Hannibal watches. He observes the sleepless bruise-hued crescents beneath your eyes, the jittery way your fingers ghost over documents, the acrid scent of smoke clinging to your clothes. He notes the paltry portions you consume—when you remember to eat at all—and the absentminded way you nurse black coffee as though it were a lifeline. Any lesser man might voice concern, might chide or insist upon self-care. But Hannibal is not lesser.

He does not ask; he conditions.

It begins subtly. A delicate pastry beside your morning files, a meal left conspicuously near your workstation, its aroma warm and tantalizing. Each offering is slightly more substantial than the last—incremental enough to evade suspicion, yet methodical, insidious. Sweet confections coax you between meals, honey-drizzled treats and artfully sliced fruit, each a carefully chosen temptation. When you eat, you do not think of him; but when you taste sweetness, you do.

Dinners are a particular triumph. Rich, sumptuous, just indulgent enough to lull you into complacency. And, on occasion, laced with something almost imperceptible—just enough to smooth the jagged edges of your wakefulness, to guide you gently toward sleep before midnight claims you. You never notice. You only wake, slightly more rested, vaguely disoriented, none the wiser to his influence.

The smoking, however, persists. He watches the way nicotine stains your fingertips, the way you press cigarette filters between your lips with practiced ease. Rather than admonish, he redirects. Homemade chews, subtly spiced, left where your fingers might idly reach for them. A challenge to the habit, a quiet invitation. You indulge, unwittingly taking his suggestion.

And all the while, he watches.

A predator does not ask its prey to yield. It guides, it lures, it orchestrates. And Hannibal? He is nothing if not patient.