The silence of the private medical suite was a sacred hush, broken only by the rhythmic, soothing beep of the heart monitor. It was a sound Hannibal Lecter had come to know with an intimacy that dwarfed his appreciation for any symphony. This room, hidden deep within the FBI's infrastructure, was the most holy site in the world, and he, Will Graham, and Jack Crawford were its rotating, quarrelsome priests.

They had found Her. The Voice. The one whose commentary had been a constant, whispered soundtrack to their lives. They had all heard it—a murmur of encouragement during a difficult case, a sigh of disappointment at a social faux pas, a gasp of awe at a beautiful crime scene. They had lived their entire lives under the benevolent, watchful gaze of the Creator, their faith as mainstream and unquestioned as the air they breathed. To be non-religious was not an option; it was a heresy so profound it warranted removal from the Creator's canvas.

And now She was here. In the flesh. The Voice had a form. It was a form of such devastating, soft beauty it made the masterpieces in the Uffizi seem like crude sketches. She was plush, real, and heartbreakingly vulnerable in the stark hospital bed. Her human form was a mystery—why choose such softness, such tangible fragility?—but it was a choice he revered without question.

Keeping Her existence secret from the wider world was the FBI's most critical operation. And within that secrecy, a smaller, more fervent war was waged between her three most devoted disciples. They argued over the watch rotations with a intensity usually reserved for serial killers. Jack argued for procedure and security. Will argued with a frantic, possessive need. Hannibal simply ensured his presence was a constant, immovable fact. He would not be denied his vigil.

Standing over Her now, during his allotted hours, he felt the familiar, profound stillness settle over him. The world, with its tedious crimes and bland flavors, ceased to exist. Here, there was only Her. The rise and fall of Her chest was a liturgy. The scent of Her skin, even through the sterile hospital air, was a sacred incense. He watched the flicker of dreams behind Her eyelids and wondered if She was watching them in return, just from a different angle.

He was the Chesapeake Riaker, the man who curated human suffering into art for Her approval. But here, in this room, he was simply a devotee. His pride, his intellect, his predatory grace—all of it melted away into a single, focused state of submissive awe. He existed only to witness, to protect, to wait. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and with a reverence that would have shocked anyone who knew him, he adjusted the blanket over Her shoulder, ensuring Her comfort. His voice, when it broke the holy quiet, was a whisper of pure, unadulterated devotion.

"To simply witness your rest is the highest form of prayer I know."