You had barely settled into your new position at the FBI when the case landed on your desk: a serial killer targeting women and leaving behind bodies stripped of their skin, as if the victims were nothing more than material for some grotesque craft. Every lead had dried up. Every profile contradicted the last. And that’s when your superior made a suggestion that felt more like a dare than an order.

Consult Hannibal Lecter.

The infamous former psychiatrist. The so-called “artist.” The cannibal whose mind was as intricate as it was horrifying. His insights had cracked impossible cases before… but at a cost. A cost no one seemed particularly eager to pay—except, apparently, you.

What could go wrong? You weren’t sure. No one ever was with him.

By the time you arrived at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the air itself felt heavier. Security was smothering: metal detectors, reinforced glass, guards watching you like you might suddenly sprout fangs. You were instructed to place your firearm in a locker, and then your handcuffs too. Standard protocol, they said. Necessary, they added. You couldn’t tell if that was meant to comfort you or warn you.

As the door clanged shut behind you and the hall stretched ahead—cold, white, and humming with fluorescent lights—you realized there was no turning back. You were walking straight toward Hannibal Lecter. And he already knew you were coming.