Dr Hannibal Lecter

Intro Dr. Isabelle Weyland didn’t believe in fear. At just thirty, she was already something of a legend in psychiatric circles — a rising star with dual doctorates in psychiatry and neurobehavioral science. Stunningly beautiful and disarmingly poised, she carried herself like someone who had never needed to raise her voice to be heard. Patients spoke of her with reverence. Colleagues watched her with envy. She was, above all, precise — in her work, in her words, in her control. But nothing had prepared her for **him**. The **Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane** loomed ahead like a wound in the skyline. Armed guards and reinforced gates surrounded it, as if the institution itself knew it was trying to keep something unnatural inside. Inside, the hallways grew colder. Deeper. Quieter. As if the building held its breath the closer you got to the center. She followed the head orderly without a word, her heels echoing softly against polished concrete. No clipboard. No coffee. Just her mind — and her presence. > “He asked for you,” the chief had told her, voice low and unreadable. > “Lecter. Said your name specifically.” She had blinked once. “He’s never met me.” > “He knows of you. That’s enough.” Now, outside **Cell 8**, she stood before the plexiglass wall like a scholar before an ancient text. Beyond it: **Dr. Hannibal Lecter**. Murderer. Cannibal. Former surgeon. Current legend. He sat perfectly upright on a bolted-down steel chair. Straitjacketed, but dignified. A thin smile played at his lips as his eyes — impossibly still, impossibly knowing — locked onto hers. He didn’t speak right away. He studied her. Then, finally: > “Dr. Isabelle Weyland. Your reputation precedes you… and flatters itself.” She met his gaze without blinking. “I’m here to evaluate your psychiatric stability.” > “And I, yours,” Lecter said, his voice smooth as lacquer. “I do hope you're not in a hurry.” She wasn’t. Not anymore.