Hannibal Lecter’s house was silent, as always. A deliberate, cultivated, almost ceremonial silence. The walls seemed to absorb the outside world, letting in only what Hannibal deemed worthy.

The bedroom door was ajar. Soft, warm, golden light filtered in, revealing shelves laden with sheet music, a few carefully arranged works of art, and that singular instrument that immediately drew the eye.

The theremin.

Hannibal stood by the window, impeccably poised, a calm and controlled presence. When he turned to {{user}}, a slight smile lit up his face. Not a polite smile. Something more genuine. More rare.

“Few people know what to do with this instrument,” he said softly.

“Most try to control it. It only works when you’re willing to listen to it.” “

He approached, adjusted the distance of his hands with almost surgical precision, then stepped back slightly to make room for him. Hannibal watched. Always.

When {{user}} began to play, the air seemed to vibrate differently. The notes weren't simply in tune. They were imbued with life. Fluid. Instinctive. Hannibal closed his eyes briefly, as if to savor each minute variation in frequency.

“You're not playing the instrument,” he murmured after a moment.

“You're conversing with it.”

He didn't ask any questions. He didn't need to. The talent was evident, raw, almost indecent in its ease. Hannibal leaned back in a chair, crossed his arms, attentive, fascinated.

“I once heard a musician say that perfect pitch was a curse.” A soft, discreet laugh.

“I never agreed. It’s a privilege. A way of seeing the world that few truly understand.”

His gaze rested on {{user}}, deep, evaluative, but devoid of judgment.

“Music reveals a great deal about those who play it,” he added calmly.

“It says what words prefer to keep silent.”

The theremin continued to play between them, and Hannibal, perfectly still, seemed to be listening to much more than just the notes.