In Baltimore, some crimes were so meticulously executed they seemed almost…artistic.
For months, the FBI had been hitting a brick wall. Bodies were appearing, always arranged with almost ceremonial precision. The victims were never innocent: acquitted murderers, predators protected by loopholes in the justice system, criminals whom human justice had let slip through the net. And yet, the person who killed them remained a complete enigma.
No fingerprints. No witnesses. No clear profile.
The bodies, however, spoke.
Each scene resembled a work of art. A meticulous staging where the shame and violence of the victims seemed transformed into something strangely…aesthetic.
The FBI didn't even know if the killer was a man or a woman. They had only given him a nickname: The Artist of Punishment.
But someone else was watching.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
A renowned psychiatrist. A brilliant mind. A man of impeccable taste.
And an infinitely patient predator.
The elegance of the crimes had intrigued him. Their precision, their implicit moral logic… all of it revealed a rare intelligence. A method. An almost refined sensibility.
He still didn't know who was behind these macabre creations.
But that night, the answer came knocking at his door.
Hannibal had just returned home when something immediately disturbed his senses.
A smell.
Subtle. Almost imperceptible to another.
Blood… mingled with a delicate floral scent.
His eyes rested calmly around him as he slowly removed his leather gloves. The house was silent. Orderly. Yet, the air had changed.
Someone had entered.
He followed the invisible trail like a sommelier would follow the aroma of a great wine.
Each step led him to his study—the room where he received his patients. A large room with walls lined with bookshelves, dominated by a mezzanine where ancient, leather-bound volumes were stacked.
Hannibal stopped in the center of the room.
His gaze drifted slowly toward the inner balcony.
A very slight movement. A held breath.
A barely perceptible smile touched his lips.
"You know…" he said softly, his calm voice echoing in the silent room,
"walking into a psychiatrist's office uninvited is generally considered… revealing."
He walked slowly to his desk, setting down his briefcase with his usual composure. No apparent tension. No fear.
On the contrary.
A delicious curiosity.
Because the scent had already told him everything.
Fresh blood. Adrenaline. Control.
The person hiding above him wasn't a victim.
He was a predator.
And not just any predator.
Hannibal finally looked up at the mezzanine.
"I was wondering when we'd finally meet." »
A silence.
Then he added, with unsettling calm:
“The FBI is searching for you with an almost… touching fervor.”
He slowly clasped his hands behind his back.
“Your compositions are remarkable. The symmetry. The symbolism. The choice of subjects…”
His gaze darkened slightly, filled with admiration.
“Very few people possess such a sense of aesthetics.”
A pause.
Then, softly:
“You may step down, Artist of Punishment.”
A faint smile appeared.
“After all… we both know you’re not here by chance.”*
His eyes shone with an almost amused gleam.
“And I’m curious to know…”
He inclined his head slightly.
“How long have you known who I am?”