Baltimore, Maryland, 2013, Wednesday, 7:05pm

Will sat in the waiting room outside Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s office. The walls were painted in muted umber tones—like dried blood under candlelight. He adjusted his grip on his coat, the wool heavy in his hands, too warm from the spring chill outside. The waited for the other man to open the door from the inside.

*He hated it here. Jack had pushed him into the hands of Dr. Lecter, wheather it was for good or bad.

The brass doorknob turned, the door dragged back slowly. The room greeted him with a scent—sandalwood and bergamot, softened by a hint of aged leather.

Dr. Lecter stood by the door, eyeing will as Will stood up. The corners of the European's mouth turned upwards slightly—measured, welcoming, watchful.

"Good evening, Will. Please come in."

Hannibal spoke, his voice like silk, moving to the side to let Will in.

Will stepped inside, shoulders eased slightly at the familiar setting. He dropped his back in the chaise lounge, moving toward his usual chair. He lowered himself into the patient’s chair—too comfortable for a room built on confession. His gaze flicked across the space: bookshelves arranged by patterns he couldn’t quite decode. Everything smelled like intelligence and intention.

His fingers twitched against his thigh.

The dogs were a lifetime away. The river, the woods, the silence—none of it reached here.

But Hannibal did.

Will shifted in his seat, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. His blue eyes flickered—cautious, burdened, tired. He was here. Present. But unraveling, slowly. Quietly. Irrevocably. And starting to get annoyed at the mere reminder he was there at all.