66th Street, Upper East Side, Manhattan.
Inside a low-key brownstone building, Bach's Goldberg Variations flowed with an extremely slow and precise rhythm.
Renaissance oil paintings, deep red Persian carpets, and a faint scent of nutmeg in the air.
This is Hannibal Lecter's private psychological counseling center.
As the head of Vought's Strategic Operations Department, Hannibal rarely handled trivial matters personally.
But in his spare time, he retained this hobby—providing spiritual counseling to "special patients" who stood at the pinnacle of power or on the edge of the abyss.
This is both his job and his hunting ground for selecting ingredients.
At that moment, sitting in the velvet chaise lounge opposite him was Herman Schulz.
The criminal, known as " Shocker " on the street, now shrank back like a frightened quail.
"Doctor, I keep hearing that sound... a vibration."
Herman held his head in his hands, his fingernails filled with engine oil stains.
"Those guys from Stark Industries are keeping a close eye on me. I can't sleep at night; I keep feeling the walls shaking."
Hannibal sat behind his mahogany desk, a charcoal pencil in his hand, meticulously sketching lines on a piece of drawing paper.
"Anxiety stems from a loss of control, Herman."
Hannibal's voice, honed by years of training, was both magnetic and gentle.
"You're a skilled technician, but you've tied your self-worth to destructive power. When stronger forces appear—like Homelander, Yasuo, or Vi—your mental defenses crumble."
"What should I do then? Turn myself in?"
"No."
Hannibal stopped writing, his gaze like a scalpel dissecting Herman's skin, staring directly into those trembling nerves.
"You need more structured guidance. Vought recently had an off-the-books program, and I might be able to write you a letter of recommendation."
Herman looked up, his face beaming with surprise. "Really? Vought's willing to take me in?"
"As long as you're obedient."
Hannibal tore off the sketch paper and casually handed it to Herman.
The drawing on the paper wasn't of Herman, but of a mechanical spider with its joints disassembled—precise, broken, yet possessing a morbid beauty.
After Herman left, the door to the consultation room was rudely pushed open.
" Lecter! I don't care what your appointment is, I want to talk to you right now!"
The man who barged in was a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, with a large belly and a crooked tie.
He is New York State Senator Stern, a senior figure and one of Vought's main opponents in Congress, known for his greed and rudeness.
Hannibal did not get up, nor did he even raise his head.
He slowly and deliberately straightened the pencils on the table, making sure the tips were pointing due north.
Senator Stern.
Hannibal's voice remained steady, but those familiar with him could hear the undercurrents surging beneath the calm surface.
"My secretary should have told you that in this room, politeness is the currency."
To hell with manners!
Stern plopped down in the chair Herman had just been sitting in and pounded on the armrest.
"That bastard Homelander from Vought ruined my fundraising dinner! Just because I didn't give him the closing speech? You owe me compensation, or I'll veto your dream bill at tomorrow's hearing!"
The senator grabbed a Crystal glass from the table, didn't even ask what was inside, took a swig of water, and then spat it back into the glass with disgust.
"What the hell is this? It's warm?"
Hannibal stared silently at the stained Crystal glass.
In his view, Stern was no longer a talkative politician, but a walking anatomical diagram.
Beneath the thick layer of fat lies a liver slightly hardened by long-term alcohol abuse, making it an excellent substitute for foie gras mousse.
The back muscles are somewhat loose.
But a piece of tendon from the inside of the thigh is barely edible.
"This is truly... regrettable."
Hannibal stood up, walked around the desk, and went behind Stern.
"What did you say?"
Stern was still complaining.
"I mean, rudeness is a terminal illness."
Hannibal's fingers rested lightly on the back of Stern's chair.
"It will disrupt social harmony and shorten a person's lifespan."
"Stop giving me that philosophical nonsense! I want to see Lynn Morris! I want to see your boss!"
Hannibal smiled slightly, but there was no warmth in his expression.
" Lynn Morris doesn't have time to see you, Senator."
Hannibal's voice came from behind Stern, as soft as a feather brushing against silk.
Stern turned around, the fat on his neck jiggling with the movement. He pointed at Hannibal's nose, spitting as he spoke:
"Who do you think you are? Just a psychologist in charge of logistics! Tell that damn CEO of yours, if I don't see the checks by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, I'll have the FBI seize your company! And I'll send the IRS to check it out while I'm at it!"
He became more and more agitated as he spoke, even reaching out to grab the Windsor knot on Hannibal's collar.
Just moments before that hand, covered in grease and sweat, was about to touch the fabric.
Hannibal's right hand brushed past the pencil case on the desk, where a Damascus steel knife used for opening letters lay, its handle made of smooth antler.
"Perhaps I should revise my previous diagnosis."
A silver glint flashed by under the dim light of the desk lamp.
The movement was so fast that its trajectory was invisible; one could only hear the soft sound of a sharp object piercing soft tissue.
Stern's roar abruptly stopped.
His eyes widened, his pupils dilated violently, and he clutched his throat with both hands. Blood didn't gush out immediately, because the exquisite letter opener had severed the vagus nerve and pierced the medulla oblongata.
The massive body, having lost all support, crashed onto the carpet.
The Crystal glass that had just been rejected rolled to the side, not broken, but quietly reflecting light in the expanding pool of dark red liquid.
Hannibal took a clean white handkerchief from his suit pocket and gently wiped away a non-existent speck of dust from the back of his hand.
"You're not suffering from rudeness, Mr. Stern."
He looked down at the corpse, which was still convulsing nervously, with a scrutinizing gaze as if he were appraising food.
"It's a cognitive obstacle regarding one's own self-positioning."
Ten minutes later, the office bookshelves slid open to the sides, revealing a private kitchen behind them that was not marked on the architectural drawings.
There's none of the classical warmth outside; only cold stainless steel countertops, professional wall-mounted freezers, and a whole wall of gleaming knives.
This was both Hannibal's second operating room and his kitchen.
Stern's body had been stripped of his expensive but tasteless suit and was hanging on a disposal rack.
Hannibal changed into a transparent plastic protective suit and put on medical rubber gloves.
At this point, he was no longer Vought executive, but a meticulous surgeon, or rather, an artist about to begin creating.
"The liver cirrhosis is more severe than expected; alcohol ruined the best parts."
Hannibal's scalpel slid down the muscle tissue, easily cutting open the abdominal cavity without damaging any organs.
"What a pity, it could have been made into a superb French foie gras."
He shook his head, feeling regretful about the waste.
The Blade continued downwards, avoiding the fat in the abdomen, and reached the lower back.
The meat here is fairly firm.
He skillfully cut off a pair of psoas major muscles located on the inside of the spine—commonly known as the "tenderloin".
These two pieces of meat, kept tender due to lack of exercise, are the only commendable parts of this body filled with junk food and alcohol.
An hour later, a strange aroma filled the kitchen counter.
The butter in the skillet is sizzling, and a few fresh sage leaves are rolling in the oil, releasing a rich, herbal aroma.
Thinly sliced psoas muscle, coated with a thin layer of flour, made a pleasant sizzling sound when placed in the pan.
Hannibal was extremely particular about the cooking time; he required the meat slices to have a perfect dark brown surface while the inside remained a tender pink.
He then poured in a little aged Madeira white wine, the aroma of which brought out the hidden sweetness in the meat and masked the faint smell of blood.
"The essence of cooking is transformation."
Hannibal muttered to himself as he gently shook the pot.
"Transforming disorder, rudeness, and filth into order, elegance, and deliciousness. Isn't that what Vought is doing?"
He turned off the heat and took the pot out of the pan.
On an exquisite white porcelain plate, slices of meat are arranged like blooming petals, garnished with a few red currants and asparagus as a side dish.
Hannibal carried the plate back to his desk.
The carpet had been replaced, and the only smell in the air was a mixture of nutmeg and fried meat.
He cut off a small piece of meat, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly.
It has a delicate texture and a unique sweetness.
The irritating shouting completely disappeared, leaving only the pleasurable sensation of protein breaking down on the tongue.
"That looks much better, Senator."
Hannibal wiped his mouth with a napkin, revealing a satisfied smile.