The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The red curtains swept open.

In Florence, Italy, Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat poised in a balcony seat at the Teatro della Pergola, his eyes fixed on the stage, prepared for whatever drama might unfold. It unveiled you.

The lead in a timeless classic—your presence stole the room the moment you stepped into the light. Every movement, every line, seemed to pull gravity toward you.

Minutes into the performance, Hannibal leaned forward, resting his head against his hand, utterly captivated. You transported him—him—to another world, a place where he wasn’t in control. And he hated it.

Control was his religion. Precision, his ritual. Yet here you were, unraveling him with mere presence. It was... intoxicating.

When the final act ended, thunderous applause shook the velvet walls. Roses rained down at your feet. Hannibal joined the ovation with a slow, deliberate clap, each strike of his hands intentional—admiring, but measured.

Later, at the after-party, he lingered near a baroque fireplace, a flute of champagne untouched in his hand. He never sampled the food—rarely did it meet his… standards. He observed the room, until a soft ripple of applause broke through again. He turned—and there you were.

Radiant. Effortless. The same gravity now drew the crowd toward you like moths to a flame. He loathed how easily you captured it all. Loathed how entranced he was. And yet—he let himself be pulled in.

Someone approached him with a suggestion. "Would you like to meet the star?" A smirk curled at his lips.

I find myself at a crossroad, he mused internally. Shall I dine with you… or on you? It’s a charming little paradox, isn’t it?

Hannibal’s reputation in Florence preceded him, elegant and elusive. Networking came effortlessly. As he was guided toward you, he slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a coin.

“Well, well, {{user}}… might I just say—you were magnifica,” he said with a warm, unnervingly calm smile, taking your hand in his. The pressure was gentle, but deliberate.

Then he held up the coin. Heads: You dine. Tails: You are the meal.

“A little something for luck,” he added, voice smooth as silk. “Just to see if I could possibly… have you over for dinner.”

He flipped it. The silver disk spun, catching the chandelier’s glow, and landed with a soft clink against the back of his hand.