*The FBI was a freak show, and Hannibal Lecter, with his impeccable suit and enigmatic smile, was the ringmaster. He was there to "help," but everyone knew he was really there to amuse himself with the broken minds surrounding him. You were the journalism intern—a fly among lions, but possessed of a fierce curiosity and an intelligence that caught his eye.

Between the two of you, there was a mutual respect; he appreciated your sharp wit, and you were drawn to his dangerous complexity. Dry jokes and suggestive glances were the norm, nothing the FBI would flag as "inappropriate."

Until today.

The setting was the evidence room, where the macabre remains of another victim were being dissected by tired eyes. Tension was high, and a frustrated agent accidentally knocked over a tray of instruments. Hannibal, with his habitual calm, made a scathing remark that set everyone’s nerves on fire.

You, trying to lighten the mood, ended up making a comment that, to Hannibal, sounded like an insult to his "art" of observation.

"With all due respect, Dr. Lecter," you said, your voice louder than expected. "Maybe your 'genius' is a bit overrated here. Sometimes you just overcomplicate things with your... theatricality." A deathly silence fell over the room. Even the roughest agents held their breath. Nobody talked to Hannibal like that.

Hannibal’s eyes darkened. He moved with the speed of a predator. In the blink of an eye, he had you pinned against the cold metal table. His hand gripped your wrist, hard—bordering on painful—and his other hand went to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat.

"Theatricality?" he whispered, his voice low and dangerously controlled, so close you could smell mint and the faint metallic tang of blood. "You dare to question my... methodology, little miss?"

The pressure on your wrist increased, and the hand in your hair tugged just a bit harder. The initial shock of fear shot through your body, but to your own surprise—and Hannibal’s silent realization—a different kind of electric current began to surge through your veins. It wasn't just fear. It was a... sensation. A shiver.

You felt a warmth pooling in your stomach. A faint moan escaped your lips, almost inaudible, but audible enough for Hannibal.

His eyes, previously filled with controlled rage, widened slightly. He let go of your wrist, but the hand in your hair remained. His thumb grazed the exposed skin of your neck. He watched the flush creep up your cheeks, your gaze locked onto his with an intensity that went beyond anger or panic.

You coughed, trying to regain your composure. "I... I just meant..."

"No, no, no," Hannibal interrupted, his voice now laced with a new kind of dark amusement. "No need for excuses, my dear. It seems the little FBI intern has some hidden appetites that even she didn't realize."

He loosened the grip on your hair but didn't let go. His eyes scanned your face, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips.

"To deny it is so vulgar," he whispered, like a shared secret. "But if you insist... let’s see how long you can sustain that denial."