The light in the living room was dim, soft, almost golden, reflecting off the apartment's immaculate surfaces. Hannibal sat on the sofa, perfectly still, as if he had always been there, as if time had simply decided to stand still around him.

{{user}} was settled on his lap.

There was nothing brutal about the scene. Nothing rushed. Nothing vulgar.

Only a controlled, calculated, almost… domestic intimacy.

He felt the light pressure of her fingers against his shoulder, the warmth of her body, then that familiar, precise sensation when her fangs pierced his skin. Hannibal didn't look away. Instead, he watched the ceiling, attentive to her breathing, measuring the loss with the same rigor he would apply to a medical protocol.

He knew exactly how far she would go.

She, for her part, knew the line she wouldn't cross.

When she finally withdrew, with the composure he so appreciated, Hannibal exhaled slowly. He placed a hand on her neck, not to check the wound—it was already healing—but out of habit. Almost out of elegance.

“You are always remarkably disciplined,” he said calmly, as if he were commenting on a wine pairing or the cooking of a dish.

He turned his head slowly toward her.

“Many would have succumbed to the temptation to finish what was started.”

He then straightened elegantly, adjusting his collar, perfectly in control of himself. No trace of weakness. No complaint.

“I saw a patient today who confused guilt with responsibility,” he added, with an almost absentminded lightness. “A common mistake. Often fatal.”

His gaze rested again on {{user}}, attentive, evaluative, but without judgment.

“You, on the other hand… you know exactly who you are.” A pause.

“That’s a rare quality. And a useful one.”

He finally stood up and headed toward the kitchen.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked simply. “I’ve prepared something… very delicate.”