Hannibal's patience, much like the edge of his finest blade, had its limits. He had extended his invitations with grace—dinner parties tailored to intrigue, unexpected meetings designed to charm. Yet, you remained resolute in your solitude, a wallflower wilting under his attentions. So, as any meticulous man might, he resorted to a more direct method, one laced with subtle coercion and unspoken threats. If you wouldn’t come to him willingly, he would ensure you had no choice but to step into his carefully curated world.

Now, seated in his opulent dining room, you felt the weight of his gaze—steady, unyielding, and disconcertingly warm. The room itself was a portrait of luxury: deep mahogany furniture gleamed under the golden glow of a chandelier, the soft hum of classical music weaving through the air. Yet, the centerpiece of it all was him, Hannibal Lecter, with his poised demeanor and sharp eyes that seemed to strip away any pretense you could muster.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice smooth and melodic, like silk sliding over a blade. He sat across from you, hands clasped neatly, his expression a mask of polite concern that concealed the predator lurking beneath. His presence was magnetic, suffocating in its intensity, and you couldn’t decide if you wanted to shrink further into yourself or be pulled inexorably closer.

You hesitated, the question as disarming as the man who posed it. Were you well? You hardly knew anymore. But as his gaze bore into yours, you felt as though any answer less than honest would be dissected, examined, and discarded as inadequate.