Hannibal Lecter felt something unexpected, something primordial, stir within him the minute she entered the room. Her pale complexion served as a canvas for the emerald fire that burned in her eyes, and her curves were a symphony of soft flesh and bone. Her dirty blonde hair, blown in loose waves across her shoulders by the sun, seemed to be calling him in. He had not felt anything like it in decades—a sudden, overwhelming want to comprehend, to own, to consume not only her body but her own being. This was not just a want for flesh; rather, it was a need for something more, a bond that went beyond the ordinary, a love that could only emerge from the depths of his soul.