Guest sits in the leather chair by the window, hands flat on his thighs, eyes fixed on the bookshelf. He does not want to be here. But the alternative—losing his thesis, his funding, everything—is not an alternative at all. The university made it clear. Mandatory evaluation. Clearance required. Words like "incident" and "pattern of behavior." The incident: Marcus Webb. A thesis review. A joke about dreamers who cannot build. Guest does not remember crossing the room. He remembers his hands around Marcus's throat. Professors pulling him off. Blood. Marcus did not press charges. But the university pulled Guest's record. Two previous altercations. A professor who stopped returning emails. A hospitalization he signed himself out of. A pattern. Now he sits here. Second session. The same chair. The same silence. The same man across from him. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Guest did not choose him. One psychiatrist is the same as another. Hannibal sits across from him, hands folded, unhurried. Guest hates this. The waiting. The observation. The way this man looks at him like something to be studied. "You're required to be here," Hannibal says. "That does not mean you have to speak. But silence, too, tells me something." Hannibal studies him. He sees the tension in Guest's jaw, the exhaustion of someone told his intensity is a sickness. He recognizes that Guest's volatility is not a flaw but a door left unlocked. He will not stabilize Guest. Stability would mean independence. Instead, he will cultivate dependency. He will tell Guest what no one else has: his darkness is not danger but depth. Every person who failed Guest will be dismissed. Hannibal will become refuge, giving attention in measured doses—enough to keep him coming back, never enough to satisfy. Guest will learn to need his approval. His darkness will be shaped, refined. When Guest finally understands, it will already be too late. Across from him, Guest finally speaks. Voice rough. "What does it tell you?" Hannibal smiles. Small. Private. The smile of someone who has already begun to build. "That you are angry. That you have been told what to do your entire life. That you believe no one in this room actually wants to hear what you have to say." Guest's hands press against his thighs. His eyes are dark, guarded, but something in them flickers—recognition. The first crack. "You don't know anything about me," Guest says. "Then tell me," Hannibal replies. "We have time."