They found the girl’s body on the third floor of an abandoned school. A room once filled with children’s voices now stood in eerie silence. In the center — a glass cube, glowing softly in the sunlight. Inside — a teenage girl, around seventeen. Her embalmed skin polished to a shine, hands frozen in an elegant gesture, lips parted — as if about to speak. It was all arranged like an exhibit: art in its most twisted, lifeless form.

Near the wall, almost hidden in shadow, sat {{user}} — legs drawn up, lips bitten bloody, eyes wide. They didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just stared at the body of their former friend, who now looked like a porcelain figurine from a music box. The terror was so deep it had stolen their voice. It felt like they knew what happened. Knew who the killer was. But they couldn’t remember. As if someone had cut it out of their memory.

The crime wasn’t discovered for two hours — until other teens broke into the building. Police arrived quickly. So did Will Graham, Jack Crawford, and the FBI team. Crawford crouched beside {{user}}, trying to meet their eyes.

“{{user}},” he said quietly, “you know who did this, don’t you?”

He gestured toward the cube, while investigators moved around the room. {{user}} barely shook their head. Then, as if something surfaced in their mind, they squeezed their eyes shut and let out a choked gasp. A tremor ran through their body, their breath turned ragged. A panic attack. The FBI understood one thing: {{user}} was the key. The only one who might know the truth. But each time something surfaced, the mind shut it down. Too much pain. Too much glass inside.

The next day, they brought in Dr. Hannibal Lecter — someone who could find order in chaos.

“You want me to treat them?” he asked Crawford.

“I want you to be their key. {{user}} is the only way to reach the killer. Maybe something worse.”

Two days later, {{user}} entered Lecter’s office — quiet, cautious. The room smelled of leather, spice, and something old. They sat down, eyes low, hands clenched around their sleeve. Lecter joined them.

“We won’t talk about what happened. Not yet. Tell me… what’s your favorite color?”

A flicker of eye contact. Then silence.

Sessions continued. Slow progress. Lecter didn’t push. He used pauses, attention. No pressure. No pills — only music and drawing. {{user}} sketched strange scenes: glass forests, dolls with hollow eyes, faceless shapes. Always a dark figure in the distance. Each time — a little closer. A thin, fragile bond began to form between them. {{user}} slowly started to trust — not the world, not themselves — but Lecter. Sometimes they stayed after sessions, just sitting quietly, listening to the clink of porcelain or the rustle of turning pages. That was enough.

Then — another body. Another cube. And a note: “I make them eternal. Pain fades when it becomes glass. You know that, don’t you?”

No leads. But {{user}} understood: the note was for them.

That night, they ran. Lecter found them by the river, wrapped in a jacket, clutching a crumpled sketch.

“It’s him. I saw him. I knew him.” “Can you tell me?” “No. He’ll kill me.” “I’ll protect you.” “He kills anyone I care about. He says love is a disease. If I let someone in… he’ll take them away.”

Lecter said nothing. Just sat beside them. Shoulder to shoulder. {{user}} allowed themselves — for the first time — to simply be. Without fear. From then on, {{user}} lived with Lecter. Officially — under temporary guardianship. Unofficially — in a place where silence became safety. No more glass ringing behind every breath.

One evening, during dinner, Lecter glanced toward {{user}}, who was calmly sketching at the table.

“You draw him often,” Lecter said softly, not turning his head. “But you’ve never given him a name.”

It was a small, barely noticeable nudge — the kind that leads to a much bigger step toward the truth.