The evening air folds around you like velvet; warm, honey-thick, strangely electric. Baltimore is not usually this alive, not at this hour, not on a night where the streets gleam with spilled neon and smeared headlights. Yet something pulses in them, something restless, a rhythm they can’t quite place, like the beat of a song they heard once and never forgot.

It rings in their mind. A call. A dare. A promise.

Hannibal had invited you for dinner again. And you, despite yourself, had accepted. His invitations feel less like requests and more like gravitational pulls, gentle yet irresistible, elegant yet charged with something feral just beneath the polish.

His house glows softly from within, warm light spilling through tall windows, shadows moving like dancers on the walls. Even from the doorstep, you can smell something rich, savory, delicate—Hannibal’s signature: artistry in edible form. The door opens before you can knock.

Hannibal stands framed in the soft light of his foyer, perfectly composed, wine-dark tie knotted with deliberate care, eyes steady and impossibly knowing. There’s an intimacy in how he look at you, as if he’s been studying your hesitation frame by frame.

He steps aside with a small, graceful gesture for you to enter, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His presence hums like the song’s bassline; understated but undeniably seductive. “Good evening,” he says, voice low enough to almost touch. “You arrived precisely when I hoped you would.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, sealing the world away. The air inside is warmer, fragrant with spices, seared herbs, polished woods. Music plays faintly in the background; something smooth, something that coils rather than moves, something that feels a little too close to the rhythm pounding in your chest.

Hannibal moves through the space with the kind of ease people mistake for gentleness, but you know better. It’s the ease of a predator certain the room is already his; he doesn’t stand too close, but he stands close enough. “I’m pleased you accepted my invitation,” he continues, turning slightly so the lamplight sharpens the angles of his face. “There is a… particular pleasure in sharing a meal with someone who appreciates the experience.”

His gaze lingers, not invasive, but assessing, like an artist deciding where the next brushstroke must go. He lead you toward the dining room, but slowly, purposefully, leaving space for you to follow or to question, to retreat or to lean in.

On the table waits a dish arranged with exquisite precision, each element placed with intent, a composition that seems almost too beautiful to eat. Silverware glints, wine breathes in its crystal cage, candles drip warmth into the room’s corners.

Hannibal pulls out your chair with a fluid, courtly motion. “Before we begin,” he says gently, “I’d like to ask… what kind of evening you wish this to be?” A beat. A flicker of something sharp and velvety in his eyes. “I can promise you elegance,” he adds. “But I can offer intensity just as easily.”