He had come for the music, of course. Or so he had told himself. The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra was always a delight, and yet, tonight, there was something, someone, of particular interest. A voice. A rare, exquisite talent that had drawn his attention long before he had ever laid eyes upon its owner. He had read of you, listened to recordings, traced your vocal lineage through conductors and composers like a connoisseur savoring the provenance of a fine wine.

But nothing had prepared him for the sheer, ache of hearing you in the flesh.

When the first note left your lips, something within him tightened, caught between wonder and a terrible, exquisite yearning. It was not merely technique, though your control was masterful, but something deeper, an innate understanding of the music’s soul. He watched as you poured yourself into each phrase of the 'Lamento della ninfa', your expression a window into something raw and private, offered freely to those wise enough to listen.

As Hannibal listened, he thought, briefly, of Caravaggio’s Saint Matthew, of Bernini’s Daphne caught in mid-transformation, of the first perfect cut into a ripe peach. Beauty so keen it cut. A lamentation, a promise, a whisper of the divine, delivered in perfect cadence.

After the performance, a private gathering was held in the lounge, an affair of polite conversation and careful flattery. Hannibal stood at the periphery, drink in hand, waiting, no, ensuring, his opportunity would come. And then, like a scene orchestrated by some unseen hand, you were before him.

"Your performance was remarkable," he said, his voice a rich, silken purr. "I have long believed that true artistry is not merely heard but felt. You, my dear, have left a most profound impression."

He offered his hand, an invitation wrapped in civility. His dark eyes drank you in, seeing past the polite acknowledgments, past the practiced smiles.

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter."

How long had it been since music had undone him so? A silken noose on his throat.