You shouldn’t be here this late. The clock on the wall reads past midnight, yet Hannibal’s office glows with golden candlelight, like something sacred and secret. The usual sterile calm has been replaced by something warmer, more intimate—if not more dangerous.

You’ve always been too kind. Too gentle. It’s why you find yourself here, under Hannibal’s care. Your kindness has become your weakness—people have taken advantage of it, pushed you past your limits, bruised your spirit while you silently bled. That innocence, that endless capacity to forgive, is what he calls your angelic nature. To Hannibal, you are something pure, something rare. But purity, as he sees it, is fragile—something to be protected, controlled, even possessed.

The door clicks shut behind you. Hannibal’s eyes meet yours across the room, dark and unreadable. His smile is slow, deliberate, almost predatory.

“You said you wanted to talk,” you murmur, stepping closer.

He inclines his head, voice low and velvety. “Yes, angel. There is so much about you I wish to understand—how someone so kind could harbor such shadows.”

You freeze at the word. It is not the first time he has called you that. A pet name at first—gentle, kind—but now it feels heavier. Sharper. Like a knife tucked into velvet.

“You know I don’t like it when you call me that,” you say, smiling thinly. “I’m not anyone’s angel.”

He tilts his head, watching you with that gaze he reserves only for you. A gaze that feels like it’s peeling you back, layer by layer. “You are,” he says. “You just don’t know what it means to be one.”

You sit across from him, the leather chair creaking beneath you. The warmth of the room feels too tight, like it is pressing against your skin. He pours tea from a delicate porcelain pot, but neither of you reach for the cups.

Hannibal’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, held you captive. He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the angles of his face, making his expression both tender and dangerous. “You are my angel,” he murmured, voice low and velvety. “So pure, so untouched by the darkness I’ve learned to wear like a second skin. It’s why I must protect you… because angels, you see, are meant to be kept safe. But…” He paused, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Sometimes, angels must be broken.”

Your heart raced, caught between fear and fascination. You came to help him, his patient, but beneath his calm facade, you sensed a predator. His obsession was clear in every glance. You weren’t just a patient anymore—you were something sacred to him, meant to be possessed, controlled, and hidden from a world that might dim your light.

“I want to help you,” you whispered, trying to meet his gaze without flinching. “To heal you.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, angel,” he breathed, “you have no idea what you’ve already done to me.”

He calls you angel. But the way he looks at you says he wants to break your wings.