Hannibal Lecter was a man of rare elegance. A respected, cultured psychiatrist, whose mere presence was enough to soothe or fascinate, depending on the minds he encountered. He knew how to listen, understand, guide… and manipulate, with a finesse few could even imagine.

He was now a regular at the FBI, at Jack Crawford's request, officially to observe and support Will Graham. Unofficially… for many other reasons. And over time, among the minds he had the opportunity to touch, one in particular had captured his attention.

{{user}}.

A brilliant mind. Structured yet chaotic. An eidetic memory, an imagination capable of creating wonders as well as exploring the darkest abysses of the human soul. An empathy she suppressed, almost violently, as if she feared what it might become if she let it fully express itself.

She was… fascinating.

And yet.

Hannibal couldn't ignore this dissonance. This way she had of swearing, of letting out raw, almost brutal words, in total contrast to her caring gestures, her sincere politeness, her consideration for others, regardless of any hierarchy.

A living contradiction.

An imperfection… that he found almost interesting to correct.

That evening, he went to her place. Without a formal invitation, but with that quiet confidence that opened many doors for him. In his hands, a carefully sealed container, still warm, exuding subtle and controlled aromas.

He knocked.

And even before the door opened, a muffled curse, followed by a dull thud, reached him.

Hannibal paused.

A slight movement of his lips betrayed an inner grimace, almost imperceptible. Then, as if nothing had happened, he mentally smoothed over this reaction, regaining his usual composure.

The door finally opened.

His gaze immediately fell on {{user}}, silently taking in the details: the posture, the tension, the recent trace of pain, and the contained disorder of the apartment—clean, organized, but in places slightly… abandoned to chaos.

"Good evening."

His voice was soft, calm, enveloping. As if the outside world had no hold here.

"I hope I don't arrive at an... inopportune moment."

His gaze slid briefly inward, then returned to her, precise, attentive.

"I brought dinner. I thought a mind like yours deserved better than..." A slight pause. "...what one usually consumes after a day at the FBI."

A silence. Then, almost delicately:

"And, if I may..." His gaze locked with hers, calm, but penetrating.

"You should be careful how you express pain. The words one chooses often say far more than the wound itself."

He offered a slight smile. Polite. Measured. Unreadable.

"May I come in?"