The silver cutlery scraped against the white porcelain plate, making a soft sound.
The steak on the plate was perfectly medium-rare, with blood seeping out and staining the side dishes beside it.
Hannibal Lecter cut off a small piece, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly.
Opposite him sat two men, the star screenwriters hired by Vought Pictures at great expense.
The coffee in front of them had long since gone cold.
Both of them had beads of sweat on their foreheads and were fidgeting.
Spread out on the table was the script they had painstakingly written over several months—the first draft of the first season of " The Silence of the Lambs."
Hannibal put down his knife and fork and gently wiped his mouth with a napkin.
He looked at the two screenwriters with a gentle yet chilling smile.
"Gentlemen, I am very disappointed."
One of the older screenwriters quickly spoke up.
" Lecter, is it a pacing issue? Or is the character's motivation insufficient...?"
"No, no," Hannibal interrupted him, raising his hand. "Your serial killers are too crude."
He picked up the script on the table and tapped a page with his long, slender fingers.
"With a hammer? A corpse with a shattered skull, brains and blood splattered everywhere."
"This is like a Butcher, a worker who only knows brute force. Completely lacking imagination, this is a desecration of death."
The two screenwriters looked at each other, cold sweat dripping down their backs.
They thought this was just a regular crime drama advisory meeting, but the man in front of them didn't seem to be discussing the plot at all.
His professional tone and heartfelt disdain clearly indicated that a seasoned professional was angrily criticizing two inexperienced and clumsy juniors!
"For example, you could have him use a specially made ice pick to pierce the victim's medulla oblongata."
As Hannibal spoke, he precisely gestured with his fork along the spine of the steak.
"Ice picks melt at body temperature, leaving no trace. Forensic examinations would only classify it as a sudden brainstem hemorrhage, attributed to excessive stress or some rare congenital disease."
"Look how clean, how clever. It's a harmless joke from God."
The screenwriter's face began to turn pale, and he felt a churning in his stomach.
Hannibal noticed their discomfort, but he didn't care and enthusiastically proposed a second plan.
"Or, we can pursue a more natural kind of poetry."
"Using the rare poison dart frog venom, only a tiny amount is applied to the target's usual car door handle. The toxin slowly penetrates through the skin, and several hours later, the target will die peacefully in their sleep due to acute cardiac arrest."
"There will be no struggle, no pain. The forensic pathologist will find no trace of poison during a routine autopsy and will ultimately have to write 'family hereditary heart disease' on the report. That's art, a silent, perfect farewell."
Another, younger screenwriter dropped his pen with a "thud" to the ground.
He dared not pick it up, but just sat there stiffly, even his breathing became careful, for fear of disturbing the devil in front of him who was conducting "art direction".
The office door was gently pushed open.
Victoria Hand, the Victoria Hand, walked in.
She walked straight to Hannibal, bent down, and whispered her report in a voice only the two of them could hear.
"Dr., the target, Senator John Miller, died unexpectedly last night at a charity dinner."
Hannibal raised an eyebrow slightly and wiped the fork he had used to demonstrate the steak with a napkin.
"Cause of death."
"Acute peanut butter allergy. Peanut butter powder was added to his dessert, triggering a severe anaphylactic shock that resulted in his immediate death."
Hannibal frowned, a flash of displeasure crossing his face.
Peanut butter?
His voice was filled with obvious disappointment as he looked up at Victoria.
Who was responsible for carrying out the order?
"This is the first time a newcomer to the Strategic Team B has independently executed a decisive operation."
"Let him report to the Data and Technology Analysis Department. Our department doesn't need a cook who can only heat up fast food in a microwave."
Hannibal put the gleaming fork back in its place.
" Victoria, pay attention next time. We strive for impeccable works of art, not assembly-line garbage."
He pondered for a moment and then offered his suggestion.
"For example, try ragweed pollen. Release highly concentrated pollen into the target air conditioning system to make it look more like an unfortunate, unavoidable seasonal tragedy."
"Okay, Doctor. I will update our operating manual."
Victoria nodded, turned and left the office.
Silence returned to the room.
The two screenwriters sat there blankly, not daring to make the slightest movement.
Hannibal Lecter refocused his attention on the two "artists" before him.
His smile returned to his face, still so gentle and elegant.
"Alright, gentlemen. Let's get back to the story itself."
He gently pushed the script back in front of them.
"Remember, murder isn't about creating a body; it's about telling a story. A story that will convince the audience, confuse the police, and even impress God."
"Now," he said, crossing his arms and resting them on his chin, looking at them with an encouraging gaze, "Rewrite it."
The older screenwriter looked into Hannibal's deep gaze.
He found himself facing the most elegant, yet most terrifying demon in history, cloaked in human skin.
The atmosphere at S.H.I.E.L.D.. was extremely somber, and Maria Hill walked quickly.
She kept her eyes straight ahead, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a scene she didn't want to see.
A fully armed internal security force escorted a man out of the archives.
She recognized the man; Jeremy Stone had worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.. for thirty years and was retiring next month.
Stone did not resist; he simply lowered his head, his face filled with humiliation and confusion.
The agents along the way all lowered their heads, pretending to look at the documents in their hands, or simply turned around and faced the wall.
Yesterday's comrades-in-arms can be taken away today because of a report from thirty years ago.
No one spoke, no one made eye contact.
The efficiency of the entire massive intelligence agency dropped by 30% overnight.
Hill walked into a makeshift interrogation room.
The room smelled strongly of smoke.
John Garrett, a veteran agent with a distinguished record, sat behind a table, his wrists still clad in electronic handcuffs.
He stood up abruptly when he saw Hill enter, the shackles slamming against the edge of the table with a loud clang.
" Hill!" he roared, "You tell me, why the hell is this happening?!"
Garrett, calm down.
Hill placed a document on the table.
"Calm?"
Garrett swept the documents onto the floor.
"I've taken bullets for S.H.I.E.L.D.. in Bosnia! I've dug survivors out of the ruins of Latveria! And now, just because I had a cup of coffee with an informant twenty years ago, Fury thinks I'm Hydra?"
"That informant was later confirmed to have ties to Hydra; that's procedure, John."
"Program? To hell with the program!"
Garrett slammed his fist on the table.
"When I was bleeding for S.H.I.E.L.D.., Fury was just a lowly field operative! He's blind! He's destroying everything we built with our own hands!"
Hill looked at him without saying a word.
She couldn't refute it.