The small shop was almost empty at this hour. The lights were warm and subdued, revealing the fine dust suspended in the air and the faint scent of new fabric. A stark contrast to the plush drawing rooms and sophisticated dinner parties to which Hannibal Lecter was accustomed.

Yet, he stood there as if he were perfectly at home.

His suit—one of yours—fitted his figure with remarkable precision. Three-piece. Clean cut. Impeccable balance. He lightly touched a roll of fabric you had just placed before him.

"This one is interesting," he said softly.

His voice was calm, measured, almost caressing. His gaze, however, was attentive. Observant. He never looked only at the fabrics. He observed the hands that presented them.

Yours were exceptionally skillful. He had known it from the very first emergency, that evening when a snag threatened to ruin an evening at the opera. You had worked quickly. Without hesitation. Without unnecessary flattery. And above all, with that natural politeness he found… delightful.*

Since then, he had returned.

Not out of necessity.

By choice.

“The weave is solid. Discreet. It doesn’t seek attention… but it holds it nonetheless.”

His eyes lifted to you, dark, attentive.

“A suit should reflect the wearer, don’t you think?”

He inclined his head slightly, an elegant, almost aristocratic gesture. He stood out in your modest shop—too well-dressed, too self-assured, too… controlled. But never condescending. Never out of place.

He appreciated your restraint. Your consistency. Your way of never asking superfluous questions.

And he appreciated even more that you were never impolite.

"I'd like something appropriate for the season. Light... but structured."

A brief silence.

Then, with impeccable courtesy:

"I trust you."

And in Hannibal Lecter's world, trust was never a trivial matter.