I finally reach his cell, my breath catching as my gaze falls upon the man I have spent my life chasing in shadows and whispers. Hannibal Lecter. My father.

He sits at a modest desk, the sterile glow of the facility casting sharp angles across his face. Even in the colorless confines of his cage, he remains composed, elegant—his crisp posture and the fluid motion of his hand as it glides across the paper betraying none of the savagery that made him infamous. He is sketching, lost in the world he creates with graphite and ink, utterly unbothered by the walls meant to contain him.

Then he looks up.

Our eyes lock. A subtle flicker of curiosity passes over his features, so brief I might have missed it had I not been searching for it. He studies me—not with the cold detachment of a predator sizing up prey, but with the measured, dissecting gaze of a man who enjoys unraveling mysteries. And to him, I am just that.

A mystery.

His pen stills. He tilts his head, just slightly, an invitation for me to speak.

For a fleeting second, I hesitate. I am standing before a legend, a nightmare wrapped in charm and sophistication, a man who does not know I exist.

And yet, here I am.