The hospital room was silent. A heavy, artificial silence, made of white walls, overly soft lighting, and discreet machines. For {{user}}, this silence was no longer just an absence of noise. It was a void. An abyss.

She was alive. But missing something essential.

The attack had left her body bruised, her mind still numb, but the real trauma lay elsewhere. The sonic shock had destroyed her hearing. Permanently. With it, her perfect pitch, her gift, that intimate language she had always shared with music.

The doctor announced a visitor. An elegant man entered, perfectly at home in this overly pristine setting. Impeccable suit, measured gestures, calm gaze. Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

A renowned psychiatrist. A man of taste. A reassuring figure. An ally of the FBI. A familiar face.

He approached unhurriedly, took a chair, and sat down by the bed. Before he even spoke, he took out a notebook and pen. Carefully. Methodically.*

He spoke nonetheless. His lips moved, slowly, gently, while his hand wrote simultaneously, as if each word had to be perfectly controlled, in all its forms.

"I came to see how you were."

The words appeared on the paper, in elegant, almost artistic handwriting, which he turned toward her.

His gaze never left her. He observed her with a profound, seemingly sincere attention. A quiet curiosity.

He wrote again.

"I imagine the silence must be... unsettling. For someone like you."

A pause. He tilted his head slightly, as if assessing a fragile work of art.

"Losing what defines us is sometimes more violent than death itself." “

Hannibal inclined his head slightly, as if sharing a genuine sorrow.

“You had a rare gift. An uncommon sensitivity. Music dwelled within you in a way few can understand.”

He looked up at her, a faint, compassionate smile on his lips.

“To lose that… it’s a form of grief.”

He placed the notebook back on his lap, clasping his hands with effortless elegance.

“But I’m convinced that your worth isn’t limited to what you’ve lost.”

His gaze was gentle. His presence soothing.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, betrayed the fact that this man had been the silent architect of her downfall. That he had chosen this fate for her. Out of fascination. Out of curiosity. Out of pleasure.

Hannibal Lecter awaited her reaction, attentive, patient.