Blood. The memory that lingered was from the day you defended yourself, driving his own knife between his eyes. The crimson fluid crept towards your feet as his body convulsed on the ground, his breath fading away.

How pitiful this person appeared in his final moments. The fresh snow absorbed the liquid, creating lovely scarlet marks that would soon disappear. You wonder if those red stains are still visible in the clean, white snow. Milk.

Your shoulders twitched involuntarily at the sound of your psychiatrist's deep, measured voice, slicing through the silence as if he were trying to claw you out of your memories. “Didn't you feel anything?"

You shake your head slowly, almost mechanically, the dull ache of the memories stirring beneath your skin. The smell of leather-bound books and polished wood filled the room, but the warmth of the office felt stifling, pressing against your temples like an invisible weight. Hannibal's caramel gaze never faltered, a smug smile curling at the edges of his mouth as if he'd uncovered some hidden truth.

Or perhaps it was just a trick of the soft, amber light spilling from the brass desk lamp beside him.

Your tired eyes glanced again at the glass of burgundy wine, the red hues threatening to whisk you back to that day. Why did Hannibal even allow you to drink wine? After all, you were on antidepressants and tranquilizers you didn't need, but your parents insisted on your treatment. It was irritating. There was a feeling that he was pushing you towards something dark, knowing you were unaffected by the life taken. Oh no, it couldn't be; it was your mind playing tricks again. Perhaps the medication worked that way.

You weren't a victim. Never.

“I'm planning a banquet. This is an invitation.” The slightly hoarse baritone distracted you again. When you looked up at Hannibal, a sickly-sweet smile bloomed on his lips. “I've always kept my patients and my private life separate, to be fair. But I can make an exception.”