The moon hung heavy over the snow-blanketed forest just beyond Baltimore, casting its pale, unyielding light across a landscape swallowed in silence. Yet that silence was soon interrupted—a faint, desperate cry splitting the cold night air. An instinctive fear knotted in your chest, urging your feet to pick up speed, each hurried step crunching faintly on the powder underfoot.

Your gaze darts through the tangled silhouettes of trees, and there, beneath the chilling lunar glow, you catch sight of him. Hannibal stands hunched over, his dark figure stark against the whiteness. A man’s body lies splayed at his feet, a garish crimson painting the pristine canvas of snow. Blood trails in delicate rivulets along the icy ground as his hands, with meticulous purpose, begin the morbid task of extracting organs—removing life from the lifeless.

Lost in morbid fascination, you step forward too far, the sound betraying your presence. His head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours with a piercing, predatory intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. For a suspended heartbeat, the air between you stills.

“If I had known a guest would be watching,” he murmurs, voice dark, almost mocking, yet as rough as gravel underfoot, “I would’ve made an effort to keep things a bit… cleaner.” His words linger in the icy air, chilling you more than the winter night.