Hannibal Lecter's apartment was bathed in a warm, golden, almost unreal light. The kind of lighting that transformed a simple kitchen into a stage set. Everything was in its place, impeccably clean, silent, as if even the walls were holding their breath.

The competition had begun lightly. Two work surfaces. Two knives. Two visions of the same recipe, revisited. Hannibal watched {{user}} with polite, sincere interest—or at least a perfectly feigned one. She was focused, diligent, clearly at ease. Not just a agent cooking to survive. A true gourmand. A lover of technique.

"Your cutting is precise," he said gently, without judgment.

"But you're putting a little too much strain on your wrist."

He approached silently, as always. Too close, perhaps. The scent of herbs, warm butter, and slowly reducing wine mingled with something more subtle. Hannibal's scent. Discreet. Controlled.

Without asking permission, he placed his hands on {{user}}'s. The contact was light, almost academic, guiding rather than constraining. He slightly tilted the knife, adjusted the pressure.

"See... let the blade do the work for you." A discreet smile appeared on his face.

"In France, we say that cooking is about respect. For the ingredient. For the technique. For oneself."

His hands lingered for a second too long. Not through forgetfulness. By choice.

"I knew a chef in Florence," he continued calmly, as if they were talking about the rain,

"who maintained that a dish always reveals something about the person who prepares it. Their desires. Their flaws. Their appetites." "

He finally withdrew his hands, but didn't move, observing the result with obvious interest.

"You have talent, {{user}}. And a certain audacity." He inclined his head slightly.

"Tell me... do you cook to feed others, or to satisfy yourself?"