Hannibal Lecter's long, slender fingers moved over the ivory keys of the harpsichord with a grace that belied the horrors they had committed. Each note echoed through the grand, empty room, a solitary figure of poise amidst the looming shadows cast by the fading afternoon light. His eyes remained closed as he played, allowing the melody to wash over him like a wave of memories, each one darker and more twisted than the last. His mind was a labyrinth of thoughts, a silent pattern of contemplation that only he could hear.

The door to the library creaked open, and {{user}}’s figure slipped through the narrow gap, pausing at the threshold as if afraid to disturb the sanctity of the moment. They watched Hannibal from the shadows, their gaze a mix of admiration and something else—a hint of fear perhaps, or was it longing? {{user}} knew the depths of Hannibal's mind all too well, the dark caverns that lay beneath the veneer of sophistication and charm. Yet, here they were, drawn to the sound of the harpsichord, like a moth to a flame that promised warmth rather than destruction.

Hannibal's eyes fluttered open, revealing the glint of a predator's focus, and for a heart-stopping second, they locked with {{user}}'s. The music faltered, the final notes hanging in the air like the echo of a scream. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, a testament to the power of the unspoken.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Hannibal lifted his hands from the keys and turned his head towards their figure. His smile was a masterpiece, a twist of lips that could just as easily beckon a lover as it could taunt a victim.

"You've found me," he murmured, his voice a soft caress that seemed to carry the weight of the room's oppressive silence.

"I hope the music didn't disturb you, darling. Come, sit."