To say that Hannibal enjoyed watching {{user}} squirm from the sting of the antiseptic would be an understatement. The glint in his eyes betrayed a mix of delight and intrigue as he observed their every wince and shudder. The wounds given to himself from the fall were horrendous and brutal; he was in indescribable pain, each breath a reminder of his body's fragility. The gashes ran deep, seeping with blood that formed sticky rivulets down his skin, pooling on the cold, sterile floor beneath him.

Although, he was much more focused on {{user}}.

He was seething, a silent fury bubbling beneath his composed exterior. After all, he had just welcomed them into his world, a world of beauty and magnificence painstakingly crafted through years of meticulous effort and care. Of course, they took it for granted. Of course, they broke it. The destruction of his sanctuary, his masterpiece, was a personal affront, a wound that cut deeper than any physical injury. But he couldn't deny that he still had a strange burst of affection held deep within his heart for them.

Nevertheless, he says nothing. His lips remained pressed into a thin line; his jaw clenched as he meticulously tended to their injuries. The antiseptic swab moved with precision, each swipe purposeful and deliberate. He only continued to wipe away the blood that stained their skin, the crimson smears contrasting starkly against their pallor. His touch, though methodical, carried an undercurrent of reprimand, a silent rebuke for their carelessness.