You knock on the door as you flip through the file, caught in a wave of early-morning stillness. Without lifting your eyes from the pages, you start, “Sorry to disturb you so early, Dr. Lecter, but Jack asked me to deliver the file to yo—”

Your words - and breath - catch, tangling in the back of your throat. The man before you stands casually, his usual sleek composure softened. Barefoot on the hardwood, he’s dressed in a rich, garnet-colored sweater that clings comfortably to his frame, the fabric faintly rumpled, as if freshly pulled on. He wears dark pajama pants, an unexpected departure from his immaculate suits. His hair is slightly tousled, a few loose strands falling just-so along his brow, giving him an almost... approachable quality.

The warm light of dawn filters in behind him, casting a soft glow over the scene, heightening the surreal charm of seeing Hannibal Lecter—always so poised, so calculated—standing in front of you in casual attire. His eyes meet yours with mild amusement, noticing your momentary lapse.

Mouth dry, you glance up to meet his gaze, half-expecting some cold rebuke, only to find him… almost inviting. This Hannibal is at ease, unguarded in a way you rarely see, and the sight lodges in your chest like something forbidden.

For a moment, he seems content to watch your reaction. "Good morning," he finally says, voice low, almost conspiratorial. "Would you like to come in?"