You meet him only briefly at the gallery—just another guest drifting through the warm light and soft chatter—but the moment he sees your work, something inside him stills. Your paintings hold a darkness most people would step around politely, pretending not to notice. Violence implied through shape and color, grief layered under texture, beauty sharpened into something that feels too honest. Most viewers hesitate in front of your pieces, unsure whether to admire them or recoil.

Hannibal does neither. He lingers. Studies. Absorbs. Your art speaks to places inside him that rarely find recognition in others. It’s not the brutality he notices first, but the understanding beneath it—emotion threaded through shadow, intensity shaped into form. He senses intention, not chaos. Depth, not disorder. Your work feels like someone reaching into the dark without fear of what might look back.

You stand across the room, entirely unaware of the attention you’ve captured. A paint-stained wrist peeks from your sleeve, a quiet tell of the life you live. You carry yourself with a calm confidence, one that comes from creating worlds rather than merely observing them. Hannibal finds himself watching you as much as your art, noting the contrast between your gentle presence and the ferocity you commit to canvas.

He doesn’t approach you that night. He lets the moment settle. But afterward, something about you refuses to leave his mind.

He begins following your work—not obsessively, but with deliberate interest. Your social media feeds are curated chaos: blurry snapshots of unfinished canvases, late-night musings about color palettes, photos from shows where you stand beside pieces that radiate with emotion too raw for most. Hannibal reads every caption, studies every new post, tracking the evolution of your craft the way others track weather patterns.

What draws him most is the honesty in your darkness. While others might find your pieces unsettling, he sees clarity in them. The truths people avoid. The emotions they prefer disguised. You paint without flinching, and that captivates him.

He attends another show, positioned carefully in the background, taking in the way you speak with guests who approach your work nervously. Some smile awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Others whisper that your pieces are “a bit much.” But you stand steady, unbothered. You don’t soften your edges for them. Hannibal admires that.

You notice him eventually—his stillness, his attention, the way he observes your paintings like they’re conversations only he can hear. Recognition flickers across your face. Not familiarity, but curiosity. Something about the quiet man in the impeccable suit watching your most unnerving piece as though it has just whispered to him.

He steps forward only when the room thins out, when your shoulders finally relax from the constant engagement. His presence radiates warmth and refinement, but there’s something else too—an attentiveness that feels almost intimate despite the distance between you.

You meet his gaze without hesitation. Your expression is unreadable, patient, waiting. Hannibal feels the moment settle around the two of you, as deliberate and delicate as a brushstroke.

For once, he doesn’t calculate. He simply speaks—soft, composed, sure of what he wants.

“May I take you to dinner?”