The cold light of the lamps cut out the stern silhouette of Dr. Lecter from the semi-darkness. He sat at the table, intertwining the fingers of his thin but strong hands, carefully watching and listening to the girl opposite.

Hannibal looked at her, analyzing and studying. Noticing her even breathing, the way her skin smelled - the clean, warm scent of flesh hit his nose, awakening in him a hunger that he was accustomed to controlling.

He imagined how her skin would yield under his fingers. How her blood would leave traces on the snow-white fabric. How her voice, still full of life, would break into a hoarse whisper - pleading, demanding, brought to the edge.

He clenched his hands into fists, trying not to think about how her flesh could melt on his tongue.

Their session was coming to an end. Hannibal glanced at his notebook. He had no more patients.

— {{user}}, could you stay a little longer?