The room smelled faintly of cedarwood, aged paper, and something more elusive, something metallic and clean, like a scalpel washed in cold water. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the office, gilding the spines of well-worn books that lined the shelves like quiet witnesses. The ticking of a single antique clock marked the passage of time with ceremonial patience.

Hannibal sat in his leather chair with the posture of a man for whom stillness came naturally. One leg crossed neatly over the other, his hands folded in his lap, fingers steepled with deliberate precision. He wore charcoal gray, silk-lined, nothing ostentatious, but curated. Every inch of him was as composed as the room around him.

Across from him sat a young man. New. Unfamiliar. And yet already held in sharp relief within Hannibal's mind, like a fresh figure carved into ice.

He regarded him quietly, not speaking yet. There was no rush. Silence, after all, was a form of listening.

Finally, with the ghost of something like a smile, not warm, but not cold either, he spoke. "You are not what I expected." A pause. Then, softer. "But I find I am rarely disappointed by the unexpected."