On the outskirts of the city, industrial ruins.
This is a graveyard of steel and concrete, an ugly mudflat left behind after the ebb of modern civilization.
The rusty gantry crane hung limply.
The factory, its internal organs emptied, is now just an empty shell with leaky walls, where weeds grow wildly from the cracks in the concrete floor.
An inconspicuous gray sedan was parked at the entrance to the ruins.
The car door opened, and the man who stepped out seemed out of place amidst the dilapidated surroundings.
Hannibal Lecter was wearing a faded gray jacket and ordinary khaki trousers.
On his feet were a pair of hiking boots covered in mud.
He wasn't even wearing that Patek Philippe watch.
He toned down all the refinement and sharpness that belonged to high society.
There were no bodyguards, no entourage.
Alone, he entered this somber open-air museum, designed by Adrien Dubois himself.
Hannibal didn't rush to find his target; instead, he strolled leisurely among the bizarre "exhibits" like a true art enthusiast.
He admired the tormented human figures made of steel bars, kneeling and praying.
He stared at those gigantic faces, reconstructed from broken concrete, wailing and howling towards the sky.
Finally, he saw the center of the ruins.
That man, Adrien Dubois.
He stood beneath the magnificent statue of the Weeping Madonna, his figure slender.
He looked even more gaunt than in the photos; the brilliance that once belonged to a genius architect had been completely drained away.
Hannibal's footsteps startled the ghost who was lost in his own world.
Adrien turned around, his deep-set eyes flashing with extreme vigilance and disgust.
"Get out."
He didn't recognize the man before him, but he loathed all living things that intruded into his "sacred land."
Every curious glance was a desecration to him.
Hannibal ignored his warning.
His entire being was drawn to the statue before him, a structure built of destruction and sorrow.
He walked up to the statue of the Weeping Madonna, tilted his head back, and looked at her with such piety that it seemed as if he were gazing upon a true miracle.
After a long while, Hannibal finally let out a soft exclamation of admiration.
"You will be destroyed, and become a lament."
elegy...
He never intended to use that word to define his behavior these past few days.
He thought he was just venting, repeating the nightmare that dragged him into hell in a crazy way.
But this unfamiliar man heard a song from the chaotic ruins, from the pile of meaningless steel junk.
A mournful song written for his deceased wife and daughters, and for his crumbling world.
Hannibal turned to look at Adrien, a gentle, Scholar smile on his face.
"Mr. Adrien Dubois, I apologize for being so forward."
"I was a big fan of your works, especially those from the Élysée Grand Opera House."
He began to talk to him, from the golden ratio, the most basic principle in architectural aesthetics, to postmodernism's deconstruction of traditional structures.
His erudition was astonishing, and his understanding of architectural art was no less than that of Adrien himself.
The barriers that Adrien had erected were peeled away layer by layer during this high-intensity academic exchange.
He hadn't had a conversation like this with anyone in a long time.
Since that disaster, everyone looks at him with a mixture of fear and pity.
No one dared to touch the professional field he was once most proud of.
They could only offer him feeble words of condolence, telling him to "take care" and "look to the future."
There was only this man in front of me.
Like a highly skilled surgeon, he bypassed his bloody wounds and began to speak directly with his soul.
From a structuralist perspective, the meaning of any system stems from the relationships between its internal elements.
Hannibal's voice was magnetic and persuasive.
"When you dismantle this building, you are not simply destroying it, but breaking down its original 'meaning,' returning it to its most primitive state of steel and concrete."
"This is a return to a philosophical level."
For the first time, a thoughtful glint appeared in Adrien's cloudy eyes.
He had never thought of it that way.
He was simply filled with hatred, hating himself for creating that "perfect" building, and hating the uncontrollable power within himself.
Hannibal gave him no chance to heal his wounds.
What he had to do was plant a seed in this rotten soil.
"I've been thinking about a question, Mr. Dubois."
"If increasing entropy is the only law of the universe, if all magnificent, beautiful, and orderly things are destined from the moment of their birth to descend into disorder, to annihilation, and ultimately to dust..."
His voice was low, carrying a devilish allure.
"Then what is the meaning of creation?"
This question left Adrien speechless.
What is the meaning of creation?
He once believed that creation was for immortality.
He poured his soul into those steel and concrete structures, believing they could protect him from the ravages of time.
As a result, an accident, a loss of control...
He personally turned all his "immortality" along with his beloved into dust that danced in the air.
His faith had already collapsed at that moment.
Hannibal, seeing the pain on Adrien's face, gave his answer.
"Perhaps we've all misunderstood."
"Perhaps witnessing and orchestrating a magnificent collapse is the most sublime and honest tribute to this inevitably destroyed universe."
"To create fleeting beauty, and then, at its peak, to deconstruct it with one's own hands, returning it to particles."
"The beauty it contains far surpasses the beauty of watching it erode through the long years, be forgotten, and ultimately die an ugly death."
"That is not destruction, Mr. Dubois."
That was... a coronation.
"To crown a fleeting existence with an Eternity laurel wreath made of dust."
Adrien's breathing became rapid.
His body trembled slightly at this horrifying theory.
He looked at the man before him as if he were looking at a devil who had come from the depths of hell.
But every word this devil spoke carried a deadly temptation.
witness...
leading...
A magnificent collapse...
It's not destruction, it's coronation.
In his cloudy eyes, deep within the ashes that had been burned away, something else was ignited.
Hannibal knew the time had come.
He pulled a roll of blueprints from the inside pocket of his plain jacket and unfolded it in front of Adrien.
That's not some obscure work of art.
That was the complete structural blueprint of the Vought Tower, a building in the heart of New York City that symbolized the supreme power of Vought International.
Hannibal's finger lightly tapped the very top of the blueprint, on the spot where Lynn Morris's office was located.
He raised his head and smiled at Adrien in a sacred tone:
"So, are you ready to set the stage for your next great performance, my artist?"