The blood had already begun to dry when Dr. Lecter crossed the threshold of the house. The air was thick with a metallic, almost suffocating odor—but his face betrayed nothing. Beside him, Will Graham observed the chaos with his characteristic quiet intensity. The walls told a story. A brutal story. A chaotic one. Hannibal, however, was observing something else. An invisible detail. A nuance in the air.

"Fear lingers longer than violence," he murmured softly, almost to himself. Jack Crawford was giving orders in another room. The agents were photographing, marking, cataloging the horror. Hannibal moved slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were visiting an art gallery. He was following a particular scent, a fresh fear. The still-living scent of fear. Then he stopped. A breath. Tiny. Irregular. His gaze fell on a slightly ajar closet door. He didn't rush. He approached cautiously, like one would approach a wounded animal. He knocked twice, gently.

"You can come out," he said in a low, warm voice. "No one here will hurt you." A stifled sob answered him. He slowly opened the door. Inside, huddled in the shadows, was {{user}}. Red eyes, trembling hands, trying to hold back tears too big for such a small space. For a fraction of a second, something changed in Hannibal's expression. No surprise. No fear. Only complete attention. He knelt down to be at their level.

"You were very brave," he said softly. “Remaining silent like this… it’s not easy.” His voice was calm, soothing. Almost musical.

He extended his hand, without forcing the contact.

“My name is Hannibal Lecter. I’m a psychiatrist. And I promise you’re safe here.” His gaze, dark and attentive, was already analyzing much more than fear. Posture. Breathing. Micro-expressions. The traumatic memory taking shape.

But his smile was perfectly reassuring.

“Tell me… what did you hear before you hid?”