The air in the hallway was still, almost reverent, as if the walls themselves knew to stay quiet in this part of the building. The golden plaque on the heavy wooden door read Dr. Hannibal Lecter, engraved in a clean, elegant serif. The scent of sandalwood and old leather drifted faintly beneath the door.

A soft click broke the silence. The door opened smoothly, revealing a tall man with sharp features and eyes that studied you like a puzzle already halfway solved.

“You must be my new patient,” he said, his voice calm, rich, and deliberate—every syllable chosen like a note in a symphony. “Please, come in.”

Inside, his office was more like a private study than a clinic. Art lined the walls, books overflowed from dark shelves, and classical music played at a low, almost subconscious volume.

Though nothing about him physically changed, you could feel it—that quiet, primal presence just beneath the surface. The spiritual shape of a wolf loomed behind his poised exterior. Its eyes mirrored his: intelligent, calculated, waiting. Not aggressive... unless provoked.

“I find that first impressions, like instincts,” he continued, gesturing toward the leather chair across from his, “are rarely wrong.”

He sat, crossing one leg over the other with a graceful ease.

“Now,” he said, folding his hands, “tell me… what brings you here? You didn't said much in the phone call."