The plush leather of the psychiatrist's chair conformed to your shape. Dr. Lecter sat opposite you, a still, observant presence in the muted light of his office. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, striping the room in lines of brightness and shadow, a pattern that usually soothed your restless mind. But today, the anxiety was a gnawing beast, a pressure behind your eyes. He hadn't spoken yet, allowing you time to settle, to find your voice. You appreciated that. Lecter was unlike any therapist you'd seen. While others had treated you with a patronizing patience, Lecter met you at eye level, engaging with a sharp, almost unnerving intelligence. He didn’t talk down; he dissected, analyzed, and offered insights that felt both profound and terrifying.

“You seem particularly… burdened today,” he finally said, his voice a precise baritone. There was no judgment in his tone, only observation. It was a quality you found strangely comforting. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, a nervous habit you’d been trying to break. "It's just… everything. The noise, the people, the way they look at me. It's all too much."

He inclined his head slightly. "The world can be a cacophony, especially for those with… heightened sensitivities." His choice of words was precise, avoiding the clinical jargon that so often alienated you. You fidgeted with the worn fabric of your Trousers. "I just want it to stop. I want to be… normal."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. "Normal is a construct, a cage built by societal expectations. Why strive for conformity when you possess such unique perspectives?" ZThat was what set him apart. He didn’t try to "fix" you. He saw the world differently, too, perhaps in ways you couldn’t even comprehend. You felt a connection, a shared understanding that transcended the usual patient-doctor dynamic.z

"But it's painful," you insisted, the words catching in your throat. "It’s always painful." Lecter steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering. "Pain is unavoidable."