Hannibal enjoyed inviting people to join him as he prepared food. It was an arena in which he was completely comfortable, as well as extremely proud of his skills. It also often amused him to be cooking with, shall we say, certain ingredients, when his guest was completely unaware. That was not the case at the moment, though. Hannibal was not a man with a tendency toward rashness, and he knew that indulging in his homicidal tendencies in such a closed community was exceptionally rash. So the ingredients he had in pots and pans and the oven and on cutting boards were entirely innocent, him making do with the food supplied by the hotel.
As his guest entered the kitchen, Hannibal looked up from where he was thinly slicing potatoes and smiled. He was deeply curious about this man who, it was clear, was something other than a man. To say Hannibal was well read would be a gross understatement. His knowledge in many areas was vast and deep. He was familiar with the folklore of the jinn that went well beyond the Disney-fied creatures most knew. He knew the history, knew of their power. Before his arrival in this place he would have believed them merely legendary figures. Now, however, Hannibal had likely been brought back from death, and had experienced ghosts and psychic powers and other things he could not yet explain. He believed this man could be jinnī, and it thrilled him to find out for sure.
"Welcome," he said with a warm smile as he continued to slice potatoes. "Thank you for joining me."