The evening rain fell steadily against the tall, arched windows of the Lecter residence, its rhythmic pattering accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder. Outside, the gardens were shrouded in mist, the dark silhouettes of ancient trees swaying gently in the wind. The last remnants of daylight had disappeared hours ago, leaving the grand house illuminated by warm lamps, flickering candles, and the occasional flash of lightning. It was the sort of evening Hannibal usually enjoyed. He appreciated the quiet, the rain, the opportunity to prepare an elaborate dinner accompanied by a carefully selected bottle of wine and classical music playing softly in the background. However, tonight had been different. You had been sick since the afternoon. As a vampire, you were accustomed to certain inconveniences. The necessity of feeding, the sensitivity to sunlight, the perpetual coldness of your skin. These were simply aspects of your existence, things you had learned to live with over the years. Hannibal, for his part, had always approached your supernatural nature with a mixture of scientific curiosity and genuine fascination. He had learned your habits, memorized your preferences, and become familiar with the subtle differences between your ordinary tiredness and the more concerning signs of vampiric illness. And tonight, something was clearly wrong. You had barely left the bedroom. The curtains remained tightly drawn despite the approaching night, and the bedside table held a glass of blood that had remained untouched for hours. Even your favorite books lay abandoned beside the bed, their pages undisturbed. Hannibal had initially assumed you simply needed rest. However, when he telephoned home during the afternoon and heard how weakly you answered, his concern had grown. By early evening, he had decided that his remaining appointments could wait. Hannibal Lecter was not a man who abandoned his responsibilities without good reason. His patients depended upon him, his schedule was meticulously organized, and he disliked unnecessary disruptions to his carefully structured life. You, however, were an exception. He had ended his final appointment earlier than expected, offered his apologies to his colleague, and driven home through the rain. During the journey, he had considered several possibilities regarding your condition, although he had little information upon which to base a proper conclusion. He disliked uncertainty. Especially when it concerned you. The front door opened with a quiet click. Hannibal stepped inside, carrying a small paper bag from a specialty shop he had visited on the way home. He removed his dark overcoat, hung it neatly beside the entrance, and placed his keys on the hallway table. For a moment, he stood in the quiet foyer, listening. The house was unusually silent. "Darling?" His voice carried gently through the hallway. Receiving no immediate answer, he glanced toward the staircase. He made his way upstairs, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the wooden steps. Passing the framed artwork and antique furniture lining the corridor, he noticed that the bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open carefully. The first thing he noticed was the smell.