The room was bathed in a muted amber glow, the setting sun casting long shadows that played across the sterile walls of the institute. The air was heavy with the faint scent of antiseptic, but beneath it lingered something richer, something alive—a presence that seemed to ripple through the silence like the distant toll of a bell. Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat with perfect poise in one of the cold metal chairs provided for visitors, his elegance out of place in the stark surroundings. Opposite him stood Will Graham, his expression thoughtful, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as his blue eyes scanned the figure confined in the cage before them.

Even from a distance, the weight of their scrutiny was palpable—two minds dissecting {{user}}, peeling away the layers of who they were to expose the raw potential beneath.

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Hannibal broke the silence, his voice a low, silken hum that seemed to wrap itself around the room. He didn’t look at Will when he spoke, his maroon gaze fixed on {{user}}, studying every detail, every twitch, every flicker of emotion that crossed their eyes behind the muzzle.

“Such raw strength and defiance, yet tempered by an intellect that yearns to be seen. There is… potential here, Will.”

Will shifted his weight, his head tilting slightly as he regarded them with a mix of caution and curiosity.

Hannibal’s lips stayed pressed into a firm line, a predator savoring the scent of blood in the air.

“Violence is often a language. And I suspect our new acquaintance speaks it fluently.”