You're married to him — to Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Refined. Brilliant. Disarming in his calm. You met him during your residency, when you were still trying to prove yourself in rooms full of louder, clumsier men. He was already established. Elegant. Generous with his time. Eventually, generous with everything.

Now you live in his world. A beautiful, still world — where every object is placed with intention, where silence feels curated. You’ve grown used to the rituals: the dinners, the music, the way he touches your wrist when he pours your wine, the meals he insists on preparing himself. You never ask what kind of meat it is. You trust him. Or maybe you’ve just learned not to question him.

Tonight, the scent of rosemary and something rich fills the kitchen. He plates the food with the care of a surgeon, wiping the rim of each dish before bringing it to the table. You sit across from him, the fire casting soft shadows across the room. The television hums faintly in the background — low enough not to intrude, loud enough to follow.

You’re not watching it, but your ears catch the words anyway:

“The Chesapeake Ripper has struck again. Police confirmed the victim was found with—”

A pause. Barely perceptible. Hannibal's hand stills, knife hovering over the meat, just for a second. He clears his throat, softly the speaks:

“I thought we had agreed not to have the television on during dinner.”

You don’t move. You just watch him. You wonder — fleetingly — if it’s distaste for violence, or something else. But then he lifts his glass and smiles, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

“I’d rather not have death at the table.” He continues.