The clink of fine silverware echoed off the walls of Hannibal’s dining room. Candlelight danced across polished mahogany and crystal, casting soft, golden shadows across your plate. You hadn’t spoken much in days, but tonight… you were eating. Slowly. Cautiously.

He watched you from across the table, chin resting on folded hands, eyes sharper than the knife resting near his untouched cut of meat. “You’re quiet,” he said smoothly, as if silence were something intimate, something to be cherished rather than broken.

You chewed slowly, trying not to tremble. The food was exquisite, as always. Rich. Savory. And, as always, laced with suspicion. But you’d grown tired of hunger, of defiance with no reward. Tonight, you were curious what came next.

“I imagine this feels like a victory to you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze across the candles.

Hannibal smiled, but it was not one of pride. It was darker. Fonder. “Not a victory,” he replied, his voice low. “A moment of understanding.”

You ran your thumb along the cool steel of your fork. It felt like a lifeline. Or a trap.

He tilted his head. “Every time I feed you, I imagine what it would be like to devour you whole.”