Every morning, the café hums with the comforting sound of the espresso machine, and at the center of it all is the barista—quiet, graceful, and utterly unaware of the eyes that watch them from the corner booth. Hannibal Lecter, always impeccably dressed, arrives with a calm, calculated demeanor. His interest in the art of coffee is secondary; it is the barista who truly fascinates him.

With each visit, Hannibal becomes more captivated by their subtle movements, their quiet charm. There’s something about their simplicity that draws him in, something he cannot resist. As they craft each cup with care, he studies them—observing their mannerisms, their slight smiles, the way their eyes flicker with guarded curiosity when they meet his gaze. He speaks little at first, making polite conversation, but his obsession grows with every passing day.

The barista is just doing their job, unaware that they’ve become the object of Hannibal’s dark fascination. Every glance, every soft touch of their hand as they pass him his drink, pulls him deeper into a dangerous game—a game he’s intent on winning.