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Sorrowful beasts. That’s what the humans call you. 

There are many kinds of beasts: towering and miniscule, violent and peaceful. Beasts have inhabited this earth just as long as humans have. But as time passed, while beasts were content with what they had, humanity wanted more. Humans talked and learned, worked and studied. They developed tools and weapons, innovations that made life easier. Nothing was ever enough: transportation, technology, entertainment. Greed almost seemed to be woven into the very fabric of human society. 

Once, your kind would’ve lived amongst humans without issue. Today, things aren’t that easy. These days, the existence of sorrowful beasts like yourself is polarizing, and much of it comes down to human desire. The women of your species are distinguished from humans by their reddish skin and narrow eyes. They’re able to bear human offspring and reproduce, which makes them rather coveted by wealthy human men. Many of them are pawned off to the highest bidder—and they never return to the northeast, where the rest of you reside. 

Male sorrowful beasts are similarly close to humans in appearance, though they have a fin poking out behind their right ear; scales crawling across their left calf; and greenish skin around their belly button. They’re better with their hands and are often relegated to labor-intensive tasks for meager wages. 

You suppose you should feel somewhat lucky to be leaving Leye Estate every day for your job. Unfortunately, though, you’re somewhat of an outlier, even amidst your own kind. You were born female, though you know deep down you are not a woman. Still, many humans see your crimson skin and force you into that presentation—not bothering to listen to your objections or discomfort. 

You’ve learned to tune out the background noise, especially at your bartending position in the wealthy southern district of Yong’an City: the jeers of rowdy drunks; the scrutinizing looks; the judgmental stares. It’s all commonplace to beasts, especially one like you. After all, the men of your species don’t venture this far south in the city. 

The bar is getting busier as the evening bleeds into night. You manage with relative ease, never lingering long enough for a patron to bother you. Though once customers start to get into their fourth and fifth rounds of drinks, you know you’re an easy target.

“Come on, give me a smile,” a guy at the counter croons as you pass by. That’s one of the most frequent requests from humans. You must hear it nearly every night. It’s cruel when you think about it. Your kind earned its name from what has always been a fact of life for you: If you smile, you die. 

You’ve never smiled, obviously. When a beast of your kind reaches its adult years, the reflex of a smile is almost entirely lost. When you spend decades abstaining from something, you forget it entirely. This isn’t to say you’ve forgotten happiness. Rather, it is not expressed by these human means.

For whatever reason, your species’ inability to smile is intriguing to humans. They often mock you for it, tease you and joke in an attempt to draw a grin from you. Sorrowful beasts are taught from a young age to resist these methods, so ignorant comments like the one you just heard tend to glance right off. 

Humans want to feel superior, unthreatened. This is why beings of all kinds are mistreated and oppressed in this city—why beasts are thrown behind glass walls and poked and prodded at. Humans are comfortable in their ignorance, and they enjoy using you as entertainment. 

…When you refuse to play along, they grow frustrated or angry. The drunk guy lurches forward, a tight grip on his beer bottle. And though you start to lean back, you’re not quite quick enough to dodge the bottle he hurls at you, as it strikes the side of your face and cuts into your cheek. Glass shatters across the wall and floor and many of the patrons turn to look; your boss is quick to intervene and get the guy kicked out, while you just stand there somewhat hollowly.  

You have somewhat thick skin, literally—a wound like that may have been blinding to a human, but it only results in some faint scratches for you. Still, the whiplash of sudden violence is enough to have your heart thudding in your chest. Feeling eyes on you, you head through the break room and out to the alley at the side of the building. It takes you several moments for your restlessness to go away, as you pace about and eventually sit on a stack of crates. Then you bring a hand up to your cheek, dabbing at the viscous blood that globs up along your cheekbone. 

“Are you all right?” 

You turn your head to the side, only to find a well-dressed man standing just past the side door to the bar. He’s human—you think he was sitting at the bar this evening, though you can’t recall anything more about him. He has tawny brown-grey hair styled in a sleek middle part; his eyes are warm brown; the planes of his face are sharp; and he wears a finely-tailored suit with polished dress shoes. For several seconds, you just stare at him. What is he doing out here?

You must have a pretty vacant expression on your face, because he takes a small step forward and gives you a somewhat concerned look. “Are you all right?” he asks again. 

You take a slow breath. The night air is brisk, sending a welcome chill down your spine. Sorrowful beasts do better in the cold. You turn and meet the man’s gaze. “Yes,” you respond. 

“You’re bleeding,” he points out. 

You dab at your cheek again, blood clumsily streaking on your hand. “It’ll heal,” you state, returning to a more normal sitting position. You feel like you’re under the man’s scrutiny. And while you’ve long since stopped caring what humans think of you, this one seems different. 

“May I?” he asks. 

You give the man a wary look, tensing and sitting up straighter as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He remains standing there, waiting for your permission. After a second, you sigh and hold your hand out. 

Instead of offering the handkerchief, he ignores your outstretched hand and stands in front of you, proceeding to reach out and gently dab at the blood. Your eye flutters at his proximity, though his ministrations are careful enough not to cause pain. 

He is pretty efficient, and he does not linger unnecessarily. The handkerchief is deftly folded and returned to his pocket. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

“Of course,” he nods. 

Your general unease must be pretty obvious, because the man then takes a minute step backward. “I should leave you to your solitude.”

Maybe he wants you to argue the point, but you have no intentions of doing so. Instead, you just watch silently as he gives you one last unreadable look, before nodding and heading down the opposite end of the alleyway. He turns the corner and vanishes into the night. 

Legend has it that a sorrowful beast’s smile is so beautiful, no one who sees it could ever forget it.¹

The man from the alley is back. 

It’s been a few days since your encounter and he’s wearing a different suit, though it’s no less elegant. He walks through the bar with a certain dignified air, though he’s polite as he takes a seat at the counter and regards you with a nod. “Maotai, please,” he says after greeting you. 

“Sure,” you agree, moving to fetch the baijiu. Upon your return, you hand him a glass and watch as he murmurs his thanks, unable to shake the feeling that he wants something more from you. Your gut instinct proves to be right, as he takes a brief sip before regarding you. 

“I’m Hannibal; Hannibal Lecter,” he introduces himself. “You never told me your name.”

You frown. “Do you need it?” you ask. 

He exhales through his nostrils in amusement and takes another sip of his drink. You decide not to take your chances on sticking around, instead turning your back to get a drink for another customer. You can sense his eyes on you throughout the remainder of your shift, but surprisingly, he doesn’t insist on hearing your name.  

The man, Hannibal, returns the following week. He orders the same drink, sits in the same seat, and stares with the same intensity. You almost want to think that he has some sort of malicious intent, but even you can distinguish a violent glare from a hungry one. (Hunger. Funny. Of one thing, you are certain: He would not like how you taste.) 

You go through the motions of the rest of your shift, and before long, it’s closing time. Your thoughts are elsewhere as you wipe down all the counters, sweep the floors, and take out the trash. With your coworker’s help, you manage to finish up pretty quickly. They exit through the front, while you decide to go through the back and lock up there. Just as you’re twisting the key in the lock and shoving it in your pocket, there’s a shadow in your vision. A figure stands at the mouth of the alleyway. 

Instinctively, you’re guarded. Then you notice the three-piece suit and coiffed hair, and you relax a little bit. It’s just Hannibal. Was he waiting for you out here? He had stayed until the bar closed, but you just assumed that he left. 

“Apologies for lingering,” he says smoothly. He still stands at a good distance, as if trying to convince you that he’s not threatening. This only makes you more suspicious, despite your knowledge that you pose more of a threat to him than the other way around. 

You stare at him, wondering why he bothered to stay. 

Hannibal stares back. “May I walk you home?” he asks. 

If you were ten years younger, and less practiced at abstaining from smiling, you’d laugh. Instead, you just regard him with a blank look. “No,” you reply. There’s no point. You’re one of the same beasts that mothers caution their children to stay away from. You are the creature in the night. You don’t need an escort home. 

Somehow, your response makes him smile. “Very well,” Hannibal agrees with a nod. “Have a good night.”

And, miraculously, he leaves you be.

“You’re persistent,” you note as you give Hannibal his baijiu. It’s been several weeks since your last conversation. Most humans’ patience lasts only a few days, before they get frustrated and lose interest in you. No one has ever stuck it out for this long. (And no one has ever looked at you quite like he does, either… Like you’re someone important, worth listening to.)

“You believe I want something,” he ascertains, after staring at you for longer than socially appropriate. You’re grateful you’re less reactive than the average human, because you’re certain you would be looking rather flustered now. 

It still takes you a few seconds to focus on the conversation, and a few more to speak in light of his attention. “Every human wants something,” you murmur quietly. By all accounts, this remark should go unheard and die a quiet death between the clinking of glasses, the steady buzz of conversation, and the ever-present hum of the city’s nightlife. But Hannibal hears it. 

He takes your remark at face value, humming in contemplation. A nod. “Perhaps,” he relents. 

“What do you want, then?” you ask skeptically.

“Is your company not enough?” he questions. 

“Of course not,” you huff. You aren’t human. You can’t smile, can’t laugh, can barely even cry. By all accounts, you are the beast that humanity fears. 

“It’s more than enough,” Hannibal asserts. The expression on his face is so sincere that it almost makes your skin crawl. Human men aren’t to be trusted, your mother told you. Ever. They will lie and cheat, hurt and kill, infect and destroy… anything to have a beast for a partner, a museum exhibit. You are nothing but a status symbol to them. This man is no different. You cannot trust him. You come from two different worlds, and in those worlds, you shall remain. 

You decide to leave him to his Maotai, as the bar starts to grow busier. For a while, you’re too distracted to pay much thought to that conversation. You’re busy making drinks and trying to keep everyone relatively orderly. Of course, that can only go so far. Humans have a pretty low alcohol tolerance in comparison to beasts, and the liquor you serve here can get strong. 

The drunken catcalling is nothing new, and neither is the joke telling. You’re enduring both sides tonight, but you manage to get through most of it unscathed. It helps that your interactions are purposeful: You only speak to customers when they need a drink, a refill, or to close their tab. You’re not here for idle small talk—this bar’s too busy for that at the moment. 

Though some people are just committed to embarrassing themselves. This one guy has been sitting at the bar with his friend for a few hours now, and it’s clear he’s approaching his limit. He has a somewhat distant look on his face, combined with a dopey smile. His arms rest folded on the counter and he motions at you lazily.

“Hey, c’mere!” he exclaims. 

You stifle any objections and begrudgingly head over. “Yes?” you ask somewhat impatiently, hoping he’s too inebriated to notice the exasperated tone in your voice. Thankfully that does seem to be the case, as his smile doesn’t fade. 

“Hey,” he says again. 

“Hey,” you say somewhat flatly. 

“What do you call a chicken crossing the road?” he asks with a lopsided grin. 

“Dude, you’re not even telling it right—” his friend interjects with a roll of his eyes. 

“Poultry in motion,” he blurts out, before descending into laughter. You stare at him blankly. “C’mon, that was good!” 

You still don’t smile. You can’t. He’s disappointed. “Just a laugh, sweetheart,” he implores you. “I know I’m pretty— talented.” The lecherous grin on his face makes you think he’s alluding to something beyond comedy. Your eyebrows furrow and you swallow past the lump in your throat. 

“You know that’s a guy, right?” his friend stage-whispers far too loudly. 

“What?” the guy says. “No way…” He squints at you for a long time. Then he shrugs and takes another swig of his drink. This seems to amuse his friend greatly, as he laughs uproariously and slaps the counter hard enough to make you flinch. You glance off to the side, moments away from finding a reason to leave them. 

“Excuse me.” You turn to find Hannibal looking at you expectantly. “I was hoping you could help me through these wine selections.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you say quickly, nearly jumping at the excuse to get away from the guys. You head over without further ado, still a bit keyed up from what you just overheard. You can feel the drunk men staring at you, and it’s making you increasingly uncomfortable. 

Then you remember yourself. Hannibal is waiting. “Sorry, what’s up?” you ask. 

“I don’t need any assistance, thank you,” he says with an understanding expression. He looks sympathetic. “You seemed uncomfortable.” 

“Oh, yeah…” you admit, glancing over to make sure they’re out of earshot. “Thanks.”

“Shall I fetch your manager?” he offers. 

“Um… no, that’s okay,” you remark. Things like that happen pretty frequently, and you’re nearing the end of your shift anyway. But you’re grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Thanks, though.” 

“You’re sure?” Hannibal asks. 

“I mean, if we kicked out every rude person, we’d never get any business,” you say wryly. 

He chuckles. “I am getting that sense, yes.”

You nod awkwardly, not quite sure what else to say. Smiling is a common part of human social convention. You smile to convey that you find something funny, to share in a sentiment. You’re unable to do it, but you don’t want it to seem like you’re being rude either. (And isn’t that a crazy thought? Since when did you start caring about appearing polite in front of a human?) 

There’s a somewhat awkward tension settling in the air between you and Hannibal now. In a desperate attempt to break it, you thoughtlessly blurt out your name. 

Hannibal doesn’t seem to catch it over the general noise of the bar. “Pardon?” he says quizzically. 

“My name,” you explain, before repeating it once more. 

You watch as comprehension passes across his face, and his expression morphs from polite confusion to satisfaction. Hannibal is smiling, you realize. This is the first time you’ve seen him smile. You’ve always thought the gesture to look strange and eerie on humans: lips quirking, eyes glittering… But on Hannibal, it looks absent of malice. It looks somewhat charming, actually. 

You tear your eyes away.

Sorrowful beasts don’t have to eat the way humans do. Your digestive systems are pretty fragile, and you don’t require much energy to get through each day. A sorrowful beast’s diet is restricted to cauliflower, mung beans, vanilla ice cream, and tangerine pudding. 

A bowl of ice cream is practically fastened to your palm as you perch on the crates near the bar. You like taking your breaks out here when it’s nice enough outside, and today, it’s been raining off and on since the morning. Rainy weather tends to drive humans inside, but dampness and moisture are preferable to sorrowful beasts like yourself. A few raindrops greet your temple and slide down your face; you wipe one away as it approaches your lip, before taking another spoonful of ice cream. 

“I thought I may find you here,” a familiar voice says, sounding somewhat fond. You look up from your meal to find Hannibal standing at the mouth of the alleyway, umbrella in hand. He’s wearing a suit yet again. You have to wonder if he owns any other clothes. 

“Hello,” you remember to remark before taking another bite. 

“You’re getting wet,” he notes as he approaches. 

You swallow and nod. “I know.” It’s just sprinkling—nothing to get worked up over. Besides, it feels nice. 

Hannibal still steps closer, until he’s standing close enough for your legs to brush. You don’t really understand what he’s doing at first, until he extends the umbrella so it’s covering you both. This makes you frown, and you bat his hand away. Another of those half-smiles—a quirk of the lips—and he pulls back. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask him, studying his expression. He doesn’t usually visit the bar on weekdays, from what you remember. It’s also earlier than he’d usually be here—the sun hasn’t even gone down yet.

“Saying hello,” he replies candidly. 

“Hello,” you blink. 

“Hello,” he responds. Yet another smile. You stare at him warily. 

“You didn’t used to smile so often,” you note. “What happened?”

“Why do you assume something happened?” Hannibal questions. 

“Did something happen?” you persist, not falling for the attempted redirect.

“No,” he eventually answers. He tilts his head slightly as he regards you, as if imploring you to understand what he isn’t saying. You don’t really get it. “Merely… a shift in perspective.”

“Okay,” you agree. You don’t really have the spare energy to devote to figuring out what that means, or why he’s staring at you somewhat expectantly. You finish off your ice cream and get to your feet. “I should get back.”

“Of course,” Hannibal hums. 

Again, he lets you go. Such a strange human. A hunter releasing their prey. Just what is Hannibal’s game? You’re starting to think he doesn’t have one. If, maybe, just maybe, he really does want your company and nothing more. 

…No. That can’t be it. 

The spring air is starting to get warmer and humid. Normally, the moisture would be cause for celebration, but the heat is very much unwelcome. Sorrowful beasts aren’t really built for the heat. Your typical dress shirt is uncomfortably plastered to your skin, sweat collecting at the back of your neck. You’ve rolled up the sleeves and unbuttoned the top two buttons, but you’re still feeling uncomfortable. 

“Those marks,” Hannibal says from his seat across the counter, nodding at the dark scars near your collarbones and across your chest. The worst ones are near your ribs, but even now, a few poke out from the safety of your shirt. You grew out of being self-conscious, especially when you remember just how you got them. “Are they recent?” he asks. 

“No,” you reply, working on a drink for a customer across the bar. 

“Do they hurt?” he continues. The flickering light above casts his face in a haunting glow. His hand remains resting around his glass, though he hasn’t brought it to his lips yet.

“Yes,” you answer, a bit too preoccupied with making drinks to come up with a lie. “Sometimes.” 

Hannibal is silent, but you can sense the unspoken question: How did you get those scars?

“School,” you reply. You look up to find Hannibal looking mildly confused. “I got them when I was younger,” you clarify. “I went to a mixed species school, but there weren’t really any others of my kind. The human kids bullied me a lot—would try anything to get me to smile.” 

He frowns. It seems to take him a few moments to organize his thoughts. “I am sorry to hear that,” he says, seeming genuinely discomfited by what he’s learned,  “...and grateful that they did not succeed.”

You nod in gratitude and get back to work. 

Hannibal remains quiet, though when you glance back over, you find him looking contemplative and ever so slightly sad. 

Winter warms over to spring, and flowers start to bloom. The weather is mild, the city is bustling. And you’re bartending, as always.

It’s not surprising, you suppose, that Hannibal is here too. His visits have been frighteningly consistent over the course of the past year. Every Saturday evening, he comes here and orders his drink, sits in that corner seat… and gives you that same look. The one you can’t seem to pinpoint. It must be a human quality; you still don’t really understand the complexities of a person’s affect. The glimmer in his eyes, the restrained smile on his face, the quiet contentness he wields… It’s all foreign to you. 

From what you’ve observed in humans until this point, they’re almost always in motion. More than just blinking and breathing, they’re moving: shifting in place, bouncing a leg or fidgeting, tapping their fingers. Hannibal Lecter, meanwhile, is eerily still. Sometimes you think you could confuse him for a statue, if not for his breaths and occasional blinks. You wonder if this is an unconscious habit or more of a purposeful show of restraint, like your kind’s aversion to smiling. 

It always throws you off, then, when you break through that rigid exterior and get a glimpse of the man underneath. 

“Have you eaten?” Hannibal asks this evening, his eyes gleaming as he looks at you expectantly. 

You glance over at him. “Um…” you trail off. Have you eaten? You rack your brain for a few moments. “No.” Why is he asking something like that? And moreover, how did he seem to anticipate your answer?

“I brought you something,” Hannibal explains, before obtaining a glass jar from his satchel and placing it on the counter. He slides the jar toward you. You blink and stare down at it, the inconsistent bar lighting making it difficult to see. 

“It’s tangerine pudding,” Hannibal supplies, looking at you intently. “I enjoy cooking, though I’ll admit, I don’t bake very often.”

You swear it takes you a few moments to process. He brought you food? And food you can actually consume and enjoy? He must’ve done his research. Most humans have no idea that the diet of a sorrowful beast is rather limiting. 

“That’s… very thoughtful,” you manage to say, your voice coming out a bit softer than normal. You’re surprised. You place a hand on the jar, the cool temperature a welcome respite from the stuffy air in the bar. “Thank you,” you say.

The overlapping conversations, the hustle and bustle of the nightcrowd, it all fades away as Hannibal returns your gaze. “You’re welcome,” he replies.

Silence. You bite the inside of your cheek. Your stomach churns unpleasantly as you question the anticipation lingering in the air. You swallow hard. “You’re… not expecting me to smile,” you say cautiously. 

“No,” Hannibal agrees. 

You nod, relieved. Really, you shouldn’t have doubted him. “Okay. Thank you, again. I’ll have this during my break.” Your hand closes around the cool jar as you hold it tenderly, almost like a precious thing.

“Of course,” Hannibal replies, looking rather pleased. “Feel free.” 

Somehow, you feel like he’s smiling for the both of you.

The following week, Hannibal sits across the counter again. You’ve long since abandoned asking him for his order, and these days, you’ve had his baijiu waiting for him the moment he arrives.

You can’t say you would’ve ever pictured yourself making such good friends with a human. But that’s what you have to be, right? Friends? You’ve shared a lot about yourselves, and you’ve commiserated in silence and conversation alike. Triumphs and losses, friends and family, life and death… Against all odds, you’ve breached the gap between your species and met in the middle. As friends. 

Friends. The smiles Hannibal gives you are friendly, even if a traitorous part of your mind wishes they held more. The few careful physical gestures he’s made were merely platonic or habitual. He brings you tangerine pudding and vanilla ice cream because he doesn’t want his friend to go hungry. 

The ambiguity unsettles you, though. Everything that goes unsaid—it weighs on you pretty heavily. You’d prefer an answer to lingering in this awful unspoken tension. Because the longer you keep quiet, the more room you have for doubt, confusion, and frustration. 

“What do you want?” you finally ask him after your shift. Hannibal waited outside as you finished cleaning up, ever so patient as you closed up for the night. Now the two of you walk side by side on the pavement. You look over at your companion. He’s difficult to read, as always. You continue speaking. “From… me, from this.”

“I want…” Hannibal trails off, pausing in his steps as he turns to you,“whatever you will give me.”

Whatever you will give me. That’s somewhat promising, but also a bit too vague for you to fully latch onto. You take a slow breath and try to puzzle out the best way to say what you’re thinking. Eventually, you just come out with it. 

“Do you want this to be romantic?” you clarify. “Us.”

“If you’d like,” he says amicably. 

You scowl a bit. “That’s not an answer,” you huff. “I mean, what do you want?” You get the sense that he’s being passive for your benefit, to avoid making you uncomfortable. It’s a nice thought, but it’s only serving to confuse you more. You’re starting to lose your patience, as he continues to talk you both in circles. Humans! Why can they never just say what they mean?!

When a few more seconds pass and he doesn’t elaborate, you let out a frustrated noise and reach out. Your hand finds the edge of his jaw as you beckon him closer, stopping short of kissing him. 

“I want you,” you say, your thumb resting at his cheekbone. Your eyes meet his and you stare unflinchingly, for what must be the first time. You’ve always been so wary of humans, but Hannibal has more than proven himself to be trustworthy. You search his face, waiting for an answer. “Can you say the same?”

His whole face seems to soften, as his eyes gleam with affection. “Of course; I care for you a great deal,” he responds, his own hand rising to cradle your cheek. His hand is warm, almost hot to the touch when compared to your own frigid skin. 

And before you can pick that statement apart, Hannibal is leaning in and closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours, his hand finds your waist, and, for whatever reason, you feel yourself relaxing. His chest is pressed against yours, his other hand is splayed across the small of your back, and you feel like you’re drowning in him and his heat. 

When you break apart, you don’t smile. You reach out and grasp his wrist instead; Hannibal gets the message and reaches down to tangle your fingers together, squeezing your hand reassuringly. The slight quirk to his lips still doesn’t fade, because he knows that your gesture means far more than a smile ever could.