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Summary
Hannibal Lecter was dead and so was the schmuck whose body he'd stole. The doctor may've liked inflicting pain, but he couldn't tolerate suffering. It made Will wonder how he'd ever thought psychiatry would be an appropriate profession to hide out in, what with his constant desire to snuff out all those pathetic curs that would come to him, sniffling over the most mundane things.
Or, That One Where Hannibal Lecter is a Demon and Will Graham is a Psychic, But Nobody Will Admit Anything
