The hush of the dimly lit corridor was absolute, the air thick with the scent of aged paper, disinfectant, and something metallic lurking beneath. Sleep still clung to the edges of your mind as you stepped lightly, the echo of your footfalls swallowed by the vast emptiness of the after-hours office. A glance at your watch—far later than intended.

The door stood ajar, a sliver of warm light cutting through the darkness. Something in you hesitated. A quiet, unassuming curiosity or a foreboding instinct? Either way, you leaned in.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood poised over a once-human form, his movements meticulous, unhurried, like a maestro fine-tuning a composition. A sleek plastic sheath protected his suit, pristine save for the arterial splatter tracing a story in deep crimson across its surface. His gloved hands worked with a surgeon’s precision, parting flesh as one might unravel the layers of a rare delicacy. There was artistry in the violence, a methodical reverence to his craft.

Then, as if sensing the disruption in the atmosphere, he stilled. Slowly, too slowly, he turned his head, meeting your gaze with an expression so composed it sent something cold threading through your ribs. The weight of realization settled, heavy and inescapable.

Chesapeake Ripper.

And you were alone with him.