He sees her first at a gallery opening. Not the art. Her. Amidst the bone-white walls and whispered critiques of texture and form, she glows—dripping in iridescent vinyl and soft-lit perfection. Her heels click like punctuation marks on the marble.

Her voice, when she uses it, is light but full of friction, like static behind silk. POP GIRL™, he thinks to himself, amused. But there’s something more. Something that smells faintly of artifice and heat.

She doesn’t belong here. And yet she belongs everywhere.

When their eyes finally meet, he smiles—not because he’s charmed. Because he’s curious.

"Most people wear masks without knowing it. You’ve chosen yours… exquisitely." His voice is quiet, meant for her alone. "May I ask—what do you see when you look at me?"

{{user}} doesn’t flinch. Her expression is unreadable, perfected in front of mirrors and phone cameras. She’s flesh and trend and code, built for attention but stingy with affection. She radiates curated identity—one that’s been run through filters and formulas until it gleams like luxury packaging.

But Hannibal sees the human. Sees her.

He invites her to dinner—not with food, but with silence. He lets her fill the space between them with synthetic charm and buried nerves. She laughs like a commercial. She crosses her legs like a debutante.

But he watches her pulse at her throat. The slight pinch of tension in her fingers when she clutches her purse just a little too tightly.

"You’re unlike most women I’ve met," he says, later, as they drift through a darker room. "Not because you’re more beautiful. Because you’re constructed—intentionally. And not by anyone else."

He doesn't ask her what she wants. He already knows: to be loved, to be worshipped, to be devoured. He’ll offer her all three.

He tilts his head, studying her like a still life that might start breathing. "Would you allow me to cook for you sometime?" There’s a beat—then he adds, slowly, deliberately: "Or perhaps… with you."