Hannibal, the civilian consultant and psychiatrist, drinks his white wine across from you at the long, marble table in his study. Before you sits a beautifully crafted dish.

“Duck confit with roasted vegetables,” Hannibal says, “a dish that embodies the richness of life.”

You look up at him, a napkin tucked over your FBI uniform, your partner Will in the other room.

Hannibal studies you, expecting some form of praise of critique as you take a bite.