please write a daddy hannigram please please I'm begging!
Rotten Meat.
“Full name.”
“Mia.”
“Full name.” The nurse barely looked up, his tone flat with impatience.
“Right. Sorry. Mia Graham.”
A sigh. He wrote it down.
“Mia Graham. Date of birth.”
“December 18th, 1996.”
More scribbling. Mia shifted her weight, glancing around the reception area. Stale air. Harsh lights. The distant hum of something mechanical, endless.
“Age.”
She stared at him. “Can’t you figure that out by my date of birth?”
“Do I look like a mathematician?” He gave her a dry look.
She rolled her eyes. “Nineteen.”
“No jewelry.”
A grunt of irritation, but she pulled off her rings, her bracelet, her necklace, and dropped them into the box he held up. He handed her a folded set of clothes in exchange.
“Put these on. There’s a bathroom behind that door.”
She took the pile, hesitated, then went inside. The tiles were cold under her feet. As she changed, her mind worked through the possibilities. The place. The rules. The people. How long she’d be here. She needed to get out. She needed to get to her dad.
She stepped out in the facility uniform, handed over her old clothes. A toiletry kit was pressed into her hands.
“Follow me.”
The hallway stretched out ahead of them, long and sterile, white walls swallowing sound.
She hesitated, then—"Do you know if my father was caught?“
The nurse didn’t answer right away. His brow lifted. A sigh, short and annoyed. "No.”
“No, he wasn’t caught, or no, you don’t know?”
“No.” His voice was sharp now so she swallowed the frustration.
They reached a door. He swiped a keycard, the lock beeped, and the door swung open.
“This is your room. No food inside, only water. No noise past nine. You need to be here at seven, every day. Wake-up is at eight.”
And then the door clicked shut behind her.
She stared at it, exhaled slowly.
“Are you crazy?”
The voice had a strange lilt, the accent unfamiliar. Mia turned.
A girl sat on one of the beds, a book open in her lap. Platinum blonde hair, almost white, smooth and glossy like something artificial. Honey-colored eyes appraised her.
“Uh… no?”
“Okay. Well. Then. Welcome to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Children of the Criminally Insane.” A smile. Dry, sarcastic.
Mia lifted an eyebrow. “Thanks.”
“I’m Amara.”
“Mia.”
Amara gestured lazily toward the other bed. “Mia, this is Savannah.”
The girl lying there didn’t look up, just acknowledged Mia with a slight nod, pencil moving over the paper in her lap.
“Hey,” Mia muttered, dropping her things onto the remaining bed. The room was as bleak as expected.
“Not very homey, is it?” Amara mused.
“Nope.” Mia didn’t look at her, just focused on organizing her space.
“So… Mia. Mia what again?”
“Mia Graham.”
“I’m Lecter. Amara Lecter.”
Mia stilled, then turned, taking her in again.
“Lecter as in…”
“Yes, yes, father is quite notorious.” Amara waved a hand dismissively, like she was used to this. “But tell me about you, Mia. Why are you here? Or, better yet, who’s your father?”
Mia hesitated. Hannibal Lecter’s daughter. It wasn’t every day you met the child of a literal monster.
“Or is it a mother?” Amara went on. “I have to say, I’m dying for some killer moms here. All we get are dads, which is predictable.”
“Um. No.” Mia shifted. “My dad’s not a serial killer.”
Amara’s smile curled at the edges. “Oh, I didn’t assume he was. Not everyone’s father is as… interesting as mine. But he’s something, isn’t he?”
Mia said nothing. Just sat down on the bed.
“Savannah’s dad is the Tooth Fairy,” Amara added.
Mia snapped her head up. “Holy shit.”
“Right? As you can see, we have quite the paternal figures. Which makes me wonder—who’s your dad?”
Mia sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Will Graham.”
“Hmm.” Amara tilted her head, considering. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
Savannah finally spoke, quiet but certain. “Your dad’s the guy who killed Mason Verger.”
Mia turned to her. A pause. Then, a nod.
“Wait—Mason Verger.” Amara’s eyes narrowed, then widened slightly. “Your dad’s the empath profiler?”
Mia gave a humorless smile. “Ringing bells now, are we?”
“My dad was interested in him,” Amara said, thoughtful. “Read a bunch of articles on his abilities.”
“Great,” Mia muttered.
“He was right after all,” Amara added, more to herself, lips quirking.
“Right about what?” Mia asked.
“That your dad had it in him. It’s why he was so good at what he did. He had the desire to kill, too.”
Mia held her gaze but didn’t respond. She knew. She’d known her whole life. Not the desire to kill, maybe—but something was there, always stirring in him, always on the edge.
“Great.” Savannah added. “So we’re the room of famous killer dads. Can we turn the lights off now?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just got up and flicked the switch.
Darkness settled. Mia lay there, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come. Thoughts of her dad wouldn’t let it.