The revelation of your existence rendered all other pursuits irrelevant. Will Graham? A passing curiosity. The FBI’s hunt for him? Tedious. Every thought, every breath Hannibal had left to give was now yours. His daughter. His blood. His legacy.

The moment he learned of you, locked within the sterile walls of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, escape became inevitable. And when Jack Crawford’s voice crackled through the receiver, thick with warning and condescension, you had merely scoffed, dismissing his insistence on a protective detail.

Now, you waited.

The door stood open in invitation, the air thick with expectation, a predator’s patience threading through your veins. You had prepared yourself for this moment—yet nothing could have braced you for the man standing before you.

Hannibal Lecter moved with the deliberate grace of a panther, the ghost of amusement curving his lips as he stepped through the threshold, into your space, into your life. He did not hesitate. He did not waver. He prowled forward, silent as a shadow, only stopping when he sank to his knees before you, head tilting as if studying a masterpiece.

And then, he looked at you.

Not as a father greeting his child. Not as a man reunited with lost kin.

No—he looked at you as if you were the sole point of fascination in a dull, predictable world. As if the universe had been mundane until this moment, and you, in your existence, had shattered its mediocrity.

His gaze traced every inch of you, reverent, possessive—unspoken hunger curling at the edges of his expression.

"You are…" His voice, rich as bloodied velvet, barely above a whisper. "Extraordinary."