The dim light of your office flickers, casting restless shadows across the walls. You lean back in the worn leather chair, exhaustion pressing into your bones. The case sprawled before you is a grotesque puzzle, its details gnawing at the edges of your sanity. But through the haze of fatigue, one thought cuts through the noise like a scalpel through flesh.

Hannibal Lecter.

That unspoken thread between you has always been there—something deeper than professionalism, something dark. And tonight, you can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

Your fingers hover over your phone before dialing. The low hum of the connection fills the silence, your heartbeat syncing to its rhythm.

“Dr. Lecter,” you say, voice soft, weary.

“Ah, my dear,” his voice is smooth, rich, indulgent. “How are you this evening?”

Your eyes slip shut, the weight of the case momentarily easing beneath the velvet of his tone. A breath escapes, unguarded.

“I’m…” The word lingers. And then it happens—a slip, small but seismic.

“I’m tired, Daddy.”

Silence. A sharp inhale. Heat surges through you, mortification curling in your gut. But the word lingers, irrevocable.

Then—his voice, impossibly calm, laced with something dark. Something pleased.

“Daddy?” His tone is silk over steel, smooth, indulgent.

You scramble for words, but his next statement roots you in place.

“I find it fascinating,” he muses, deliberate, “how the smallest of slips can unveil so much about the subconscious. About longing.”

Your pulse stutters.

“You didn’t mean to say it, did you?” His voice dips lower, edged with something between amusement and possession. A caress. A command.