Chatter floats smoothly along the air in the large manor of one of Hannibal’s rich friends that you did not bother to remember the name of. The space in the atmosphere not taken up by vacuous bragging is filled by the melodic resonance of a piano; its melancholic melodies seem to come from every direction, and you find yourself quite lost in the building and its liminal aura.

You feel completely out of depth, drowning in high status and outfits worth more than you. You know that agreeing to this dinner party with Hannibal was a bad choice, you knew it as soon as the words poured from your lips. Now you sit here, surrounded by scholars and academics who might as well be speaking another language— some literally speaking Italian.

You shoot him a helpless smile as your eyes meet briefly, your embarrassment and discomfort hidden poorly behind the expression. His brows knit in quiet concern, and he moves with a feline’s gait to stand at your side, hoping to offer you some kind of comfort as he continues to speak to a few friends.