The air at the 29th Precinct in Harlem once brought Misty Knight Knight a sense of peace; it was the smell of everyday life.
Today, however, the smell made her feel nauseous.
The lingering aftertaste of last night's red wine stew has faded, leaving only a burning emptiness in my stomach.
What torments people more than hunger is this absurd drama unfolding before their eyes.
"Insufficient evidence, Officer Knight."
A lawyer in a bespoke Italy suit slammed a document on the table, a professional, fake smile plastered on his face.
"My client was present at the crime scene, but he was just 'taking a walk.' As for the bloodstained knife, the forensic department lost the chain of custody records. According to procedural justice, you must release him."
Behind him, the drug dealer nicknamed " Rattlesnake " was winking and making faces at Misty Knight, even arrogantly making a throat-slitting gesture.
Misty Knight's fists clenched under the table until her knuckles turned white.
This scumbag threw one of her informants, along with his daughter, into an industrial wood chipper last week.
This is murder!
"That's the law." The lawyer shrugged, picking up his briefcase. "Learn to accept it, officer. That's the game."
The two swaggered away, their unrestrained laughter echoing down the corridor.
What if there were no laws?
Hannibal Lecter's voice echoed in her mind like a ghost, "The law is a web woven by the weak... If only someone could clean up this rubbish..."
Misty Knight shook her head, trying to shake off the psychologist's voice.
She rushed into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.
The woman in the mirror had bloodshot eyes, a result of long-term insomnia and anger.
But deep within those weary eyes, a fire was burning.
That was the look of a predator.
As the clock struck eight o'clock in the evening, the old Ford was parked in the Shadow of 66th Street on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
Misty Knight told herself that she was there to find clues about Senator Stern's disappearance.
That obese politician won't just vanish into thin air, and even if Lecter's floor is scrubbed until it's a mirror, there will always be traces left.
But as she stood before that oak door, her nostrils twitched uncontrollably.
That smell.
This time it's not the full-bodied flavor of red wine, but a more delicate and complex caramel aroma.
That's the unique nutty aroma of top-quality butter after it browns at high temperatures, mixed with the tartness of capers and the freshness of lemon.
The door opened.
Hannibal Lecter stands amidst the light and shadow, dressed in a dark blue velvet loungewear, swirling a glass of white wine that reflects the candlelight.
He stared at Misty Knight outside the door, his expression showing no surprise.
"Punctuality is a virtue, Misty Knight." He stepped aside, "Just in time for the main course to come out of the pot."
"I didn't come here for dinner." Misty Knight's tone was stiff, but her feet had already stepped into the entryway. "I checked the security footage; Stern's driver abandoned the car and fled; his whereabouts are unknown."
"Fear is the cheapest substitute for loyalty." Hannibal turned and led her towards the restaurant. "That driver knows his boss better than you do."
Classical music was still playing in the restaurant, and a silver candlestick sat in the center of the table, its flickering candlelight reflecting on the white porcelain plate.
On the plate, several thick slices of brain tissue were fried to a perfect golden brown, their unique grooves and folds clearly visible.
It is garnished with bright green parsley flakes and dark capers, with a few brightly colored florets of broccoli nearby.
"Sit." Hannibal pulled out a chair.
Misty Knight stared at the food on the plate.
The thing had a unique grooved structure, was cut into thick slices, and fried until golden brown on both sides.
"What's this?"
"The brain." Hannibal sat down opposite her and picked up his knife and fork. " Senator Stern may have been a fool, but biologically, his brain structure was still intact. The prefrontal cortex is responsible for decision-making, and the amygdala governs emotions. Unfortunately, he only used the latter in his lifetime."
Misty Knight's pupils contracted.
She pressed down on the edge of the table, while her other hand reached for the pistol at her lower back.
Are you kidding me, Lecter?
"This is definitely veal brain." Hannibal cut off a small piece and put it in his mouth. "A classic French dish, veal brain pan-fried in dark butter. The texture is like solidified fat, but the flavor is meaty. As for Stern... that's just a metaphor."
He looked at Misty Knight, his eyes as clear as a bottomless lake.
"What are you afraid of, Misty Knight? Are you afraid this is human flesh? Or are you afraid that you already know the answer, yet still crave to sit down and have a bite?"
The arrogant smiling face of that " Rattlesnake " flashed before my eyes.
The law protected that scumbag, and procedural justice became a fig leaf for evil.
In this room, on this dining table exuding an enticing aroma, there seems to exist another, more primal, and more efficient form of "justice."
"You're a devil."
Misty Knight released her grip on the gun and pulled out a chair to sit down.
"I'm just a doctor." Hannibal pushed the plate closer to her. "Try it. The brain is rich in phospholipids, which can repair nerves. You need a clear head to think about who... is the real enemy."
Misty Knight picked up her fork.
The golden tissue exuded a deadly allure under the light.
She cut off a piece and put it in her mouth.
The crisp outer shell breaks open with a snap, and the inside melts on the tongue, as smooth and creamy as a top-quality mousse.
The intensely rich, oily aroma overwhelms all the senses, followed closely by the slight tartness of capers and the crispness of lemon, pushing the rich umami to its peak.
The anxiety and helplessness that had plagued me all day miraculously melted away in this ultimate taste experience.
She felt a calmness she had never experienced before.
How are you feeling?
Hannibal asked softly.
"Very... clear," Misty Knight replied softly, her hands continuing their work.
That's right.
Hannibal watched her eat with a smile, as if he were watching a Beast being tamed.
"Morality binds our hands and feet, making us forget its original purpose of safeguarding the interests of the group. When an individual becomes a cancer to the group, removing them is not cruel, but compassionate."
Misty Knight finished the last bite.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin, looked at the empty plate, and her eyes became complicated and deep.
"If Stern really does become this dish..." Misty Knight looked up, staring directly at Hannibal, "Then at least he did something useful in his life."
Hannibal's smile deepened.
He stood up, walked to the bookshelf next to him, pulled out an unmarked manila envelope, and casually placed it in front of Misty Knight.
"What's this?"
"A gift."
Hannibal poured himself a glass of wine.
"Regarding that drug dealer called ' Rattlesnake,' his supply channels, hideouts, and financial records between him and certain corrupt judges. Of course, most of this evidence was obtained through 'illegal means' and is essentially worthless in court."
Misty Knight stared at the file folder.
What do you want me to do?
"That's your choice, Misty Knight." Hannibal leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You can continue to play the dutiful fool in this rotten system, or... you can become the scissors."
Misty Knight's fingers traced the rough surface of the kraft paper.
"Does the Vought International want to clean up Harlem?"
" The Vought International wants order," Hannibal corrected. "And I just don't want to see good ingredients wasted."
Misty Knight grabbed the file folder and stood up.
She didn't say goodbye, nor did she ask about Stern's whereabouts.
She simply gave Hannibal a deep look, her gaze no longer holding the scrutiny of a police officer.
The door closed.
Hannibal hummed a little tune as he returned to the kitchen.
Open the temperature-controlled freezer, and next to the row of neatly arranged vacuum-sealed bags, there is a fresh heart, still streaked with blood.
"Being too soft-hearted won't do," Hannibal muttered to himself, tapping lightly on the glass door of the freezer. "This dish needs to be stir-fried over high heat."