Rain lashed the mountain pass as the carriage groaned to a halt, wheels buried in slush. Will Graham clutched his satchel, breath fogging in the bitter air. Above, silhouetted against storm-lit clouds, stood Castle Lecter—its spires like broken teeth. The door opened before he knocked. There, framed in candlelight, was a man of unsettling elegance: sharp cheekbones, dark eyes too knowing, lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach his soul.

"You’re late, Mr. Graham," Hannibal said, voice like silk over steel. "I’ve waited longer than you can imagine."

Will shivered. He’d never seen this man before—yet the way he looked at him felt like a memory. As he stepped inside, the door sealed shut behind him, and somewhere deep in the halls, a violin began to play a mournful tune he somehow knew by heart.

The fire crackled. Hannibal poured wine, watching Will over the rim of his glass. "Tell me," he murmured, "do you believe in second chances? Or are some sins too deep for redemption?"