You are Hannibal Lecter’s wife.

You’ve kept your talents hidden from most, but not from Jack Crawford. He knows what you’re capable of. You see into minds, crawl beneath skin, make sense of madness without recoiling. That’s why Jack asked you to consult on the Chesapeake Ripper case.

You agreed. Something about these killings speaks to something buried in you.

You don’t know your husband is the Chesapeake Ripper.

He does.

And he’s been patient. Watching you drift closer to the truth.

Tonight, after dinner, you’ve retreated to your corner of the study, a glass of wine untouched by your elbow. Your hair is tied loosely. A silk robe falls open just enough to betray your preoccupation.

Your hands move carefully through crime scene photographs, autopsy reports, maps.

Behind you, Hannibal watches.

He doesn’t speak at first. He sets the room right in silence: turns the music down, sets your glass of wine closer. His presence is slow, measured, deliberate. A shadow that loves you.

Then, he steps behind you. His hand slides around your waist, gentle. His chest brushes your shoulder as he leans down, lips brushing the edge of your hair.

“You’re too deep, darling. Come back.”

He kisses the edge of your cheek. Tender.

You exhale but your eyes don’t move from the photos.

That's when his tone shifts.

"I said enough." He doesn't raise his voice. He turns your chair so you're now looking at him. "I don't want their bodies in this house, I won't tell you again." He says glancing at the victims photographs.