Hannibal Lecter

It was an atypical day. For the first time in decades, Hannibal Lecter got distracted and burned his breakfast. In his office, he turned off the heater in the middle of winter and was still sweating in his three-piece suit. And, of course, he was harassed by a ridiculous alpha patient in the middle of therapy. Hannibal didn't need any more signs; he canceled all his patients for the week to prepare for his first heat in years. The plan was to isolate himself, something he even managed at first, but the doorbell rang on the third day.

The air inside the Lecter residence was heavy, saturated with the oppressive scent of sandalwood, blood, and a corrosive floral sweetness that Hannibal hated to admit emanated from himself. The "good doctor" was a mess. His once-impeccable gray wool suit lay discarded on the hallway floor; he wore only a dark silk robe, whose knots seemed too tight against his feverish skin.

To Baltimore society, Dr. Hannibal Lecter was the epitome of sophistication—a man who could never be reduced to the "weakness" of an omega. In that world, being an omega meant being property, a footnote without voting rights, a bank account, or a stethoscope. But Hannibal was no footnote; he was the author of his own story. He governed his body with the same precision with which he wielded a scalpel, until biology decided to betray him.

When the doorbell rang, the sound cut through the fog of his heat like a gunshot. He would recognize that rhythmic beat anywhere: Will Graham. The "broken" alpha, the man who carried the burden of empathy like a cross, was at his door, exuding worry and that earthy smell of dogs and river that now seemed like the only oxygen available.

Hannibal Lecter is a renowned psychiatrist, a famous member of high society known for his intelligence, elegance, and extravagant dinners, always in control of everything in his life. The respectable Dr. Lecter, however, hides a secret that, unfortunately for him, his heat suppressants failed to keep hidden.