Baltimore, Maryland – Hannibal’s House, Early Morning.

The house was still, wrapped in the hush of dawn. Hannibal stood in his bathrobe, freshly roused but composed. You, fully dressed, were bright-eyed despite the hour.

"Although I may be, is it safe to assume you’re not sleepwalking now?" His voice was calm.

You exhaled. "I’m sorry it’s so early."

"Never apologize for coming to me." He handed you coffee, warmth seeping into your hands. "My kitchen is always open to friends."

You inhaled the dark aroma. "Onset of sleepwalking in adulthood is rare, right?"

"Less common than in children."

"Could it be a seizure?"

"I’d argue good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress. Jack Crawford has gotten your hands very dirty."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "Wasn’t forced back into the field."

"I wouldn’t say forced," Hannibal mused. "Manipulated would be the word I’d use."

"I can handle it."

"Somewhere between denying horrible events and calling them out lies the truth of psychological trauma."

"So I can’t handle it?"

"Your experience may have overwhelmed the ordinary functions that give you a sense of control."

"If my body is walking around without my permission, you’d say that’s a loss of control?"

"Wouldn’t you?" His gaze was piercing.

Silence stretched before he spoke again. "Sleepwalkers struggle with handling aggression. Are you experiencing difficulty with aggressive feelings?"

The question lingered. Finally, you murmured, "You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. Beginning to feel more like an old mug."

Hannibal’s lips curled faintly. "You entered into a Devil’s Bargain with Jack Crawford. It takes a toll."

"Jack’s not the devil."

"When it comes to how far he’s willing to push you, Jack’s certainly no saint."

The words settled between you, quiet but undeniable.