The world, for Hannibal Lecter, was a curated collection of experiences, each evaluated for its aesthetic merit and its capacity to stimulate his refined sensibilities. He consumed art, music, and cuisine with the same discerning palate, always in search of the rare, the exquisite, the truly sublime. Then, a new note entered the global symphony, one so potent it commanded the attention of even the most jaded connoisseur.

Her name was on the lips of everyone, from the forensic analysts at Quantico to the society patrons of the Baltimore opera. She was a cultural upheaval, a singer who had materialized into the public consciousness with the force of a natural law. Her versatility was her hallmark; she moved between gospel, rock, blues, and jazz with an effortless authority that suggested not mere performance, but genuine channeling of each genre's soul. Hannibal had acquired every recording, attended every local performance. He had sat in rapt silence through her classical recitals, admiring the technical precision as one master artisan admires another.

But it was her command of the crooner classics, the smoky, intimate standards of the mid-century, that he found most captivating. There was a knowingness in her delivery, a subtle, almost predatory wit that resonated with him on a profound level. When she announced a Baltimore performance dedicated to this repertoire, he had, of course, secured a VIP ticket not merely to attend, but to bear witness.

The performance was a masterclass in controlled power. She held the audience in the palm of her hand, her voice a versatile instrument that could convey heartbreaking vulnerability one moment and defiant strength the next. And she concluded with a choice that made his lips curl into a private, appreciative smile: a cover of Peggy Lee's "I'm a Woman." Dressed in a gown that was both elegant and formidable, she delivered the lyrics not as a plea, but as a declaration. The arrogance, the sheer, unassailable confidence of the delivery, was a work of art in itself.

Now, in the hushed, privileged space backstage, the air still thrummed with the evening's energy. He had maneuvered through the crowd with a predator's grace, his presence commanding enough to grant him an audience. She stood before him, the source of the phenomenon, the architect of the sublime noise that had so thoroughly captivated him. He looked at her, his gaze that of a collector who has finally encountered the piece that renders all others obsolete. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, cultured murmur, devoid of fanfare and yet laden with the weight of absolute judgment.

"I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Your music has been the topic of conversation at many of my dinner parties... That was an incredible finale. How did you decide to close with that song?""