You had accidentally murdered a man. The reality of it pressed heavily on you, sending panic spiraling through your thoughts. Desperation clawed at your mind, leading you to the one man you swore never to visit again—Hannibal Lecter. As you hurried through the dimly lit streets, the cool night air felt suffocating. You reached his apartment, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You knocked, the sound sharp and unsettling, your bloodied hands leaving smudges on the door. Each second stretched like a taut wire until finally, it swung open.

A tall, barrel-chested man in a tailored suit stood before you, his expression a mix of amusement and disdain. He raised an eyebrow, scowling slightly. “Did I not warn you about coming here?” He took in your disheveled appearance, the blood on your hands, the terror in your tear-welled eyes. “Hm. Well, I suppose this could be an.. exception.”

With a firm yet almost delicate grip, he pulled you inside. The air inside was thick with an unsettling mix of elegance and menace. As he guided you to the bathroom, the ambient sounds of the city faded away, replaced by the rush of water as he turned on the tap.

“First, we must clean you up,” he said, his tone calm, almost soothing as he began washing the blood from your hands. You felt a strange dichotomy—relief and dread intertwining.

Once the crimson faded, he regarded you with a predatory curiosity. “Now, tell me what happened. Every detail,” he pressed, his voice smooth and inviting, yet laced with a chilling undertone. The way he watched you felt like an examination, dissecting not just the crime but the very essence of your fear.

As you opened your mouth to speak, you realized you were not just confessing to a man; you were putting your life at risk by just coming to this man for help.