"Splash--"
The water in the sink gently washed over the white porcelain plate, carrying away the last trace of pale red sauce— Senator Stern's final legacy to the world.
Hannibal turned off the tap and picked up a dry linen cloth to carefully wipe the rim of the dish.
For most people, cleaning is just a household chore.
But for Hannibal, this was part of a ritual, a necessary step to restore order to the world.
Senator Stern's cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket, breaking the silence of the room.
It was that kind of irritating, continuous vibration, just as impatient as its owner.
Hannibal put down the plate and picked up the expensive custom-made phone with two fingers.
The screen displays " Tony (the driver)".
There was no rush to answer or hang up.
Hannibal simply watched the screen flicker in the dim light before going dark.
He turned and walked toward a stainless steel tray next to the workbench.
There lay a freshly severed right thumb that belonged to Senator Stern.
The cut surface was smooth and even, with not even much tissue fluid oozing out, demonstrating the exquisite knife skills.
Hannibal picked up his thumb and pressed it onto the fingerprint unlock area of the phone.
He needs to switch his mindset, degrading himself from an elegant psychology PhD to a politician whose mind is filled only with alcohol and lust.
He opened the text message interface and quickly typed. "Met an old flame, her ass's got some hot stuff. Not going home tonight, don't tell that old hag, understand?"
The tone was vulgar, the spelling was careless, and they even deliberately misspelled two words.
This is Stern's style.
If the text is too grammatically correct, it may arouse suspicion.
Sent successfully.
Outside the window, the black sedan parked on the street corner flashed its lights twice and then slowly drove away.
Hannibal turned and walked toward the secret room behind the bookshelf.
The real cleanup work is only just beginning.
He doesn't need Selene Kayle's so-called "cleaner" intervention.
Those people simply use strong acids and incinerators to roughly erase the traces, which is neither environmentally friendly nor aesthetically pleasing.
More importantly, this was not just an execution, but also a private hunt.
Hunters should handle their prey alone; it's the rule, and it's also a pleasure.
Stern's obese body had been almost completely disintegrated.
Hannibal put on a new pair of medical rubber gloves and picked up a boning knife.
His gaze was cold and critical, as if he were examining a piece of inferior pork.
"Too much trans fat, muscle atrophy due to lack of exercise, fatty liver caused by long-term alcohol abuse..."
Hannibal shook his head, the Blade in his hand swiftly slicing through the subcutaneous tissue, removing large chunks of yellowish-white fat.
These cholesterol-rich tissues have no value whatsoever.
It has a greasy texture and a fishy, foul smell; it's even unsuitable for making soap.
He cut the waste into small pieces, about two centimeters square, and put them into the industrial-grade food waste disposer installed under the workbench in batches.
With a low hum, the material basis of the senator's existence in this world flows down the sewers to the Hudson River, eventually becoming part of Manhattan's underground ecological cycle.
Perhaps tomorrow, they will become breakfast for some sewer rat, or fertilizer to nourish moss.
This is nature's gift, even if it's a little too rich.
As for the bones, they are a bit more complicated to deal with.
Hannibal took out a heavy bone saw.
This tool is typically used in orthopedic surgery; it has sharp teeth and is extremely quiet.
He skillfully cut the long bone and sprinkled a layer of special enzyme powder on the cut.
This is not a product of Vought, but a formula he developed over many years based on his knowledge of forensic medicine and chemistry, which can greatly accelerate osteomalacia.
In just a few hours, these hard calcium structures will turn into a sponge-like texture, and then they won't make that teeth-grinding crunching sound when thrown into a grinder.
After doing all this, Hannibal took off his transparent protective suit, which was stained with a little oil, and went to the sink to carefully wash his hands three times with hand sanitizer containing lemon essential oil.
He glanced at the freezer, where neatly arranged vacuum-packed veal was enough to meet his dietary needs for the next two weeks.
You could even consider sending the boss a special "Wellington steak".
Of course, he also knew that his boss never ate the food he cooked.
The man seemed to know everything perfectly well, including the origin of the Chinese food on the plate.
Hannibal removed his rubber gloves and stuffed them, along with his protective suit, into the incineration bag.
The fine bone meal had completely disappeared into the depths of Manhattan's massive sewage system as the toilet flushed.
The air was filled with the scent of lemon basil cleaning agent; this slightly chemically fresh smell completely masked the unpleasant metallic odor from before.
He examined the stainless steel countertop, its gleaming surface reflecting his calm, almost indifferent face.
There were no fingerprints, no DNA residue, and even the chair Stern touched had been replaced with a new one.
The landline on the desk suddenly beeped twice.
That's an internally encrypted circuit.
Hannibal straightened his shirt cuffs, pressed the speakerphone button, and said calmly, "This is Lecter."
There's something going on with you.
Selene Kayle's languid yet sharp voice came through the speaker. As the head of the Internal Security and Risk Control Department, this cat was overly sensitive to the slightest disturbance, even when she was in her own cat bed.
"I don't understand what you mean, Selene."
" Senator Stern entered your office one hour and forty minutes ago; that was his last recorded biometric data point. My monitoring team saw his car leave, but thermal imaging showed only the driver was inside."
Selene spoke very quickly, and the faint sound of keyboard typing could be heard in the background.
"If he 'has an accident' at your place, you'll need a professional cleaner. They're downstairs, a five-minute walk away."
"No need for that."
Hannibal turned and leaned against the mahogany cabinet.
" Senator Stern came, and we had a... deep, soul-searching conversation. He found he needed a long break to reflect on his life, so he left via the private elevator."
"A private elevator? That freight elevator that goes straight to the underground parking lot?"
Selene snorted coldly.
" Hannibal, don't think I'm unaware of your tastes. The boss doesn't like uncontrollable chaos."
"Chaos stems from disorder, and I am precisely the maintainer of order."
"As for the cleaner, you know I have severe mysophobia. I don't like strangers touching my floors, especially Rorschach; his trench coat was filthy, with at least three different kinds of fungi on it."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.
"Just make sure those S.H.I.E.L.D.. hounds don't smell it."