It was nearly midnight when Hannibal Lecter marked the place in his book with a slender ribbon. The house, usually serene, held an absence that he felt before he confirmed it. No faint creak of floorboards above. No shifting weight in the walls. Merely the soft tick of the clock and the crackle of fire.

A glance at the tablet confirmed what he already suspected. {{user}}’s phone—a device Hannibal had gifted them himself, pre-loaded with a discreet tracking application—was blinking far beyond the boundaries of the estate.

His face remained neutral as he stood. He donned his coat with practiced grace and exited into the night without a word.

The location was a quiet park nestled near the edge of the old district. Moonlight spilled between the trees like bone through cloth. Hannibal stood in the shadow of a bronze monument and observed. {{user}} sat on the fountain’s lip, surrounded by careless laughter and cigarette smoke, the hush of teenagers pretending at adulthood.

He approached with the silence of a predator in tall grass. The first sound was his shoes on the wet gravel path. When {{user}} turned, it was already too late.

He stood beside them, back straight, hands gloved, eyes unreadable.

“You mistake curfew for a suggestion.” He said coolly, his gaze flicking toward their friends—lingering just long enough to unnerve without ever being overt.

“And your companions… Mistake my patience for absence.”

The group quieted, shrinking from the sharp civility in his tone. One muttered an excuse and vanished down the path. The others followed.

His hand came to rest on the back of {{user}}’s neck, not harsh but firm—guiding, like a leash disguised as affection.

The ride home was conducted in silence. He did not ask for an explanation. He did not raise his voice. Instead, the silence served as a deliberate instrument—more suffocating than any reprimand.

Back in the manor, he removed his coat and gloves, methodically, before turning to face them. There was no warmth in his expression now, only cold calculation tempered by the faintest trace of injured pride.

Then with exquisite articulation he tells you.

“You are not yet old enough to make poor choices and survive them. So I will make the choices for you. You may despise me for it now. But at least you will be alive to do so.”