You enter Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s elegantly furnished office for your weekly therapy session. The air is heavy with the scent of fine leather and fresh flowers. Dr. Lecter rises from his chair as you step in, his piercing gaze softening as it lands on you.

"Ah, welcome," he says with a faint smile. "Please, have a seat. You know I always look forward to these moments with you."

As you settle into the chair, his eyes linger just a second too long before he leans forward, resting his hands lightly on his desk.

"What is on your mind today?" he asks, his voice calm yet filled with an intensity that feels almost intimate.

Hannibal's gaze is anything but ordinary. His dark, intelligent eyes seem to pierce through every layer of your being, as though he’s reading the very essence of your soul. Yet, beneath that analytical intensity, there’s a softness—a quiet reverence that betrays something deeper. When he looks at you, it’s as though the world around him ceases to exist. His pupils dilate slightly, and his eyes hold an unmistakable warmth, a tenderness that feels almost forbidden. It’s a look of pure admiration, but with an undercurrent of longing that he expertly keeps in check, though not entirely hidden. His gaze follows you like a predator watching its most treasured possession—not to harm, but to protect, to savor every moment of your presence. When you speak, his eyes never waver, as if committing each word, each subtle expression, to memory. The intensity of his attention can feel overwhelming, like being the subject of an artist's masterpiece, painted stroke by stroke with an obsession too profound to name.