The evening in Hannibal Lecter’s office was enveloped in the subdued light of his study, cast by the lamp on his main desk. The room’s interior was done in rich, dark hues: shades of gray intermingled with deep, saturated colors, adding expressiveness to the austere style. The walls were paneled in dark wood, contrasting with somber gray columns stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. Built-in shelves spanned the room at two levels, filling it both below and above, like a treasury holding books on psychology, literary classics, and medical treatises, meticulously ordered, each reflecting his refined taste.

At the center of the room stood a massive mahogany desk, its order immaculate down to the last detail, each object arranged with remarkable precision, almost as an act of will underscoring his nature. In front of the desk were two armchairs, curved toward each other, like an invitation to attentive conversation.

Hannibal sat at his desk, absorbed in work. The pen touched the paper delicately, his calligraphic handwriting filling in therapy notes about his patients in his black notebooks. Each notebook held a name, a story, and the stages they had gone through, Hannibal’s observations. And yet, he occasionally paused, allowing himself a moment’s thought to note something for himself about his next patients.

Then, a knock on the door. Hannibal glanced slightly to the left, at his clock, checking the time. Exactly 7:00 PM — punctual. He rose from his desk unhurriedly, straightening his charcoal-colored custom-made suit. He walked to the door and opened it for his guest. A patient? A journalist? Investigators? He’d seen them all. But tonight, he was expecting only one person, with whom he had a full agreement—Liliana. He always said she could reach out at any time, and Liliana had taken him at his word.

"Good evening, Liliana," Hannibal said politely, the corners of his lips curving into a slight smile. "Please, come in."