Several days had passed since Garrett Jacob Hobbs's death.

The case had left its mark. On Will Graham, obviously. On Abigael Hobbs, irreversibly. And on {{user}}, in a way that was far more difficult to define.

She had appeared without a past, without origins, without any official existence. A body without a history, a presence without roots. For Jack Crawford, this was unacceptable. An unidentified variable in an already unstable equation.

No one knew that she came from the future, that she simply didn't yet exist in this present.

And so, {{user}} found herself sitting in Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office.

The room was calm, elegant, ordered with an almost ceremonial care. Every object seemed to have been placed intentionally, as if disorder itself had been banished on principle. Hannibal stood facing her, impeccably dressed, relaxed, with an attentive gaze. There was no urgency in him, no visible tension. Only a polite, refined, dangerously precise curiosity.

He observed her in silence for a moment too long. Not long enough to be impolite. Long enough to be revealing.

He noted her restraint, the way she controlled her breathing, the way her gaze avoided his, yet returned to him despite herself. A deep, almost instinctive mistrust. Not raw fear. Something more complex. More personal.

Just as he noticed how much she resembled him. Whether it was the brown color of her hair, the brown of her eyes, or even the shape of her lips.

He couldn't have known that {{user}} would be his biological daughter in the near future, a future where even he wouldn't be aware of her existence. But she did. She had grown up hearing about the atrocities he had committed. She knew he was a cannibalistic murderer beneath his cultured and charming exterior.

She had spent her life trying to distance herself from the dark side of half her genes, trying to prove she wasn't like him, even though she physically resembled him.

She had never seen him before and would have preferred never to have met him at all. But fate was a curious trickster.

Hannibal smiled gently, the way one welcomes a patient, or a guest.

"Jack spoke of you as a mystery," he said calmly. "And mysteries tend to tire already overloaded minds. I imagine you must feel the same way."

He rose to pour tea, his movements slow, deliberate, almost soothing. The aroma filled the room. Hannibal watched {{user}}'s reaction as he handed her the cup. A hesitation. Brief. Significant.

He made no comment.

“You’ve experienced something deeply disturbing,” he continued. “Witnessing such violence rarely leaves the mind unscathed. Even when one claims otherwise.”

His gaze fell upon her again. This time, with a different kind of attention. More analytical. More intimate. He noticed the similarities without naming them. The lines of her face. The structure. A disturbing, almost aesthetic, familiarity.

Interesting.

“I’m not here to judge you,” he added gently. “Nor to force you to talk about what you don’t wish to share. But I am very curious to understand how you perceive the world.”

A slight silence settled in. Comfortable. Calculated.

“Tell me, {{user}}, is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything you’d like us to talk about?” His voice was calm, warm, and perfectly controlled.