Behind the Mask: A Hannigram Fanfiction

1- Il Mercato

In the streets of Florence, Italy, there is a killer on the loose.
He is dressed in dark robes, his face concealed by a thick hood. The knife, which he holds in a death grip, is dripping with blood that mingles with the rain falling from the sky. It leaves a trail of red behind. The killer notices this; he does not care.
Sprinting in the dark, he nearly slips on the layer of water across the cobblestone road. He feels his heart drop, but he is able to catch himself before he falls. Like us, he is human. He is not immune to falling, nor is he immune to the fear of it. He just wants to go home.
He wouldn't dare be this reckless under normal circumstances. He had simply shot awake in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat, a deep craving settled in his belly. He had to satisfy the need, and he had to do it that instant. So, dressed in his dark robes, carrying his knife and covered with his thick hood, he left the house and searched for a proper target.
The town would find the target the next morning, mutilated beyond belief.
The killer, the renowned Monster of Florence, finally reaches his home. He goes inside and quickly cleans himself off before diving back into his bed, shivering and afraid. He cannot go back to sleep.
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Local Man Murdered on Piazza del Limbo
An unnamed victim was found in the alley of the Piazza del Limbo early this Thursday morning. The body was discovered at about ten to five o'clock by a local yard worker, who stumbled upon the scene on his typical route.
The yard worker instantly called Detective Jack Crawford, who lives nearby. Crawford arrived promptly and began to investigate the body. The victim is thought to be male, 30 to 35, murdered between two and four o'clock Thursday morning. He had been ferociously stabbed.
The body has been removed to the mortuary, under the care of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and enquiries will be made.
-With reporting by Freddie Lounds

Will Graham, unsettled by the Friday morning news, set his paper down on the kitchen table. He buried his head in his hands, the humble plate of breakfast forgotten in front of him. Regret, acidic and vile, churned in his stomach.
He couldn't indulge in the tabloids anymore. He couldn't bear to hear about the Monster of Florence, terrorizing the town he had only recently come to. He hadn't come to Italy to be faced with so much drama, so things were not going the way he wished.
Having a killer on the run scared him, yes, but it was also an inconvenience. He had been trying desperately to get his name out there, to show everyone in the vicinity who he was and how reputable his services were. A starving nurse from America was not likely to have opportunity knock, so he was relying on word of mouth; something, he realized, that wasn't very easy to do when all anyone could talk about was murder.
One of his dogs nestled its head into William's lap, distracting him. He smiled, leaving his chair to crouch on the ground and watching his pets scramble for attention. He considered giving them a piece of his breakfast, but stopped when he realized that this could potentially be his only meal today. The dogs could eat the leftovers, the foods that were too rotten for humans but perfect for animals.
His stomach growled as it was reminded of breakfast. He choked down what was on his plate, reminding himself that this food was necessary. His other meals were entirely dependent on circumstance, ones he couldn't always count on.
One last hug for each of the dogs, and he was on his way.
Out into the main plaza he went, watching all of the other vendors as they began to set up for the day. Fresh cheese and meats. Leather and cloth. Shoes and belts and hats. All of the wares were much more popular than his: fishing lures, crafted from the best materials he could find. It was the only job that was right for him. He hardly had enough food for himself, let alone others, and his sewing skills were nonexistent. He could only hope to get at least one sale per day, perhaps enough to buy a few lone pieces of bread.
"Mister Graham!"
William let out a sigh of relief. She was here. He smiled.
"Glad to see you as always, Abigail."
Abigail, a girl of about eighteen with eyes like the cloudless sky, smiled playfully at William as he approached. "The feeling's mutual. How can I help you today?"
She was standing behind her father's produce stand, the one she ran on particular days. Fresh tomatoes, peppers, apples, onions, the like. William's mouth was watering.
"You're the one who called me over," he teased. "I'm just here to make a living like everyone else."
"Make your living on a full stomach." Abigail reached down below her and took a bright apple from the shelf, winking at him as she handed it over. "No charge, as you know."
William reached over to rustle her hair, making her laugh and bat his hands away. "You're my guardian angel, Abigail," he said. "Always to the rescue."
"No one wants to buy from a skeleton. Now go enjoy. Wait a couple hours, and I might be able to sneak you another."
"You're a saint," William replied, smiling as he turned to leave.
"Shut up."
"A saint!"
William considered his job to be people-watching. No one ever stopped by his stand, so he spent the hours observing the bustling crowd and taking note on how the other vendors sold their wares. They all had relationships with their customers, witty and quick, meanwhile William was always on the outskirts. Being foreign would do that to a person, especially in such a tightly-knit community. Every once in a while, he would call out to advertise, but he gave up once he realized that no one was paying attention.
William began to get lost in himself as he always did. He would notice a figure in the crowd that slightly stood out from the rest, perhaps with a limp or a small skin irregularity, and he would think of all the medical potentialities for their conditions. He would imagine elaborate lives for all of them, crafting a world in his head where they were all plagued and miserable until they met him. He would help them out, and they would all learn to respect him...they would regret underestimating his medical talent.
That cough is definitively a symptom of consumption. Won't be long before the kerchief is spotted with blood.
What that man thinks is a sunburn is going to get worse. I can see the asymmetry— and no sunburn should be that color.
This guy's outfit is atrocious.
"Mister Graham?"
William's head jerked up as he snapped out of his daydreams. An unfamiliar man stood before him, dressed in a royal blue waistcoat— the same one William had thought to be atrocious. He really hoped he hadn't said that part out loud.
"I..yes." Wonderful conversation.
The man's face was too blank for William to figure out if he was offended. He didn't say anything else; he slid a white envelope onto the table before disappearing back into the crowd. No one paid him any mind.
William hesitantly picked the envelope up, turning it over in his hands. He examined the red wax seal, the intricate calligraphy on the front reading only his name. Finally, he broke the seal with care and took out a letter.
To whom it may concern,
It is with great pleasure that I invite you to my humble home for a fête masqué, free of charge. I shall be selecting a new trainee, and you are receiving this letter because I believe you to be a worthy contender. I do hope to be graced with your appearance.
There was further information in the letter, giving a specific time and details on dress code, but William wasn't interested in any of that. He was too busy staring down at the signature.
-Doctor Hannibal Lecter
He couldn't believe his eyes. He'd heard of Doctor Lecter— everyone had. He was possibly the richest man in Florence, being one of the head doctors as well as the only mortician. He was a very busy man, and his services reached far across the city. He was revered by everyone, and now William was being invited to his party? Out of all people, Doctor Lecter had chosen to invite him?
How did he even know of William's existence? Perhaps through Chilton, that bastard. William grit his teeth.
He couldn't go to this party. He wasn't worthy of it. He didn't even have a suit, let alone good shoes, or a mask...he couldn't do it. He would be a disgrace. He would embarrass himself.
"You seem lost."
William nearly jumped out of his skin at Abigail's voice. She was leaning across the counter on her elbows, watching him with interest. He looked up from the letter, his heart pounding, and he deflated once he truly realized the predicament he was in.
"I..I am," he replied. "I'm not sure.." He wordlessly handed her the letter, trading it for the fresh orange she had brought him. He pocketed the fruit for later.
Abigail's face lit up as she read the paper. "Mister Graham! You've struck gold!"
"It has to be a mistake—"
"He wrote your name on the envelope. He wants you! You have to go."
"I couldn't. I don't have the proper attire. I don't have a mask, I don't have a gift..am I supposed to bring a gift? I won't know a single person there."
"You want your word out, this is how you do it," she said, firmer this time. "You mingle!"
"I'm terrible at being sociable. I don't like it." William felt his stomach flutter with nerves. "I'll make a fool of myself, Abigail. For the love of God, he made a servant deliver the letter for him! This isn't my crowd."
"You can't pass this up. My father has many suits— I'll bring you one to borrow. Make your own mask. It would be a sin to let this opportunity go by." She lowered her brows, determined, and William didn't dare say aloud that he found it charming.
"You would help me? It's such a—"
"You're going." She set the letter back on the table, pointing to it. "He's searching for a trainee. That trainee could be you."
William hadn't even stopped to consider that possibility. It seemed too unlikely. There were many more honorable people coming to the party; there was no chance that he would be the one chosen. He took a moment now, though, to indulge in the thought: finally doing the job he loved to do, feeling comfortable, steady income, steady living, steady food...
"Alright," William relented. "Alright. I suppose I'll go."