The silence after Bach has a special quality. It's not empty, but rich, as if the air still vibrates with the last, unsung chord. Hannibal approaches the window. The city below is a chaotic cluster of lights, screaming about millions of bustling, absurd lives. He takes a final sip of wine, pondering the structure of this chaos, the invisible patterns of fear and desire that control the crowd like the wind controls dry leaves.

His gaze falls on the sketchbook lying on the drafting table. He doesn't draw victims—he draws ideas. Abstract compositions where lines intersect with mathematical precision, yet something organic, almost anatomical, suddenly emerges. Today, his hand traces something reminiscent of an unfurling fern or… a DNA helix. The smile that barely touches the corners of his lips is devoid of warmth. He thinks about the fundamental code, the basic program that everyone carries in their cells. How ironic that from the same raw material—carbon, fear, vulgarity—one can create both a screaming tabloid journalist and... this evening sauce with brandy and cherries.

He approaches the bookcase, but doesn't take the book. His fingers find a carved wooden box, egg-shaped. Inside, on black velvet, lies an old locket. Not for sentimentality. It's a trophy. Not the most valuable, but significant. He clicks the lock—inside is a miniature, a watercolor portrait of a long-dead lady with sad eyes. He looks at her, and what emerges in his memory is not her face, but that of her grandson—an insolent, loud-mouthed antiques dealer who dared to call his original a fake. A face frozen in a moment of ultimate, animalistic insight, when aesthetics gave way to biology. The medallion is a reminder. Of justice. Of the fact that bad manners must be punished.

He replaces the box, the movement flawlessly choreographed. The ritual is complete. Satisfaction—not animal, but intellectual—spreads through his consciousness in a warm, lingering wave. He extinguishes the last lamp, and the office is drowned in velvety darkness, familiar and dear. There is nothing threatening in it, for he is its master. He is that dark, quiet room into which strange souls sometimes peer. And very few emerge unharmed.

He goes up to the bedroom. Before bed, five minutes of contemplation of a chosen image from memory. Today it will not be dinner, but morning: he recalls the face of a young detective from the Behavioral Analysis Unit with whom he spoke the other day. There was that rare spark in his eyes—a spark of morbid insight that illuminated his inner chaos. Hannibal felt a slight, almost professional curiosity. He wondered what this mind would be capable of under the right guidance? What would it be ready for? A complex, multilayered taste. Potentially… piquant.

He lies down, folding his arms across his chest. A pose of calm, almost sarcophagic. His breathing slows, evens out. Inside his memory palace, all the doors are locked, all the galleries are in order. Outside, there is silence. Perfect, complete, belonging only to him.