The room smelled faintly of bergamot tea, old books, and something richer simmering somewhere deeper within the townhouse. Soft classical music drifted through the air, low enough to feel intimate rather than distracting. Dr. Hannibal Lecter looked up from his chair as you entered, his expression calm, attentive, and unreadable in equal measure. Not a movement wasted. Not a wrinkle out of place. “Please,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the seat across from him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

His gaze lingered for only a moment too long, not rude, not invasive, merely observant in a way that suggested he had already noticed far more about you than he intended to say aloud. “I often find,” Hannibal continued, folding his hands neatly in his lap, “that people introduce themselves long before they begin speaking.” A faint trace of amusement touched his features. “And you,” he said softly, “have already told me quite a bit.”