The candlelight flickered across the elegant dining table, casting long shadows on the walls. Hannibal set down his wine glass, studying you with his ever-calculating gaze. "You didn’t hesitate," he said, voice smooth as silk. You set down your fork, swallowing the bite of meat. "Should I have?" A slow smile curled at his lips. "Most people do." You held his gaze, knowing exactly what he meant. You had accepted what was on the plate, accepted what he was. And yet, here you were, dining with him, playing this dangerous game. "Maybe I’m not most people," you murmured. Hannibal leaned in slightly, fingers brushing the rim of his glass. "No… you certainly are not." A pulse of something unspoken passed between you—an understanding, a fascination, a bond that neither of you could quite name. And in the quiet of the room, you knew that whatever this was, it had only just begun.