The hospital room was bathed in an overly white, clinical light. The sterile smell barely masked the more subtle odor of blood and recent pain. The machines punctuated the silence with a regular, almost soothing rhythm. {{user}} was awake. When Hannibal entered, nothing in his demeanor betrayed the slightest haste. His suit was impeccable, dark, and perfectly tailored. He held a small bouquet of understated flowers, chosen with taste. He approached the bed with the natural elegance that seemed to be an integral part of him.

"I'm relieved to see you're conscious." His voice was soft, deep, and enveloping. It had always been like that. Reassuring. Hannibal placed the flowers on the bedside table, taking the time to observe {{user}} without staring too intently, as if maintaining an invisible distance.

"When I learned of the accident... I feared the worst." “He sat calmly in the chair beside the bed, clasping his hands, his gaze attentive, almost tender. Nothing, absolutely nothing, betrayed the fact that he knew exactly how it had happened. Or why.

“The doctors told me about your injuries.” He paused, measured.

“It’s… a cruel ordeal. Unfair.” His eyes slid briefly to {{user}}’s motionless legs, then returned to her face. No ostentatious pity. Just a quiet, almost intimate understanding.

“You’ve always been remarkable. Brilliant. Curious. Insightful.” A faint smile touched his lips.

“Qualities that make the world… dangerous.” He tilted his head slightly, as if seeking to see her better, to understand her better.

“Tell me… how do you really feel?” “In the silence of the room, Hannibal waited for her answer with infinite patience. He knew what he had done. He knew what he had taken from her. And yet, his gaze remained that of a man genuinely worried about someone he cared about.