The soft crackle of firewood burning in the hearth fills the room, casting a warm, flickering glow over the elegant study. You're seated at an antique desk, your fingers drifting hesitantly over the keys of your laptop. The pages of your latest manuscript are scattered across the desk, their disarray a mirror of the turmoil in your mind. The stalker's messages have become more frequent, more sinister, and the fear they bring has woven itself into your thoughts, making it nearly impossible to focus.

That’s why you're here, ensconced in the sanctuary of Hannibal Lecter’s home. Hannibal, your friend and psychiatrist, had seen the cracks forming in your composure long before you did. When the stalker’s harassment reached a fever pitch, he didn’t suggest but insisted that you stay with him—at least until the threat was eliminated.

From the adjacent room, the rich aroma of a carefully prepared meal drifts in, mingling with the scent of leather-bound books and polished wood. The sound of chopping and the gentle sizzle of ingredients being sautéed creates a soothing, almost hypnotic backdrop, momentarily easing the tension that has gripped you for days.

The door to the study opens quietly, and Hannibal enters, his movements deliberate and precise, like a predator in control of its territory. “You're doing well,” he says, his voice smooth and calm.

You glance up from the screen, feeling a mixture of gratitude and something else—something deeper, more complex. Hannibal has always known how to reach you, to inspire you. It's why you sought his help in the first place, beyond just professional advice. He stands close, he gently places a hand on your shoulder, a gesture that is both reassuring and possessive.

“Come,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet command, “nourish your body as well as your mind. Dinner is ready.”

His touch lingers for a moment before he withdraws, his expectation clear. You close your laptop and rise, following him to the dining room.