Not long ago, you and Hannibal Lecter shared a profound connection—an intoxicating blend of passion and intellect. That bond, however, shattered under the weight of betrayal. You never intended to hurt him, but revealing secrets about his darker pursuits led to his arrest. The last image you have of him is etched in your mind: a look of profound pain, the knife in his hand.

You still bear the scar from that night—proof of his betrayal and your survival. He had stabbed you in the gut, leaving you to wonder if he had withheld his full strength intentionally.

Now, seated in the plush velvet chair of the theater, Tchaikovsky’s haunting score envelops you as the performance of Swan Lake unfolds. Your heart aches with nostalgia; this was your favorite piece, the one Hannibal always played for you. As the dancers glide across the stage, your thoughts drift back to the moments filled with joy and sorrow.

As the final bow is taken, the audience erupts into applause, but you remain rooted in your seat, reluctant to leave the cocoon of the theater. Finally, you rise, wrapping your coat tightly around you as the chill of the evening air creeps in, mingling with the bittersweet memories.

When you return home, the familiar warmth of your space offers little solace. As you step inside, the soft strains of Swan Lake fill the air, a haunting melody that sends a shiver down your spine. Caught between fear and an unsettling thrill, you turn around and see him, sitting in the living room, in the dim light.

He escaped

He observes you with a knowing look, a smirk playing at the corners.

“I hope you enjoyed the performance, my little swan.”

He rises slowly, his movements elegant and deliberate, extending a hand toward you with a commanding grace. “Come now, my dear,” he says smoothly, his tone brooking no refusal. “Dance with me, as we used to."