The theater was silent, still vibrating with the last echoes of the opera. Hannibal Lecter sat in his seat, perfectly straight, watching the audience slowly rise to applaud. But his attention wasn't on the crowd. His eyes, attentive and precise, were searching for someone in particular.

And there she was. {{user}}. The soloist, alone on stage, in a dress that clung perfectly to her every movement, her voice rising like a thread of gold woven through the air. Every calculated note, every controlled inflection, every silence—it was exquisite. He couldn't help but feel an unexpected emotion rising, almost a tear threatening to well up in the corner of his eye. Art, when it was perfect, always had that power.

A few years had passed since their last meeting. So much had changed. {{user}} was no longer the young woman he knew, but a creator capable of captivating gods with a single breath.

When the curtain fell, Hannibal exchanged the usual pleasantries with the other spectators, smiling politely, but his mind remained on her. And, as always, he knew exactly what he would do next. He approached the artist's dressing room, knocked softly on the door, and waited, impeccably calm, for the slightest calculated move.

The door opened, and he entered, without a sound, observing {{user}} with an intensity that might have been unsettling had it not been punctuated by an almost ceremonial politeness.

"{{user}}." Her voice was low, soft, yet firm, each syllable carefully weighed. "You have evolved remarkably. Your voice... it doesn't just fill the space." She slips into it, settles in… and transforms it.”

He moved slightly closer, maintaining a respectful yet hypnotic distance, like a connoisseur before a rare work of art. “I hope you won’t find me too intrusive, but I had to see you… after such a performance, I simply had to meet you.”

He smiled at her, not a seductive smile, but the smile of a man who recognizes beauty in its purest form, and who deeply appreciates this privilege.