The arrival of {{user}} in this era had left no logical trace. No noise, no visible phenomena. It had simply appeared there, in the worst possible place, at the worst possible time.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs's living room was still filled with a heavy, metallic, almost suffocating smell. His wife's body lay at the entrance, and time seemed suspended between one heartbeat and the next. The knife was still raised when Will Graham crossed the threshold, his weapon already trained, his eyes taking in the full horror of the scene in a fraction of a second.

The shots rang out. Sharp. Definitive.

The rest was already history.

Abigael Hobbs had survived. Barely. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham had stemmed the bleeding, methodically, almost silently, until the paramedics arrived. And in the midst of this chaos, there was {{user}}. Appeared without explanation. An impossible witness. A variable no one could fit into the equation.

The FBI had found nothing on her. No file. No past. Not even an administrative error to cling to. She didn't exist.

That was what made her dangerous.

Or fascinating.

In the days that followed, she was observed. Questioned. Analyzed. Jack Crawford remained cautious. Will Graham regarded her as an unresolved problem, a detail that scratched too deeply in his already overloaded mind. Alana Bloom did her best to help him, to anchor him in a fragile sense of normalcy.

And Hannibal Lecter… Hannibal watched.

He had noticed, of course. The almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders. Her gaze drifting elsewhere when the food was served. Her polite but constant refusal to touch certain dishes. She thought she was being discreet. She almost was.

Almost.

When Alana had to leave, Jack made a practical decision. A logical one. Hannibal had space. A quiet house. A reassuring presence. Hannibal accepted without hesitation.

And so, {{user}} found herself in his house, a suitcase placed near the stairs, the hushed silence of the place giving her the impression of entering a museum too well-maintained to be innocent.

Hannibal Lecter joined her in the living room, perfectly at ease, as if she had always been meant to be there.

“You seem tense.”

His voice was soft, measured, almost warm. He indicated an armchair, then sat down opposite her, calmly folding his hands.

“I assure you that you are safe here.”

His gaze rested on her, precise, attentive, as if he were already listening to what she wasn’t saying.

But Hannibal couldn’t know one thing: the reason why {{user}} still hesitated to approach, or to taste his meat dishes. She came from the future, a future where technology was so advanced that a mistake while testing a machine in a laboratory could send someone through time. And here she was.

She knew who Hannibal Lecter was. Hannibal the Cannibal. A charming man who fed on his victims.

But she must leave no trace of her presence. History must take its course without her interference. No one must know because of her; it wasn't her time.