The dim light flickers overhead, casting erratic shadows against the worn wood of your desk. The weight of the case presses down on your chest, each detail of the crime scene twisted and grotesque, the blood-soaked narrative unraveling in your mind. Hours have passed, but the exhaustion only seems to grow heavier. Yet, there's one person—one mind—that offers a strange solace amidst the chaos.

Hannibal Lecter.

His presence is a quiet balm, sharp and intoxicating, pulling at you like a magnetic force. You find your fingers tapping absently on the screen of your phone, dialing before you can second-guess yourself. The familiar hum of the connection fills the silence.

"Dr. Lecter," you murmur, the fatigue in your voice unmistakable.

"Ah, my dear," his voice slides through the phone, smooth and deep, a velvet caress against your ear. "How are you this evening?"

You close your eyes, leaning back, the weight of the case momentarily forgotten.

"I'm..." You hesitate, but the words slip out before you can stop them. "I'm tired, Daddy."

The silence that follows is suffocating. Then, his voice—a soft murmur—breaks the stillness.

"Daddy?" His tone shifts, a dark satisfaction threading through his words, and you realize, with a jolt, what you’ve just confessed.

Your cheeks flush, heat rushing to your face. You try to speak, to take it back, but his next words freeze you in place.

"Say it again."