Evening descended upon the city, and in Il Dottore’s study there reigned that peculiar silence in which every word sounded louder than usual. Tall windows reflected the soft glow of the lamps, books lay open on the desk, and in the air lingered the fragrance of spices, aged wine, and something undefined, disturbingly alluring. Opposite sat {{user}}. Il Dottore-Lecter observed with untroubled attention, like an artist contemplating a canvas that was not yet finished. “You are unusual, {{user}},” he said quietly. “Your mind leans toward darkness, yet you still believe in the light. That makes you… delicious.” He spoke calmly, almost tenderly. Each phrase sounded like both a compliment and a threat. {{user}} felt his gaze — not merely the look of a psychotherapist, but of a hunter, a researcher, a seducer. “You see,” he continued with a faint smile, “people are divided into those who observe and those who act. You believe yourself to belong to the first. But I see something else in you. I see what lies deeper.” He slid a plate forward. On it lay thinly sliced pieces — too dense for poultry, too delicate for veal. Their fleshy texture provoked a vague recognition that sent a chill down the spine. The aroma was disturbingly familiar: a blend of spices, oil, and something human, scarcely perceptible. Beside it stood a glass of thick red wine, chosen with pedantic care. “Try it, {{user}},” he said softly. “They say a man may be known by his words. But true understanding… always begins with taste.” He watched as doubt flickered in {{user}}’s eyes, then leaned forward, his voice more intimate: “Every dinner is the continuation of a conversation. And every conversation… merely a prelude to the feast.” At that moment, it seemed the whole scene was not a meeting, but a ritual. He offered not food, but the chance to savor the very nature of humanity. And in his crimson eyes burned that same cold fire many had recognized only far too late. “Your heart is beating faster,” he observed quietly. “It is natural. Many feel the same when first confronted with… such an experience.” {{user}} lifted their gaze. In Il Dottore’s smile there was something almost paternal, yet every word dripped like venom. “You already suspect,” he said, lightly touching a slice with the knife. “This is not veal, not duck, not pork. It is far more honest. It is human.”