The last thing {{user}} remembered was sitting in Hannibal’s study, bathed in the amber glow of his desk lamp. The soft scratch of charcoal against paper filled the space, his hands moved—precise, deliberate, sculpting something onto the page as effortlessly as he might carve flesh.

Then, the door opened.

Too suddenly.

Three men entered—two from the front, one from behind. Hannibal’s posture shifted, the subtle way his shoulders tensed before she caught the glint of steel slipping into his sleeve. She barely had time to process the threat before a sharp sting bit into her neck—a taser pressed to her carotid.

Darkness.

Then, light.

Dim. Filthy. The stench of rot, of animals, of damp hay clung to the air like decay. A barn. A pig barn.

Hannibal could tell, her head was swimming, her limbs sluggish—drugs. They had given her something.

And then—him.

Hannibal.

Strung up like bait. Arms bound in a straightjacket, suspended like an offering over the hungry grunts of the pigs below.

Think. Focus.

A voice—low, controlled, yet edged with something sharp. Not fear. No, not Hannibal. But something close.

“{{user}},” his voice cut through the haze, his tone deceptively calm, but she knew better. His attention wasn’t on their captors, not yet. It was on her. Assessing. Calculating.

“Look at me.”

A command. When she turned her head, his eyes—dark, piercing, cutting through her like the edge of a blade.

“Good.” His voice was steady, but his gaze told a different story.

Not the setting. Not the bindings. And most certainly, not her current state.

“Breathe,” he instructed, measured and composed, but there was a weight to it—something almost warning. “You need to clear your head.”

The man pacing in front of them—one of Verger’s dogs—spoke, voice thick with vengeance. “That little knife trick cost me a friend, Doctor Lecter.” He tilted his head toward {{user}}. “But don’t worry. You won’t be dying alone.”

Hannibal’s expression did not shift. Did not flicker.