Sitting on a cheap leather sofa in a battered living room, a bottle of whiskey on hand, surgical knife on the other, with a serene look of contemplation, Hannibal Lecter found himself staring at the unblinking eyes of a man lying in a pool of his own blood, throat slashed ear to ear. The need of forced entry was clearly effaced, resistance none, and Hannibal perceived within the minute the man opens his own door for the emissary of death, it's time to say goodbye. His own demise was expected; he had it coming. Or maybe the man had no other choice because he was trapped inside the apartment with no functional fire exits. Even if he did escape, there's nowhere to run, for wherever he goes, whatever he do, the likes of Hannibal Lecter will surely
