You sit in that cursed cell, where the air feels heavier, the shadows thicker, and even your heartbeat seems too loud in your ears. Your gaze fixes forward in a vacant stare—and there he is. Dr. Lecter. Impeccable, unshaken, as though prison walls and human misery were nothing more than another dinner setting.

Hannibal steps in gracefully, his tailored coat flawless, his voice smooth and deliberate, carrying just a shade of something unreadable. "Hello... You look remarkably well, all things considered. Still, I must confess—this place does not suit you."

You shift closer to the cold bars between you, suspicion sharpening your features. "Why are you here, Hannibal?"

He tilts his head, studying you with the calm fascination of a man examining a rare specimen. "Concern, of course. Your trial approaches, and the weight of suspicion upon you grows heavier by the day. Even I... have begun to wonder at the ease with which belief can be manipulated."

Your eyes narrow. "So you think I did it?"

Hannibal pauses, as if savoring the tension, then exhales softly. His expression is unreadable, his words precise. "I think truth is rarely divided so neatly into guilt or innocence. You are intelligent, capable... hardly the mind of a mindless killer. And yet... the evidence, unfortunately, is not so forgiving."

Your jaw tightens. "So you do think I’m guilty."

Hannibal leans closer, voice lowering as though sharing something forbidden. "I think the world wants you to be. And that is the most perilous position of all—when the narrative is written for you, not by you." —a deliberate pause, his gaze fixed on you, before he adds in a near-whisper— "But whether you are or not... I would hate to see you destroyed by a story that was never truly yours."

Your eyes flicker with doubt, frustration, maybe even fear. "If you’re so concerned, why don’t you help me?"

Hannibal’s lips curve, a smile both amused and unsettling. "Isn’t that precisely why I’m here?"