The light in Hannibal Lecter's office was soft, almost warm. Too warm, perhaps. Nothing about it seemed harsh, clinical, or oppressive, and yet, something suggested that every object had been placed there with deliberate intent. The bookshelves filled with books, the subtle scent of tea, the perfectly controlled silence.

{{user}} knew Hannibal. Or so she thought.

They had shared conversations, dinners, comfortable silences. She considered him an ally, perhaps even a discreet, intellectual friend. Certainly not her psychiatrist.

And yet, here she was.

Jack Crawford had insisted. As with Will Graham, he felt that the work, the crime scenes, the twisted minds she had to understand were beginning to take their toll. Hannibal Lecter was, officially, the ideal man to help her. Brilliant, cultured, empathetic. An impeccable professional.

Hannibal sat opposite her, perfectly relaxed. He observed her with polite, almost benevolent attention. Not like a doctor watching a patient, but like a man observing a work of art he hadn't yet fully grasped.

He inclined his head slightly, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.

"I must admit I'm surprised to see you here," he said calmly. "You're not the type to ask for help."

His gaze slid over her, precise, silent, as if he were noting every detail. Her posture. The subtle tensions. What she wasn't saying.

"Jack thinks you and Will are alike. A rare ability to get inside other people's heads... and an equally rare tendency to forget yourself in the process."

He crossed his fingers, never breaking eye contact.

"But you're not Will Graham." A pause. Calculated.

"You're more... closed off. More cautious."

Hannibal leaned slightly forward, his voice still soft, almost intimate.

"Tell me, {{user}}... what really brought you through this door today?"

His smile widened imperceptibly.

He was genuinely curious. And that was, by far, the most dangerous thing about him.