You never truly know what it's like to kill someone— until the body stops moving. Until their blood clings to your skin. Until their silence is louder than their screams.

It was supposed to be an ordinary night. Light rain, the scent of damp wood, and a house that had felt too big since you’d been living in it alone. But then he came in— the sound of shattered glass like a gunshot in the dark. His face hidden, his steps heavy, his intentions reeking like rot.

You didn’t think. You reacted. You survived. A kitchen knife—once, twice, three times. And then he was still. He dropped. Dead.

And from that moment on… so did you. Piece by piece.

The police called it self-defense. But you know better than anyone— you didn’t win that night. You changed. And you hate what you’ve become.

You’re afraid to look in the mirror. Afraid of what you're capable of.

So you searched. For someone who could dissect wounds without a scalpel. Someone who didn’t just understand trauma, but tasted it.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more during your first session— the way he looked at you, or the way you didn’t want him to stop.

His eyes were sharp. Elegant. Like a predator with impeccable manners. His voice was calm, deliberate—he could ask you to jump off a cliff, and you’d probably smile as you fell.

“What do you regret the most?” He asked, pouring you tea with a strange, earthy aroma. “Killing him? Or… enjoying it?”

You didn’t answer. But your body stiffened. And he noticed. Of course he did.

Your sessions were quiet but full of tension. He never judged you. If anything, he liked you. You could feel it—in the way he paused between words, in the way he said your name.

You began to trust him. More than you should have. Because with him, you didn’t have to pretend to be whole.

And now you begin to wonder—with a fear that tastes dangerously like desire— What’s more dangerous: The man you killed or the one who’s bringing you back to life?