On the outskirts of the city, industrial ruins.
This is a graveyard of steel and concrete, an ugly mudflat left behind after the ebb tide of modern civilization.
Rusty gantry cranes hang powerlessly.
The factory buildings, having been gutted, are nothing but drafty hollow shells, letting weeds grow wildly from the cracks in the concrete floor.
An inconspicuous gray sedan stops at the entrance to the ruins.
The car door opens, and the man who steps out is completely out of place in this desolation.
Hannibal Lecter wears a slightly faded gray jacket and a pair of ordinary khaki trousers.
On his feet are a pair of mud-stained hiking shoes.
He is not even wearing that Patek Philippe watch.
He has reined in all the refinement and sharp edges that belong to high society.
There are no bodyguards, no entourage.
He walks alone into this sorrowful open-air museum, created by the hands of Adrian Dubois.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter does not rush to find his target; like a true art enthusiast, he walks slowly among those grotesque "exhibits."
He admires the painful human figures made of steel rebar, kneeling in prayer.
He examines the giant faces reassembled from broken concrete, wailing toward the sky.
Finally, he sees the center of the ruins.
That man, Adrian Dubois.
He stands beneath that magnificent "Weeping Madonna" statue, his figure thin and frail.
He is even more haggard than in the photos; the aura that once belonged to the genius architect has been completely drained away.
The sound of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's footsteps startles this ghost immersed in his own World.
Adrian turns around, his eyes, deeply sunken in their sockets, shooting out a light of extreme vigilance and disgust.
"Get out."
He does not know the man before him, but he loathes all living things that intrude upon his "holy land."
Every curious gaze is a profanity to him.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter ignores his warning.
His entire focus is captivated by the statue before him, constructed from destruction and sorrow.
He walks up to the "Weeping Madonna" statue and looks up, his gaze as devout as if he were admiring a true miracle.
After a long while, Dr. Hannibal Lecter lets out a soft sigh of admiration.
"You have turned destruction into an elegy."
An elegy...
He had never thought to use this word to define his actions over these past few days.
He thought he was just venting, using a crazy way to repeat the nightmare that dragged him into hell.
But this stranger before him had heard... a song, from this chaotic pile of ruins, from this pile of meaningless steel garbage.
A sad song composed for his departed wife and daughter, for his collapsed World.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter turns to look at Adrian, a scholarly, gentle smile on his face.
"Mr. Adrian Dubois, I apologize for the intrusion."
"I was a loyal fan of your work, especially the Élysée Grand Opera House."
He begins to converse with him, from the most basic golden ratio in architectural aesthetics to postmodernism's deconstruction of traditional structures.
His knowledge is shockingly profound, and his understanding of architectural art is no less than Adrian's own.
The barriers Adrian had built are stripped away layer by layer in such a high-concentration academic exchange.
He hasn't talked to anyone like this for too long.
Since that disaster, everyone's gaze toward him has been mixed with fear and pity.
No one dares to touch upon the professional field he was once most proud of.
They only use pale language to urge him to "grieve" or "look forward."
Only this man before him.
He is like the most skilled surgeon, avoiding his bloody, mangled wounds and speaking directly to his soul.
"From a structuralist perspective, any system's meaning is derived from the relationships between its internal elements."
Dr. Hannibal Lecter's voice is magnetic, guiding and persuasive.
"When you deconstructed this building, you were not simply destroying it, but breaking its original 'meaning,' letting it return to its most primitive state of steel and concrete."
"This is a return on a philosophical level."
A glimmer of thought flashes in Adrian's murky eyes for the first time.
He had never thought of it this way.
He was only hating, hating himself for creating that "perfect" building, hating his own uncontrollable power.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter gives him no chance to heal his wounds.
What he intends to do is plant a seed in this already rotting soil.
"I have been pondering a question, Mr. Dubois."
"If entropy increase is the only law of the Universe, if all magnificent, beautiful, and orderly things are destined from the moment of their birth to move toward disorder, toward extinction, toward the final dust..."
His voice lowers, carrying a demonic seduction.
"Then where does the meaning of creation lie?"
This question leaves Adrian stunned.
Where does the meaning of creation lie?
He once thought that creation was for "immortality."
He poured his soul into those steel and concrete structures, thinking they could fight time on his behalf.
As a result, an accident, a loss of control...
He personally turned all his "immortality," along with the people he loved most, into dust flying in the sky.
His faith had already collapsed at that moment.
Watching the pain emerge on Adrian's face, Dr. Hannibal Lecter gives his own answer.
"Perhaps we have both misunderstood."
"Perhaps, witnessing and leading a magnificent collapse is the most noble and honest tribute to this Universe that is destined to be destroyed."
"Creating fleeting beauty, then personally deconstructing it at its peak moment, letting it return to particles."
"The sense of beauty contained within is far superior to watching it be eroded by wind and rain, forgotten by people, and eventually dying an ugly death over long years."
"That is not destruction, Mr. Dubois."
"That is... a coronation."
"Crowning a fleeting existence with an eternal laurel made of dust."
Adrian's breathing becomes rapid.
His body trembles slightly because of this shocking theory.
He looks at the man before him, as if looking at a devil who has walked out from the depths of hell.
Yet every word this devil speaks carries a fatal temptation.
Witnessing...
Leading...
A magnificent collapse...
Not destruction, but a coronation.
In his murky eyes, deep within the burnt-out ashes, something else has been ignited.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows the time has come.
He pulls a roll of blueprints from the inner pocket of his simple jacket and unfolds them before Adrian.
It is not some obscure piece of art.
It is the complete structural design blueprint of the building in the center of New York City that symbolizes the supreme power of Vought International—Vought Tower.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter's finger taps lightly on the very top of the blueprint, at the location of the office belonging to Lynn Morris.
He looks up, smiling, and says to Adrian in a sacred tone:
"So, are you ready to raise the curtain for your next great performance, my artist?"
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