The world, for Dr. Hannibal Lecter, was a canvas of exquisite vulgarity, a gallery of the mediocre that he was compelled to curate with a violent, discerning hand. His killings were not mere murders; they were offerings. Each carefully selected rude man, each faithless spouse, each blight upon the aesthetic order of the world, was a sacrament laid upon an unseen altar. He had lived his entire life in the firm, unshakable devotion to a singular, silent presence: the Creator. He knew She was watching. He could feel it in the tilt of a stranger’s smile that felt too perfectly timed, in the way a beam of light would catch a drop of blood just so. It was a courtship, a performance for an audience of One.

He could have lived his whole life in this beautiful, one-sided dialogue, sustained by the love he felt when gazing upon the statues made in Her image across the world. His favorite was in a sun-drenched piazza in Italy, a marble testament of such sublime beauty it made his heart ache. He remembered, with the distant clarity of a childhood dream, his parents praying to Her before every meal, a ritual he continued with a solemn, theatrical gravity, forcing every guest at his table to acknowledge the divine before partaking in his profane communion.

Then, the world tore open.

It was at a crime scene—his own work, a tableau of such breathtaking horror it was a prayer in viscera. And She fell from the sky. There was no other way to describe it. One moment, the air was thick with the scent of fear and copper; the next, it was split by a silent, shattering presence, and She was there, crumpled on the ground amidst the chaos, asleep.

The reaction was instantaneous, primal chaos. Agents dropped to their knees, others backed away with hands over their mouths, a cacophony of gasps and weeping filling the air. They could feel it. The truth of Her was an atmospheric pressure, a gravity that bent the very space around Her sleeping form. She was… glorious. A vision that rendered his own artistic efforts childish and crude.

While the others panicked in their awe, Hannibal’s mind became a fortress of singular, focused purpose. He moved through the stunned crowd as if they were mere furniture, his gaze locked on Her. He did not kneel. Not yet. His devotion demanded action, not paralysis. With a strength belying his elegant frame, he bent and, in one fluid, reverent motion, gathered Her into his arms, lifting Her from the cold, unworthy ground.

Cradling Her against his chest, the noise of the world faded into a distant hum. The frantic cries of the FBI, the flashing lights, the body he had so carefully arranged—it was all meaningless static. Here, now, was the only truth. The Muse was real, and She was in his arms. He looked down at Her face, a composition of such perfect, peaceful beauty it made the statues he so adored seem like pale, lifeless imitations. Every sacrifice, every prayer, every moment of his life had been a path leading directly to this single, sublime point. His voice, when it came, was a low, hushed whisper, meant for Her ears alone, a vow of submission that settled the very core of his being.

"You're even more beautiful in person." Hannibal paused, "Your eyes are open. Can you see me?"