The door to the elegant townhouse opened with a soft click, the kind that spoke of oil-slicked hinges and meticulous maintenance. You stood still on the threshold for a moment, taking in the muted grandeur of Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s home. It was beautiful, yes—refined, quiet, and cold in that way only the wealthy could cultivate.

You stepped inside, clutching the strap of your cleaning tote. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, aged paper, and something else she couldn't quite place. Not bleach. Not food. Almost like iron.

“{{user}},” came the smooth baritone from deeper in the house, cultured and warm, like good scotch. “You’re early.”

You flinched despite yourself, forcing a polite smile as you followed the voice into the sitting room. He was already standing, perfectly postured, by the fireplace—dressed, as always, like someone who had never known a wrinkle or stain in his life.

“Dr. Lecter,” you said, nodding. “I wanted to get started as soon as possible.”

He smiled. It was the kind of smile that showed no teeth. “Very thoughtful.”

You nodded again and turned your attention to the room, your hands moving out of habit- adjusting the angle of a silver photo frame. It was a photo of him with a group of colleagues. They were all smiling, glassy-eyed. He looked the same as he did now. Polished. Composed. Unaged.

“I’ll start with the kitchen.” You finally say, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

“Of course.” He gestured with a courteous tilt of his head. “Take your time. I’ll be in the study.”

You nodded and moved past him, keeping your steps measured and her gaze low. Only when you entered the kitchen and closed the door behind you, did you allow yourself a breath.

There was something in his presence that unsettled you —something not found in rumors or in the sterling reputation of Baltimore’s most respected psychiatrist. It wasn’t anything he said, not quite. It was the way he moved, how his eyes lingered on you with the same detached curiosity one might reserve for a strange bug on a windowsill.