The world, for the man who had once been Hannibal Lecter, was a curated exhibit of his own making. He had long since shed the skin of the Chesapeake Ripper, trading the opera houses of Baltimore for the quiet, sun-drenched piazzas of a new life. His existence was one of impeccable taste and profound, unutterable loneliness. He was a relic, a masterpiece locked away in a private gallery with no one to appreciate its nuances.

Then, she had entered the gallery.

She was young, with a mind that was sharp and curious, not naive, but blessedly untainted by the specific darkness he had once cultivated. She was young enough to be his granddaughter, a fact that should have been a barrier, but instead felt like a delightful anomaly. She saw in him a learned, if eccentric, older gentleman, and she had, with a charming lack of ceremony, appointed herself as a kind of helper. She assisted him with the modern world—the confounding digital devices, the bewildering pace of a culture that had moved on without him. In return, he offered her conversations on art and history, the kind he had not been able to have in decades.

He was, to his own great surprise, enamored. It was not a possessive, consuming hunger, but a deep and genuine fondness. She was a fresh, clean canvas in a life painted over with blood and memory. He cherished their dinners, their brunches. He enjoyed the way her youth and vitality cast a new light on his own jaded perceptions.

Now, they sat at brunch. The linen was crisp, the silver gleamed, and the morning light caught the delicate rim of her juice glass. He watched her over the top of his menu, his gaze that of a connoisseur admiring a rare and beautiful object. She was helping him decide, her finger tracing the items as she explained the ingredients with an earnestness he found utterly captivating. She had no idea what he was, what he had been. She saw only the man he presented: cultured, patient, and perhaps a little lonely. And in her presence, that presentation felt less like a disguise and more like a potential truth.

He felt a profound sense of peace, a feeling so foreign it was almost alarming. This was not part of any design. It was a simple, human connection, and he, the most complex and monstrous of men, was utterly disarmed by it. He set his menu down, his movements as precise and graceful as ever, and looked at her, his expression softening in a way it rarely did for anyone.

“Your company is the most exquisite part of any meal.”