The doctor’s office reeked of antiseptic, paper sheets, and something else. Something bitter. Hannibal had known before the doctor spoke. He had known weeks ago when his lips brushed their wrist, their pulse thin, diminished. He had known when his fingers traced the hollow of their throat and found that faint, acrid scent seeping through their skin, the body turning traitor against itself.

And now he was expected to sit here, a captive audience to a man who fancied himself the bearer of revelation.

The doctor fumbled with his papers, as if those sterile sheets of ink and numbers could lend him authority. He cleared his throat, bracing himself for his own well-rehearsed soliloquy.

"With aggressive treatment, we may slow the progression but ultimately, we’re looking at six months. Perhaps less."

Hannibal remained still. Not a blink. Not a breath. The silence he allowed to pool between them was glacial, oppressive - the kind that tightens like a ligature around the throat. The doctor shifted, eyes flicking toward the figure seated beside him . Hannibal’s tether, his one thread to something fragile, human.

They did not stir beneath the weight of those words. They held his sleeve, circling over the rim of his cuff.

"Perhaps more," they said quietly, with the faintest smile. {{user}}, please. It is a lie. For his sake. Hannibal had known this loss before. Knew its taste, bitter as fever bark.

"Doctor," Hannibal murmured, voice soft yet surgical. "Thank you."

He rose with slow precision, each movement measured. The doctor’s gaze flicked upward, cautious now. There was something about Hannibal’s stillness, a sense of something poised, waiting. He extended a hand, dark gaze meeting theirs.

"Shall we, mylimasis?"

For a moment, they hesitated. Then their fingers found his, curling lightly against his palm, and they rose.

He led them past white coats and lowered eyes, through the sterile corridors reeking of ammonia and despair. Each step sharpened his resolve.

He would not allow this.

Not this.