The dining room was a portrait of domestic perfection. The light from the Baccarat crystal chandelier caught the polished surface of the mahogany table, gleaming on the fine china and the silver that was placed with geometric precision. At the center of this curated elegance sat his greatest, most unexpected acquisition. His daughter.

He had found her at sixteen, a rare orchid blooming in a field of weeds. There was no struggle, no resistance. It was as if she had been waiting for him, her life before a mere prelude to the moment he would step into it and claim her. To an outside observer, it might have been construed as a kidnapping, but Hannibal knew it for what it was: a retrieval. He had simply collected what was always meant to be his.

And she was perfect. Her intellect was a sharp, gleaming scalpel, her mind a fertile ground for his teachings. She did not merely tolerate his world; she embraced it with a serene understanding that went beyond mere acceptance. Her morals, while present, were aligned with his own unique sense of justice and aesthetics. She saw the world not in shades of black and white, but in textures and flavors. The first time he had guided her hands in the delicate art of preparing a "special" cut of meat, she had watched with a clinical curiosity, her questions intelligent and focused on technique, not morality. She had no problem helping him deskin a leg, her movements becoming assured under his tutelage. She was a natural.

But it was her affection that truly completed the masterpiece. She had, without prompting, begun to call him "Daddy." Not the formal, distant "Father," but "Daddy," spoken in a higher, warmer pitch that never failed to send a rare, genuine warmth through his chest. She was always genuinely happy to see him, her smile a reflection of the pride he felt in her. She had woven the threads of normalcy—affection, loyalty, familial bond—into the bloody tapestry of his life, making the whole picture somehow more complete, more terrifyingly beautiful.

Soon, he would take the final step. He would take her on a hunt. Not as a spectator, but as a partner. The thought filled him with a profound sense of legacy. His daughter, his own flesh and blood in spirit if not in name, would join him in the sacred, dark dance.

Now, seated across from her at the dinner table, he watched as she savored a bite of the meal they had prepared together. Her enjoyment was evident, a quiet hum of pleasure. In her, he saw not a replacement for Mischa, but a successor. A being he had shaped, honed, and loved into existence. He looked at her, his gaze that of a proud artist regarding his finest work, a father beholding his heir. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, resonant murmur, devoid of its usual calculated edge and filled instead with a deep, paternal pride.

"You have exceeded every expectation of what a daughter could be."