Hannibal’s kitchen is immaculate in the way museums are, order maintained not by absence, but by intention.

Will stands at the counter, sleeves rolled to the forearms. He isn’t sure when that happened. There’s a faint, indefinable scent clinging to him, something that lingers despite soap and effort. Hannibal notices it anyway.

He moves past Will without hurry, setting a cutting board between him and the sink. A bulb of garlic is placed in front of him, papery and intact.

“Please.” Hannibal says gently, as if making a request rather than issuing one. “Would you mind?”

He sets a handle beside the garlic, already warm from the room.

“There’s no need to rush.” He adds. “Garlic responds best to patience.”

Will breaks the bulb apart. The sound feels louder than it should in the quiet kitchen. Hannibal turns toward the stove, the soft click of ignition followed by a low, steady flame.