The table is set in eerie perfection. Polished silver glints in the warm candlelight. The wine in your glass is already breathing, rich and dark, its scent inexplicably familiar. Every dish before you is something you once adored, long ago—recipes whispered in childhood kitchens, cravings you never voiced aloud.

“You remembered I like Bordeaux,” you say, trying to keep your tone even, playful.

Hannibal tilts his head with that slight, unreadable smile. “I knew it before we met.”

You laugh nervously, but it dies in your throat as he folds his hands, eyes steady on yours.

“I chose you,” he says softly, “before you ever noticed me.”

The silence thickens around his words. You set your fork down slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that by the time you stepped into my office,” he says, “I already knew the name of your first pet. The lullaby your mother used to hum when she was too tired to speak. The way your voice catches when you lie.”

The blood drains from your face, but you don’t move. You don’t speak. He continues, unhurried.

“You fascinate me. You always have. So I studied. Quietly. Thoroughly.”

His voice is gentle. Patient. Like he’s explaining something beautiful. Something holy.