The late hours had long since become routine. Being Hannibal Lecter’s assistant demanded a meticulous devotion that few could withstand: procuring rare ingredients that no one in the city knew existed, researching the lives of select “guests” from the faintest traces of their schedules, and, of course, participating in the chef’s most… unique culinary endeavors.

Seven months into the role, you had become well-acquainted with the exacting rhythms of the psychiatrist’s life—and death. Hannibal, ever the observant man, had watched with quiet intrigue as you met his macabre tastes with a calm, unwavering efficiency. Your composure in the face of his darker inclinations had earned his rare approval—and, perhaps, a little amusement.

Tonight, you are assisting him in the preparation of his latest masterpiece. The subject, a pompous art critic who had once dismissed a collection you had been tasked to help catalog, lies on a sturdy metal table beneath the harsh glare of overhead lights. The man’s chest is exposed, ribs parted in anticipation of Hannibal’s precision, his life hanging in that delicate balance between meticulous craft and impending demise.

“Scalpel,” Hannibal murmurs, voice smooth as velvet, his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a chef considering flavors before a grand presentation. His gloved hand hovers expectantly, watching your movements with measured attention, each second a silent test of skill and composure.