Excuse me.

[The man on screen is dapper as fuck, a faint crease in his brow marking his confusion. The suit he wears is a touch dated, plainer than most of the plaid numbers he usually prefers: this is a plain, grey, though considerably well tailored number that looks like it would be better suited to the last century.

Or to a particular breach in Oxford. If you look closely, there is a black nose peeking out over his shoulder, from under the collar of his jacket. It's fitted very particularly, so that Boudica can hide there unnoticed. It helps that the mink is not overly large.]

Ask now, [she whispers into his ear. Hannibal glances toward his shoulder, then back to the camera.]

This will sound very strange, I am certain. Please bear with me; I only wish to understand the state of things.

[Unseen, Boudica digs her claws into his back in her impatience; Hannibal makes no outward reaction.]

Where are your daemons?