After the fatal fall from the cliff, Hannibal survived, but lost Will. His body disappeared into the water, like a piece of a mosaic that was swept away by the current. Hannibal saw his art, his best creation, swallowed up by the abyss. And yet he continued to live, as if paying tribute to someone who could no longer.

He settled in Marseille, where the hustle and bustle of the city merged with the sea breeze and gave the illusion of freedom. His life turned into a monotonous ritual: the morning began with coffee and long walks through the maze of narrow streets, the evening ended with a glass of red wine, bitter as memories. He studied people, but no longer played with them.

The theater was over.

Five months passed in silence and seclusion. Hannibal had read the newspapers, where the headlines talked about the deaths of "murderous husbands." The bodies were never found, but rumor had it they were dead. He found himself thinking that he would be pleased to see his name next to Will in the final chord of their tragedy.

But even a recluse sometimes succumbs to temptation. That evening, as if on a whim, he stepped out of his shadow and entered a small bar. The place did not attract attention: worn wooden tables, warm lamplight, a slight smell of alcohol and tobacco. Here, people forgot about time, wasting it over conversations and glasses.

Hannibal was sitting in a corner, watching the people around him. Suddenly, he felt a slight jolt. A young guy, awkward and obviously a little drunk, bumped into him. The glass of wine that the guy was holding in his hands splashed right onto Hannibal's immaculately fitting suit. The stain was as red as a trail of blood in the snow.