Hannibal ignored Adrien's refusal.
He became merely the sole spectator and believer in this steel graveyard.
early morning.
When the first rays of sunlight pierce the thin mist formed by industrial exhaust fumes and illuminate the steel bars, Hannibal will appear precisely on time.
He never carries food or water.
Spiritual resonance was his only sustenance.
He wandered among Adrien's "works" wearing that simple jacket.
His existence is itself a silent affirmation.
Adrien was initially resistant.
He used an invisible force to knead an abandoned school bus into a shapeless iron ball and slammed it down not far from Hannibal.
They tried to drive him away in this brutal way.
Hannibal simply stepped back a few paces, avoiding the flying debris, and then walked up to the pile of scrap metal.
He showed no fear, no hesitation; instead, regret was evident in his eyes.
"It was a very interesting attempt."
"You will be a symbol carrying countless children's laughter, compressed into a primordial, chaotic starting point."
"This is a violent denial of innocent memories, bearing the nihilistic colors of the post-industrial era."
Adrien was stunned.
He was just venting.
But in this man's mouth, his meaningless acts of destruction were given a philosophical veneer.
Once again, at dusk.
Adrien looked at an abandoned city bus, its faded advertisements still bearing traces of its former prosperity.
An overwhelming sadness welled up inside me.
He raised his hand, and under his will, the bus began to rapidly disintegrate, breaking down into countless thin, cicada-wing-like metal pieces.
In the afterglow of the setting sun, these metal pieces resembled a flock of butterflies about to take flight, fluttering around the wreckage of the bus.
This was merely an unconscious act of his, a manifestation of his pain.
"Magnificent."
Hannibal's voice rang out behind him, full of genuine admiration.
"This is true art."
"Let an industrial corpse bloom with a brilliance that transcends its intrinsic value in its final moments."
"This was a magnificent funeral dedicated to a short life."
Adrien turned and looked at Hannibal.
This man always manages to use the most precise words to adorn his ugliest scars.
This feeling of being "understood" is a highly addictive poison, more so than any drug.
He began to crave this understanding.
He began, subconsciously, to "create" in order to gain Hannibal's approval.
His destruction was no longer a deliberate emotional outburst.
Adrien's performance took on a morbid, aesthetically-driven quality.
Hanni noticed this change.
The soil is already fertile enough.
He unfolded the structural blueprints for the Vought Tower once more.
This time, Hannibal did not talk about destruction.
"Every great building has its own symphony, Adrien."
"The steel bars are its skeleton, the concrete is its flesh and blood, the glass curtain wall is its breathing skin, and the constant flow of people is its beating pulse."
"In the past, you were the composer who wrote this piece."
"And now..."
Hannibal raised his head and stared intently at Adrien.
"You will become a conductor. Conducting an unprecedented, magnificent, and splendid Requiem."
"At its most glorious moment, let it return to its essence. That will be the pinnacle of your career, a masterpiece dedicated to the greatest work in the history of architecture."
Adrien's breathing became heavy.
This was to test the fervor, and also to conduct a final "rehearsal."
Hannibal chose the first training ground for him.
A century-old road bridge spanning the Harlem River.
It is scheduled to be demolished by explosives, and the news has already released an announcement in advance.
No one will notice that its farewell performance will take place in a completely different way.
The moonlight shone on the ancient bridge, weathered by time.
Wheel tracks remain on the bridge surface, lovers' names are engraved on the railings, and the bridge piers are covered with moss from the passage of time.
Hannibal stood on the riverbank with his arms outstretched, like a concert conductor about to take the stage.
"Feel it, Adrien."
His voice sounded exceptionally clear in the night breeze.
"Feel every tremor, every inch of wind and frost, every rain and snow it has endured over the past hundred years."
"Feel the joys and sorrows that have passed through it, feel its silent perseverance and solitude through countless days and nights."
It was tired; it longed for rest.
Adrien closed his eyes.
His perception spread like mercury, permeating every steel bar and every piece of concrete in the bridge.
There was no earth-shattering explosion, no ear-piercing roar.
The entire bridge slowly disintegrated in a manner visible to the naked eye.
The sturdy bridge surface turned into gray dust like quicksand.
Thick steel bars were peeled from the concrete.
They danced and rearranged in the air.
First, it formed a face that was silently weeping, as if mourning the passing of the bridge.
The faces hovered in the air for a moment, then disintegrated again.
As all the dust and metal fell into the water, a fleeting image was reflected on the dark river surface at the last moment.
That was a scene of his wife holding their daughter, smiling at him in the sunlight.
Just like the day the Élysée Grand Opera House was completed.
The illusion lasted only a second.
The next moment, everything lost its form.
They turned into the finest dust and fell silently into the Harlem River.
A magnificent creation that had existed for a century was thus erased from the world without leaving a trace.
Adrien stood there, his body trembling slightly, panting heavily.
An unprecedented, complex emotion, a mixture of sadness and the ultimate pleasure of creation, washed over him.
He put on a perfect performance.
Hannibal smiled with satisfaction.
His artists are ready.
The Vought Tower.
On the screen in Lynn's office, the video, which had been secretly recorded in its entirety, was playing on a loop.
Motoko Kusanagi stood to the side, recording data from every frame of the footage.
"The target's energy output is stable, and control precision has improved by 37.4%."
"The entire process took three minutes and eleven seconds, without producing any energy fluctuations or sounds detectable by conventional means. From a technical standpoint, it was a perfect act of destruction."
Lynn held his wine glass, watching the fleeting smile reflected in the water on the screen.
"Send this video anonymously to ' The Prophet '."
Motoko Kusanagi nodded slightly, without asking why.
"I want to show those rats hiding in the gutter what real fear is like."
"Let them understand that they are not facing a war on the same level at all."
"It's time to let those self-righteous rebels know just how... insignificant their petty acts of destruction are in the face of true artists."