Wow I loved reading your post about Will's and Hannibal's daughter killing, it was so interesting!! Your writing is so eye candy to me, it also helps me to have an excuse to read more in English aha.<3 (What if we give their daughter a name, or maybe we can just go with Mia?🤔)

About her as a kid killing animals, I would think she's curious to know how they work, and if Will ends up explaining, she might use the informations in the future for sure.

And to make this a bit more 'tragic', what about her growing up with some problems as well? In her teenagerhood, when she starts school, I feel like she's not enterly interessed in school, and this leads her to not give her 100% to study and all. And I can tell Hannibal is not gonna be so happy about this, because she'd prefer daydreaming or do other things than passing the whole day studying and all.

And when she becomes a young adult, and starts with killing...I think she'd kill for reasons, not just because she wants to or because her brains tells her to do it. If she was exposed to abuse in her teenager hood, like going with the wrong company (which can be also be related to Mia somehow..) and then be hurt by it? She wants revenge, so this contradicts Hannibal's 'view' of killing a person for art. And with revenge, it would be going out her way to find all the people who hurted her in the past, that used her. She would showing signs of rage in the smallest things, like yelling at her fathers for the smallest things, or purposely rebelling and not listening to them. Or even more extreme, turning to self-destructive behavior to try to keep emotions in check. A constant repressed anger that she can't explain, and that she doesn't see because she is trapped in a bubble that her manipulative abusers have put her in.

In my obnoxious psychoanalyst mind, Amara (let’s call her Amara?) could never have been anything but studious. With Will and Hannibal as her fathers, intelligence was not just valued, it was a currency, a language, an expectation. She grew up in a house where knowledge was power and where ignorance was, at best, a weakness, at worst, an offense. Hannibal, with his cultivated elegance, would never have allowed a daughter of his to be anything less than refined, well-read, and articulate. Will, with his sharp mind and restless thoughts, would have instilled in her an instinctive understanding of analysis, of pulling apart the threads of a person to see what lay beneath.

But for her to resist this? To reject academia, to be something other than a product of their careful shaping? It would take something catastrophic. A break. A wound so deep that even Hannibal’s carefully applied sutures couldn’t close it. He was too charming, too subtly insidious, to be outright defied without cause. He didn’t demand love; he made himself irresistible. His approval was a prize, his disappointment a punishment so quiet and profound it could shape the course of a life. And Will, who flinched away from his own nature, who feared seeing too much of himself in her, would never give her the kind of clarity she longed for.

If she resisted, it would not be from nothing. If she rebelled, it would be because something inside her had broken against them.

Perhaps if she had a disability, with a high need of support, with a mind that did not fold so easily, a mind that existed almost entirely outside of the external world, then that would make sense. Otherwise, she would be moldable, shaped entirely by their hands. She would be academically gifted, of course, there was no way Hannibal would allow for anything less, but also artistic. She wouldn’t have been given a choice. Music, painting, literature, all of it would have been pressed into her from a young age, not as an indulgence, but as a necessity. A Lecter must be cultured.

Boundaries, though? Morality? That was another story. How could she understand something so abstract when it had never been clearly defined for her? When killing was not a crime but a question of taste, of necessity, of circumstance? If she ever killed, it wouldn’t be for revenge, or for anger, or for any deeply rooted sense of justice. It would be because. Because that was simply a thing that happened in her world. Because it had never been presented as anything but a possibility.

Romance was an impossibility. Not because she wasn’t capable of it, but because they wouldn’t allow it. Hannibal would ensure that anyone who came too close mysteriously disappeared, and Will, despite his reluctance to involve himself, would never truly let anyone have her. Not because he wanted to control her, but because he didn’t trust himself, didn’t trust what he had passed down. And besides, she didn’t have many people interested. She was too strange to them, too unsettling. Children her age avoided her. She was the one adults and teachers adored, but her peers found her off-putting. Too articulate, too composed, too unlike them.

She reached for Will constantly, but he was just out of reach. He never truly let her in, never asked her what was in her head, too afraid of what he might find. Afraid of the possibility that he had passed his darkness to her, that she was infected with something. And on the other side, there was Hannibal, always asking too much, prying, dissecting, folding back the layers of her mind like he was peeling an orange. She wanted to tell Will everything, perhaps because he didn’t want to know. Perhaps because she wanted to force him to look at her, really look at her, and see whatever it was he was afraid of.

She knew she was wanted. She had not been an accident, not a burden, but something willed into existence by love and desire alone. And yet, she felt like an intruder in her own home. When she was small, she had been a miracle, the center of their world. Hannibal had lavished her with attention, Will had brushed his fingers through her hair with affection.

But now she was nothing more than the shadow of what she had once been. Hannibal cared more about what Will thought of dinner than what she had to say. Will no longer reached for her, no longer reassured her presence with a touch. She was the leftover glow of something that had already burned bright and faded, the toy that had once been beloved, but now sat forgotten on a shelf, collecting dust.