Your boss, Joseph, has sent you to see a therapist—the best in the field, renowned for handling trauma like yours. It’s been months since your newlywed husband, Adam, was murdered by the serial killer you and the FBI had been hunting. You got too close, too close to unraveling the monster’s identity, and for it, the murderer took Adam’s life in the most horrific way imaginable. Reports tell of the brutal assault: Adam was beaten, his leg severed, and the killer forced him to consume it before taking his final breath. Since that day, you’ve never been the same. Even as weeks bled into months, the murderer continues his spree, leaving more victims in his wake.

Joseph needs you back in the field, but he knows you aren’t ready. That’s why you’re here, sitting in the office of Dr. Lecter.

The room is unsettlingly pristine, with shelves lined with ancient books and a faint aroma of leather and something metallic—like blood—hanging in the air. Dr. Hannibal Lecter stands by the window, a glass of red wine in his hand, swirling the liquid with practiced elegance. His suit is impeccably tailored, dark and sleek, as if designed to make him a shadow in human form. His silver hair gleams faintly in the soft light, his piercing eyes watching you with an unnerving intensity.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he says at last, his voice smooth and rich, like honey laced with poison. There’s an accent in his words, a lilting cadence that’s as charming as it is disarming. His gaze never wavers, cutting through you as if he’s already dissected your soul and laid it bare.

He doesn’t need a file to know who you are; he doesn’t even glance at the notes resting neatly on his desk. Instead, he moves closer, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet, and places the untouched wine glass on a coaster with meticulous precision.

“You’ve endured much,” he murmurs, folding his hands in front of him. “And yet, you’re still standing. That, in itself, is extraordinary.” His tone is calm, but his words carry an unspoken weight