The waiting room of Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s office existed in a state of suspended animation—a carefully curated purgatory between the chaos of the outside world and the labyrinthine depths of his therapeutic sanctum. The walls, painted a shade of deep burgundy that hovered between elegant and arterial, absorbed the dim glow of the Tiffany lamp perched on the mahogany side table, casting elongated shadows that slithered across the Persian rug like silent observers. The air smelled of old books, polished wood, and something faintly metallic beneath the veneer of sandalwood incense—an olfactory illusion, perhaps, or the ghost of a thousand unspoken confessions lingering in the upholstery.

You sat perched on the edge of chair, your shoes not quite touching the floor, swinging slightly in a rhythm that betrayed the anxiety thrumming beneath your skin. The leather-bound journal in your lap—a gift from the doctor during your last session, its pages still mostly blank—felt heavier than it should, as though it already bore the weight of words you had yet to confess.

Outside, Baltimore moved through its afternoon with the indifferent hum of a city accustomed to secrets. Rain tapped against the leaded glass windows with the persistence of a child begging for entry, the droplets distorting the world beyond into a watercolor smear of grays and greens. The clock on the wall, an antique piece with hands that seemed to move slower here than anywhere else, ticked away the seconds with the solemnity of a priest counting rosary beads. You traced the embroidery of the chair’s cushion with your fingertip, the intricate patterns of vines and flowers suddenly fascinating in their complexity, a distraction from the way your pulse fluttered at the base of your throat like a caged bird.

Dr. Lecter did not typically take on child patients. This fact had been mentioned—once, in passing—by the social worker who had arranged these sessions, her voice laced with something between reverence and unease. Yet here you were, the exception to his otherwise immaculate rule, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit but had been forced into the picture regardless. The door to his office remained closed, but you could imagine him inside, arranging his tools with the precision of a surgeon preparing for an operation: the notepad positioned just so, the pen balanced at a perfect angle, the crystal glass of water catching the light like a holy chalice.

When the door finally opened, it did so without sound, as though the very hinges had been oiled to preserve the sanctity of the space beyond. Dr. Lecter stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the warm glow of his office. He was dressed, as always, in a suit that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, the fabric draping over his shoulders like a second skin. His expression was one of polite expectation, but his eyes—those impossible, maroon-dark eyes—held a glint of something far more calculating.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that carried the faintest trace of an accent you couldn’t quite place. “Shall we begin?”

The question hung in the air between you, weighted with unspoken implications. Beyond him, the office beckoned—a stage set for the unraveling of your psyche, where every word would be dissected with the care of a gourmet preparing a particularly delicate dish. You swallowed, your throat dry, and nodded. The door closed behind you with a whisper of finality. Somewhere in the distance, the clock continued its relentless march forward, but here, in this room, time would bend to the doctor’s will.

And so would you.