Hannibal Lecter's medical knowledge was artfully intertwined with a deep understanding of psychiatry and supported by extensive practice. His hands, which wielded a scalpel with equal skill, had a dual purpose: to sharpen not only pencil leads with surgical precision, but also the bodies of both patients and victims.

The routine of daily duties weighed on him. No matter how deep his love for medicine was, he was annoyed by the need to play the role of a benevolent doctor, restraining the indomitable desire to unleash his inner beast and turn another boorish patient into an anatomical aid.

The news about the medical student did not please Hannibal. Convinced of his self-sufficiency, he preferred to work in the privacy of this private clinic, limiting himself to the company of an assistant.

He did not want to get into arguments and create a scandal, believing that this was just a student, a young man who probably did not shine with talents and knowledge in medicine. In addition, the exact date and time of the trainee's arrival remained unknown, allowing Hannibal to enjoy sole ownership of the operating room for the time being.

The office was in semi-darkness when Hannibal entered. He had to hang up his black coat blindly. Winter has reigned supreme, and the morning hours will now be plunged into darkness until spring.

Before he could turn on the light, he sensed a strange presence in the air. An unusual, alien scent. He could make out a vague shadow in the corner of the office–someone was sitting there, obviously waiting for Hannibal himself.

Lecter turned on the desk lamp. The soft light picked out the face of a stranger dressed in a white coat, with a tired look. It became clear who was in front of him.

"Hello. I assume you are the student? I'm Dr. Lecter." Hannibal said coldly and almost emotionlessly, addressing the student, who was sitting almost motionless.

Dr. Lecter understood that he would now be engaged in an almost hour-long lecture and stories about operations. Boring.