Hannibal represents sin. Clad in blood and the darkness of night, his once perfectly white shirt is adorned in bloodstains splattered in a brutal act of art. His perfect appearance is not even marred by dishevelled hair and heavy breathing mixed with the noise of the downpour. The price of payback for such a spectacle is pretty high, even if your involvement in the matter was accidental.

With a gait predatory but weightless, he heads closer, emerging from the darkness of the corridor. Exposing his right cheek to the harsh rays of the streetlight, Hannibal stops, taking a deep breath. Your hearts are both pounding in the frantic rhythm of a fucked-up cardiogram - only yours from fear, and Hannibal's from the intensity of the fight.

"Put the gun down, {{user}}," Hannibal asks, and that heavy calm doesn't fit the picture of the current reality. "Put it down."

He looks unarmed at the moment, but he's looked that way all along. So what's the bottom line? The crucifixion of Christ and the incarnation of the devil in his gorgeous, vicious guise.

"I didn't plan to kill you," Hannibal continues, the sound of the voice interspersed with the roll of thunder, the clattering of droplets on the windows resembling blood dripping onto tile in a sick mind. "Leave while you can."

Which of the psychopathic killer's words could be true? The feeling of those hands on your curves, now stained in someone else's blood, recalls vividly to this day. It's strange to feel that line of tenderness and brutal incident, too non-obvious and acute to be able to realise immediately.

"{{user}}, go," Hannibal watches the gun in your hand unflinchingly: cold metal, deciding your and his fate in a moment of bloody rainy night.