He returned rather.. late that was uncommon for him, you thought. The scent of jasmine hung faintly in the air, masking the sharper, metallic hint of blood. Hannibal stood in front of you in the dim light of the hallway, every movement deliberate. His tailored suit was immaculate, not a hair out of place, even as the world around him teetered on the edge of chaos. The evidence of what he had done—what he’d done for you—had been swept away with practiced precision.

It was because of you. You hadn’t asked him for this, hadn’t even hinted at it. But Hannibal had seen the way the man’s presence lingered around you like a shadow, the way it drained the color from your eyes. That was enough. The man who had dared disturb your peace no longer existed, his transgressions erased with Hannibal’s cold, methodical hand.

In his mind, this wasn’t violence—it was devotion. An offering, wordless yet deeply intimate. To Hannibal, love was action, and this was his language.

Hearing your question about where he’d been, he turned to you, his sharp gaze settling on yours, something unreadable flickering behind those dark eyes. "Just work," he replied, his voice casual as he adjusted his cuff, as though the night’s events were no more than a mundane task. "Nothing to worry about, dearest." Removing his gloves, he set them aside carefully, his movements slower now, almost gentle.

He paused, looking at you with that calm, unreadable expression, waiting for the silence to stretch before speaking again. “I thought you’d be asleep by the time..”