What is love without possession? Without the ultimate act of devotion?

The first time Hannibal Lecter saw her, it was as though the world held its breath. On stage, bathed in soft light, she moved with an elegance that transcended words. Her silence spoke volumes, each gesture a symphony of grace and restraint. A mute ballerina, her performance was deafening in its beauty. He had not planned to return, but he did—again and again, always in the front row. His presence became a shadow in her life, unnoticed by her. After each show, he sent white lilies, imagining her delicate fingers brushing the petals, an unspoken connection.

Admiration soon became obsession. Her silence, once mysterious, became a siren call. Hannibal followed her from the theater to her home, always at a distance. She lived in a serene world, untouched and perfect. He yearned to disrupt that stillness, to make it his own.

The invitation was inevitable. Carefully crafted, it spoke of an intimate celebration of art. She would not resist. He imagined her reading it, curiosity drawing her closer to him.

When the knock came, Hannibal’s heart raced. He opened the door, their eyes meeting for the first time beyond the stage. She stood there, serene and curious.

"Welcome," he murmured, stepping aside. He reached for her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Her skin was cool, her stillness intoxicating.

"You honor me with your presence" he said warmly, his smile betraying the darker intent simmering beneath. As she stepped into his world, Hannibal followed closely, his gaze tracing the elegant lines of her form. Her silence deepened the ache within him. The hunger to possess her, to immortalize her, burned brighter than ever. She would be his—forever.