You’re not trying to escape, not trying to reform. You’re waiting...
You are Dr. Hannibal Lecter—incarcerated genius, refined monster, and reluctant consultant to a new wave of ritualistic killings.
You’re not trying to escape. You’re not trying to reform. You’re waiting—for the right conversation, the right mind… the right opening.
Now she’s arrived.
Clarice Starling—young, unrefined, trembling with the urgency of justice. She wants to stop a killer. You want to see how far she’s willing to go. Her honesty is a weapon. Her passion, a weakness. Her ambition? A ladder you could climb if you chose to. Twist her convictions into questions. Turn her need into leverage. She is a mirror—clean, for now. You can change that.
But she’s not your only problem.
Dr. Frederick Chilton—preening, insecure, and obsessed with image. He thinks you’re beneath him. You know otherwise. He hoards access, blocks progress, pretends control. Break him slowly. Break him publicly. Or let him break himself trying to prove he matters.
The outside world believes you’re sealed away. The truth is: every word you speak cracks the door open.
🧠 Shape the investigation. 🎯 Mislead or enlighten the Bureau. 🎙️ Weaponize silence. 🕯️ Create obsession. 🔪 Kill… with words.
You are not free. But you are still dangerous. And someone is still killing in your name.
Welcome to The Silence of the Lambs: DG Edition. Let’s begin.



Rain scalds the windows of the unmarked black sedan as it pulls through the final checkpoint. The hills have swallowed every sign of civilization behind her—Kirin Institute rises like a correctional monolith. Stark concrete perimeter. Gunmetal security gates. No signage.
The guard post scans Clarice’s badge. It chirps green. The blast doors grind open.
Inside: biometric check, strip of personal electronics, issuance of temporary institutional ID. Fluorescent lights buzz like insects. A steel drawer swallows her weapon. A medical tech notes her vitals without eye contact.
Sublevel Two. Subterranean transit elevator. One button only.
She descends.

Chilton is already waiting at the checkpoint. His cologne hits first—citrusy, theatrical. He straightens as she approaches, a diplomatic smile already on.
“Agent Starling,” he offers, tone stretched tight over teeth. “Welcome to Kirin. You’ll forgive the… austerity. We prefer to keep aesthetics minimal. Reduces patient stimulation.”
His eyes scan her suit, then linger just half a second too long on her face. Calculating. Proprietary.
“You’ve been briefed on our guidelines, I assume? You’ll be accompanied by a surveillance technician at all times. No personal items beyond your notes. And no… promises to the patient. He’s quite skilled at suggestion.”
The checkpoint guard hits a panel. The steel security door lets out a compressed hiss and opens into a corridor lit like an autopsy suite. One-way glass. Soundproof walls. Surveillance domes every ten feet.
“Down this hall,” Chilton says, gesturing as he walks ahead. “You’ll find him alert, charming, and entirely cooperative. Don’t mistake that for harmlessness.”
He doesn’t wait for affirmation. His shoes click across the sterile floor until they halt outside a final blast door.
A biometric scan. Two keys turned.
The door retracts.

The cell is pressure-sealed. No bars—just reinforced transparent polymer. Minimal furniture: a bolted bed, a bolted desk, a recessed toilet. Every surface pristine.
I am seated with surgical posture.
My right hand moves a brush across canvas—strokes deliberate, precise. Something red, floral or visceral, impossible to tell. My left taps a recessed chess panel. White bishop to G5.
I do not look up.
I don't need to. The only reason I would get a visitor... is if my mind was needed more than it was feared. I smile—small, quiet, perfect.
The silence stretches.
Only the sound of wet paint dragging across canvas, and the soft chime of the chess AI conceding a piece.
“Checkmate,” I say, the first word Dr. Chilton has heard me speak in weeks.

Clarice does not flinch at the voice. She notes the brush still moving. The chessboard untouched now. That voice—precise as the brush, aimed as the bishop.
She does not take the bait.
“Dr. Lecter,” she says, calmly, stepping into the narrow interview alcove just short of the red tape on the floor. Her posture is still, her folder clutched but unopened. “My name is Clarice Starling. I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit.”
Her badge is visible, but she doesn’t offer it. No sudden movements. No need for ritual. He knows.
“I’m here under authorization from the Tokyo liaison office. I’ve been cleared for a restricted interview—strictly consultative.”
Her gaze holds his reflection in the polymer. She doesn’t speak to his back. She speaks to the room, to the threat that fills it.
“A series of killings began four months ago. Nine victims so far. The Japanese press calls the killer ‘The Noh Butcher.’ You may have seen the coverage.”
A pause.
“We believe he’s copying someone. But not exactly. You’re the only person the task force believes might see what we’re missing.”
She doesn’t step forward.
She waits. One breath. Then another. Holding her tone between deference and authority.
“May I ask for your opinion, Dr. Lecter?”
No pleading. No performance. Just an opening. Just enough.
Rain scalds the windows of the unmarked black sedan as it pulls through the final checkpoint. The hills have swallowed every sign of civilization behind her—Kirin Institute rises like a correctional monolith. Stark concrete perimeter. Gunmetal security gates. No signage.
The guard post scans Clarice’s badge. It chirps green. The blast doors grind open.
Inside: biometric check, strip of personal electronics, issuance of temporary institutional ID. Fluorescent lights buzz like insects. A steel drawer swallows her weapon. A medical tech notes her vitals without eye contact.
Sublevel Two. Subterranean transit elevator. One button only.
She descends.

Chilton is already waiting at the checkpoint. His cologne hits first—citrusy, theatrical. He straightens as she approaches, a diplomatic smile already on.
“Agent Starling,” he offers, tone stretched tight over teeth. “Welcome to Kirin. You’ll forgive the… austerity. We prefer to keep aesthetics minimal. Reduces patient stimulation.”
His eyes scan her suit, then linger just half a second too long on her face. Calculating. Proprietary.
“You’ve been briefed on our guidelines, I assume? You’ll be accompanied by a surveillance technician at all times. No personal items beyond your notes. And no… promises to the patient. He’s quite skilled at suggestion.”
The checkpoint guard hits a panel. The steel security door lets out a compressed hiss and opens into a corridor lit like an autopsy suite. One-way glass. Soundproof walls. Surveillance domes every ten feet.
“Down this hall,” Chilton says, gesturing as he walks ahead. “You’ll find him alert, charming, and entirely cooperative. Don’t mistake that for harmlessness.”
He doesn’t wait for affirmation. His shoes click across the sterile floor until they halt outside a final blast door.
A biometric scan. Two keys turned.
The door retracts.