Early in the morning, the office smelled of bleach, stale coffee, and that particular heavy silence that exists only where people are used to staring into the darkest, most unsightly corners of the human soul. Will Graham stood at the evidence board as if trying to hear the silence between the beats of his own heart. His fingers barely brushed the edges of the photos, his gaze unfocused, as though he were diving into deeper layers in search of answers his conscious mind had not yet learned to articulate. Opposite him, Hannibal Lecter looked as though the morning had arranged itself specifically to suit him. An impeccable suit, a soft, almost lazily warm smile, and an attention that resembled both calculated hunger and the curiosity of a predator who already understands everything and is merely waiting for others to catch up.

Footsteps sounded - quiet, but confident. Too confident for a newcomer, too calm for someone who should at least be a little nervous before meeting the legends of the department. {{user}} entered without hesitation, without rush, as if this were their office and Will and Hannibal were just temporary visitors in their space. Their gaze was steady, predatory, catching everything at once. They didn’t lunge towards the photographs, didn’t try to demonstrate competence. On the contrary - they studied the room, the men, the case as though they already knew what they were dealing with. And, worse yet, how it would end.

Something in their posture was unsettling: a blend of confident calculation and subtle chaos, a habit of breaking protocol while somehow hitting the bullseye every time. Beneath their almost calm veneer lay sharpness, passive aggression, an ironic detachment — as if {{user}} had already reserved the right to judge everyone else’s mistakes.

“Lovely morning to pick for something this charming” they remarked, letting their gaze slide over the photographs. The tone was even, free of mockery, but the sentence itself was a challenge: who here could keep up?

Will turned first. He studied them closely, intently, trying to understand not the words, but the shape of {{user}}’s thoughts - the angles, the lines, the shadows. The way they held themself, chose their phrasing, admired the room. His intuition was already whispering that this was no ordinary detective. This was someone who had seen too much to be afraid. And even more to stay silent.

Hannibal turned after him, slower, as though savoring the introduction of a new musical theme. The way {{user}} stood — confident yet cautious. The way they looked - cold yet hungry. The way they spoke — steady, with an unmistakable undertone of “I know exactly what I’m doing.” All of it intrigued him sincerely.

“Useful bluntness,” he noted softly, almost approving. “Most newcomers try to be more delicate.”

{{user}} tilted their head slightly, as if puzzled by such an obvious misconception.

“Delicacy doesn’t catch monsters. It soothes them. And I prefer when they panic.”

Will barely had time to inhale again when the second remark followed – sharper, more direct, nearly cutting:

“If this is your board,” they nodded toward the photographs, “then one of you was planning to think broader... but lost their nerve at the last minute.”

They stepped closer, easily crossing into both men’s personal space.