with a puffed chest that he opens the door.

ira is already sat,   a smouldering cigarette in his left hand,  and his narrow face is lit blue and  gaunt  by the screen of his laptop.    when he peers upward,  the depth of his rage,  it seems,  has curdled so exhaustingly on his features that he appears not to show any emotion at all ;    almost   completely unreadable.      attempting not to liken the exchange between them,  at this moment,  to that of a delinquent student being summoned to the headmaster,  kel sniffs,  and tilts his chin upward at him.    while one of them seeks out dominance in the situation,  the other appears to have effortlessly slid into it,  without even trying.

‘      i was  hoping  you’d turn up tonight,    ’         mehmeti admits,  rubbing his signet ring with his thumb absently,  and making his way toward the chair that opposes ira’s desk ;   slowly,   as though he were approaching a hawk guarding it’s eggs.          ‘     we have things to talk about.    ’

‘    i disagree.   ’         somehow,  the usual pitch of ira’s voice comes out  deeper  than normal,  and is utterly  burnt to a crisp with exasperation.     he knows he shouldn’t smoke inside,  but he does so out of   spite,    and takes a long drag ;  letting it puff itself out of him between them,  as if the rift that separates them needed any further highlighting.         ‘    i’m not here long,  i’m just finishing some things i didn’t get chance to finish the weekend before last.    so if you don’t mind.    ’  ‘    ira.   ’ unchanging,   dunham is   silent   at kel’s plea. ‘    we should talk about what happened last weekend.    ’ ‘    why would we do   that ?      ’      another exhale of smoke,   aimed  at kel. ‘    …   well,   i assumed you’d want to.    ’ on a sardonic,   humourless  laugh,           ‘    you shouldn’t assume  anything.   ’

while it’s clear to kel that ira has reformed himself into something of a   sealed membrane,    shut so totally that he’s almost unable to hear him at all,  he persists ;  they share a gaze so unshaking that   neither can look away,  as if to do so would admit defeat.      not even the corners of ira’s jaw clench,  nor does he touch at his face to hide behind his hand.         𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝.        kel has to   admire   him,  for a fraction of a second          ––––          whatever he felt when he’d come to   scoop up severin from the jaws of the wolf,    it appears to have turned him to stone.    poised,  and   unflappable.      (   he wonders,  though,  if this is some ruse ;  that underneath that,  there isn’t still some volcanic core,  pulsing and spitting.  )

‘      i don’t agree with what murrat did,    ’        kel goes on,  at last finding himself breaking eye contact to touch his desk,  tap his fingers against the beechwood.         ‘    when i came in,    he was already finished.      there wasn’t much of anything i could do.      that was when i called you.    ’         well aware that ira’s gaze is still locked onto him in the wordless beats that pass by,  kel continues.     ‘     how is he ?      ’

this is when the mask   slips.      ira’s upper lip recoils as his nose twitches ;  a creep of view to what kel had suspected was lurking ;      that tumultuous rage.        there comes no response,  simply a deepening of his stare,    so exhausting that kel can’t maintain it with him,  and all but wriggles underneath it.

‘      well,  i hope he’s …  getting better,   ’      mehmeti concludes with.    as clearly there’s no point trying to go further,  he stands,  and takes heavy,  almost   defeated   steps to the door.       ‘     i’ll leave you to it.   ’

‘     if  murrat …   ’            when ira speaks,  it’s got a   sudden   quality to it ;  louder than before,  and with a  slight tremble  to it,  as though it   groans under the pressure of his fury.      while kel simply  has  to look,  and feels as though he’s peering into the core of a  nuclear reactor,   ira remains seated.        ‘      or  any  of you …    or anyone  working  for you  …    ever   …    touch  him,  or  anyone  with me,  ever again  …    ’

there’s a pause.    the silence between them is so catastrophically  deafening  that neither man can turn aside from each other ;  like the north and south of magnets,  colliding and  crashing  together.

‘     i’ll put you all behind bars for the rest of your fucking lives,  and every penny you’ve ever made will be mine.   do you understand me ?    ’        this is when the   money - man   stands.    even kel,  someone so versed with staying steadfast in the face of trials,  has to bite his cheek ;  ira moves round the desk toward him,  slowly shrinking the gap between them.

‘      every penny you’ve ever made.    every penny your  family  has ever made.    your father has ever made.   his  fucking father ever made.    everything in the mehmeti name.    it will all be mine.    do you hear what i’m saying ?    everything.    your houses.    the bars.    your money.        everything.    ’         ira stands before him now,  and the difference in their height has never been quite so   significant   before ;  he seems to rise on his haunches like a grizzly bear at him,    and every word comes out as though he’s frothing at the mouth ;  hoarse,  but volatile.    kel has never seen ira so  raw.

‘    do you understand ?    ’

kel considers doing one of many things.    pushing ira back away from him in defence,  raising himself higher,  threatening  him  back with violence or calling down to murrat to outnumber him ;  all of them,  though,  have the enormity of admitting to the same root cause.    for the first time between them,   he is not the one in control.     while the realization of this starts becoming obvious in his expression,  and suddenly he’s aware that whatever action he takes within these next few seconds will dictate the immediate and late future,    kel finds himself submitting.      he nods slowly.

‘    good.    so we’re on the same page  after  all.    ’

while kel wonders if his outburst is simply an act of prying it from his system,  or if there’s  truth  in his threats,  he elects not to argue.    it becomes very apparent to him,  then,  that as he often is,   dunham is right ;    and for the first real moment of truth ;  that   he doesn’t doubt the accountant could sell them all out if he really wanted to.      with this thought a raising inferno in his mind,  and unsure if he should be excited and thrilled by ira’s display,  or horrified at the transgression of the man before him,  or what he’s  become,      what he’s becoming ;      he backs toward the door.

‘     we’ll talk later,    ’        mehmeti at last speaks,  voice quieted.

the nerve of him to do all that knowing full well  where  he is,  he thinks,  as he steps out,  and closes the door shut behind him.    get murrat to teach him a fucking lesson,  is the next thought,  upon the descension of those creaking stairs.    kick him out and cut ties with him completely.    talk to emina about what to do next.    have him jumped one night and put his body in the thames.      have a fucking drink.      all thoughts become a visible matrix on him as he finds himself back among the thudding music of the bar and pacing with mounting frustration toward the counter ;   emina catches his gaze,  and notes that he seems far more wound up than before.    than,  perhaps,   ever  before.

‘    what is it ?    ’      she poses ;  but he almost immediately shuts her out.    you fucking idiot,  he thinks ;  he snapped you like a fucking twig and you let him.    whiskey. ‘    nothing,   ’     kel snaps back.    the same glass is refilled,  and downed within seconds. ‘     it doesn’t   look   like nothing.    ’ ‘     it’s  fine.    ’

kel   retreats   further,    at this point ;  escapes to the street outside for a cigarette.    shakes himself,  shakes that   frustration,   rags on it like a dog and leans against the brick wall.    slams his hand against it.    you can’t let him talk to you like that.    you have to show him why he can’t talk to you like that.        ––––          but what if he   could   do all that ?    there’s no reason why he’d lie ;  it’s ira.    he doesn’t say anything unless he’s already thought it through a   million fucking times.

‘     you talked to him,   ’         the familiar voice of   murrat,    already outside.     murrat,      man of the hour,    who still looks as he always does ;    as though he knows something you don’t,    and that wry,  shallow little smirk as though he’s   proud   of himself.    for once,  it grinds kel the wrong way,  and in a flash,    he’s on him ;    pushing into his chest.    their noses touch.    the breaths kel pushes out his nose are short and   fuming.