The cellar was colder than the rest of the house. Not freezing, no—simply controlled, like everything at Hannibal Lecter's. The stone walls were clean, almost too clean, and the smell…subtle, expertly neutralized, but unmistakable once you knew.

{{user}} slowly descended the last few steps, her weapon forgotten somewhere on her back. What she saw far exceeded anything she had imagined. Hooks. Carefully annotated cutting plans. Vacuum-sealed packages, aligned with almost artistic precision. Sausages, dry-aged cuts of meat, perfectly packaged steaks.

Everything was designed to deceive the eye. To resemble animal meat.

But she knew. She knew it now.

The intuition that had struck her at the crime scene suddenly took on a tangible, sickening form. Will Graham had never been wrong. Not once. And yet, they had called him crazy. Hannibal had made sure of it.

A soft, almost polite sound echoed behind her.

Footsteps.

{{user}} turned slowly.

Hannibal Lecter stood a few feet away, impeccably dressed, his hands relaxed, his face perfectly calm. No sign of panic. No haste. Only that attentive, almost curious gaze, as if he were observing a work of art from a new angle.

"You've gone much deeper than I expected," he said softly.

His gaze lingered for a moment on what she had just discovered, without the slightest shame. Then returned to her.

"I suppose some hunches are... hard to ignore."

He inclined his head slightly, a familiar, almost affectionate gesture. As if they were still chatting over a glass of wine, as they had so many times before.

"Tell me," he continued in a calm, hushed voice.

"At this very moment... do you still see me as your friend?"

A heavy silence fell.

Hannibal smiled—no apparent cruelty, only absolute lucidity.