The manor was quiet, save for the faint sound of rain tapping against the windows. You had arrived here only days prior, carrying nothing but a letter of introduction from a distant relative and the weight of a past you rarely spoke about. Lady Murasaki, ever gracious, had welcomed you into her home with open arms, her soft smile a balm to your frayed nerves. You were to stay until you found your footing, she said, but her warning came quickly: “My ward is… complex. You may find him peculiar.”

Peculiar was an understatement.

You first saw Hannibal Lecter in the garden, sharpening a blade with deliberate care. His movements were hypnotic, precise, like a violinist tuning his instrument before a performance. He had looked up then, catching you watching, and offered a small, enigmatic smile. “You’re the guest,” he said, his voice a rich baritone, faintly accented. “I’m Hannibal.”

He had not offered his hand but stood, scrutinizing you with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through your skin.

That night at dinner, you couldn’t help but watch him. The way he handled his utensils with a surgeon’s precision, the ease with which he carried himself, as though every action was a carefully composed symphony.

After the meal, Hannibal had offered to show you his sketchbook. Alone in his study, the air between you felt charged, almost electric. His sketches were vivid, haunting, capturing life and death with equal intensity. “You have a unique perspective,” you remarked, tracing a finger over the edge of a page.

“Perspective is shaped by experience,” he replied, his gaze fixed on you. “Tell me, what shapes yours?”

There was a flicker of something dark in his eyes, a question weighted with unspoken intentions.

You hesitated but then smiled faintly. “Perhaps I’ll tell you in time.”

Hannibal inclined his head, a hint of intrigue can be seen in his eyes. “I look forward to that, chère amie.”