As night fell, Manhattan was enveloped by a sudden downpour.
Rainwater washed away the city's grime, flowing into the underground drains—the "rat territory" Hannibal had described.
Hannibal Lecter sat on the leather sofa in front of the fireplace, holding a first edition of Dante's the Divine Comedy in his hands, with the Scottish wool blanket covering his knees.
Maria Kara's high notes echoed in the room, poignant yet resolute.
The doorbell rang.
This time it wasn't so rushed, but it carried a heavy sense of determination to achieve the goal.
Hannibal closed the book and glanced at the wall clock.
8:30 PM.
He got up and opened the door.
Misty Knight Knight stood on the porch, soaked to the bone, her leather jacket dripping water, her afro disheveled from the rain, making her look like a drowned lion.
Her trouser legs were covered in mud and smelled of the sewers.
I suggest you take your shoes off outside first.
Hannibal showed no surprise; instead, he stepped aside to make way for him.
Rainwater and mud can impair the breathability of carpet fibers.
Misty Knight didn't argue. She silently took off her mud-covered combat boots and stepped barefoot onto the floor.
Hannibal handed her a clean white towel. "Dry your hair. A cold can impair your judgment."
"Don't give me that fake concern." Misty Knight snatched the towel and rubbed her head haphazardly. "I knew he was here with you, or rather, his life ended here with you. Lecter, my gut feeling is never wrong."
"Intuition is a subconscious summary of experience, but sometimes it can be misled by hunger and fatigue."
Hannibal turned and walked toward the kitchen.
That peculiar aroma gradually enveloped the entire space, becoming even more intense than in the morning, with an added layer of richness from the slow simmering of red wine.
You haven't eaten yet, have you?
"I'm not hungry."
Misty Knight's stomach let out a timely, protesting roar.
Hannibal didn't turn around; he simply opened the oven.
"The human stomach is an honest organ, much more honest than the brain." He wore oven mitts and brought out a cast iron pot.
"In this city rife with lies, acknowledging hunger is a virtue."
He was busy at the control panel.
In the cast-iron pot was a red wine stew he had carefully prepared that afternoon.
He chose the elastic muscle on the inside of his thigh.
After three hours of slow cooking, the meat was tender and fell off the bone, and the broth was thick and glossy.
Hannibal placed a steaming plate of stew on the table, accompanied by two slices of crispy toasted baguette.
Misty Knight stood by the table, staring at the plate of meat.
Reason told her she should continue questioning, but her body completely surrendered to the aroma.
"What is this? A bribe?"
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
"This is called resupply."
Hannibal sat down opposite her and poured himself a glass of red wine.
"Why are you so fixated on Stern? As far as I know, he's a politician who opposes police funding proposals, and last month he publicly humiliated your precinct chief in the media."
Misty Knight forked a piece of meat and put it in her mouth.
That soul-stirring burst of deliciousness.
The acidity of the red wine, the spiciness of the spices, and the sweetness of the meat itself intertwine in the mouth.
Her intended rebuttal was abruptly cut off by the bite of meat.
"This is my job."
Misty Knight swallowed the food and felt a warm feeling in her stomach.
"The law is the law. No matter if the victim is a jerk or not, he has the right to live."
"Law?"
Hannibal chuckled softly, swirling his wine glass.
"The law is a net woven by the weak to bind the strong and protect the mediocre. While Stern was alive, besides creating noise and wasting taxpayers' money, he contributed nothing to society. His value is even negative."
But that doesn't mean anyone has the right to decide his life or death.
"Really?"
Hannibal leaned forward, his eyes blazing.
"Think about the drug dealers you arrested and then released on bail, think about the murderers released due to insufficient evidence. When you watch them swagger out of the police station and continue committing crimes on the streets, don't you ever think that the world would be a better place if someone could help clean up this garbage?"
Misty Knight slowed down her chewing.
"What... what do you want to say?"
I'm talking about this kind of meat.
Hannibal pointed to the plate.
"If I don't cook it into a delicious meal, it will rot and become a pile of worthless organic waste. But I've given it a new meaning—it fills your hunger, provides you with warmth, and gives you the strength to continue pursuing what is called justice."
"This is a transformation process. It's turning useless and harmful things into beneficial energy."
Misty Knight looked at the remaining pieces of meat on the plate.
For some reason, she found this piece of meat even more tempting than before.
"You're crazy," she whispered, but the firmness in her voice was gone.
"I'm a pragmatist."
Hannibal cut a small piece of baguette and dipped it in the sauce.
"In this chaotic era, that's exactly what the Vought International does: bring those uncontrollable Superman under management and turn chaos into order. Sometimes, to keep the garden tidy, the Gardener has to trim a few crooked weeds."
"Is Stern a weed?"
"He's the kind of vicious weed that not only sucks up nutrients but also blocks out the sunlight," Hannibal said, smiling at her. "And you, Misty Knight, you're a good pair of scissors. It's a pity that holding you is too weak."
Misty Knight fell silent.
She lowered her head and ate the stewed meat on her plate in large bites, as if she were venting some kind of emotion.
The aroma of meat now had a somewhat eerie quality.
Each swallow eroded some of the principles she had initially upheld.
"What... exactly is this meat?"
After Misty Knight finished her last bite, she wiped the plate clean with bread.
"It is inevitable."
Hannibal gave a vague answer.
"It is the most elegant manifestation of the law of the jungle."
Misty Knight stood up.
She felt a little dizzy, which was the dizziness caused by the rapid rise in blood sugar, or perhaps the impact of Hannibal's fallacies and heresies.
"I'll be watching you, Lecter."
She grabbed the car keys from the table.
"If I find out that Stern's death is related to you..."
"Then you will understand that sometimes disappearance is an act of compassion."
Hannibal interrupted her.
He got up to see the guest out.
As Misty Knight went to the door to put on her shoes, Hannibal leaned against the doorframe, his gaze as gentle as that of an elder seeing off an old friend.
"If you're still hungry tomorrow, or confused about 'justice,' welcome back," Hannibal said softly. "I have plenty of ingredients in my the Fridge, and I think you'll enjoy tomorrow's menu—it's a brain-themed dish, supposedly good for the brain."
Misty Knight's hand trembled slightly.
She didn't say anything, pushed open the door, and rushed into the rain.
Watching the Ford disappear into the rainy night street, Hannibal closed the door, feeling an unprecedented sense of joy.
Taming is far more interesting than killing.
When this "lioness" from Harlem began to enjoy the food he fed her, the collar around her neck had already quietly changed owners.
Hannibal hummed an operatic tune as he returned to the kitchen.
In the sink, the meat grinder is waiting to be cleaned.
In the corner of the kitchen counter, Senator Stern's somewhat balding head rested quietly on a stainless steel tray, awaiting processing the next day.
That was the final surprise prepared for those self-proclaimed clever "guests".