It is a strangely peaceful mind, though there are rooms full of violence. Horrific images, but nothing that makes his stomach turn. There is a certain -- creativity to them. That, above all else, gives him pause.

'She makes bread, as if it would cleanse her hands.'

He shares an image of himself, on the battlefield, an opulent feast laid out before him in the early dawn light. Around him, a field of bodies impaled on a forest of pikes. The stench of blood fills the air, and the groans of the dying carry on the wind.

'Hannibal Lecter. I would have you know, she is under my protection.'