Hannibal Lecter isn't a man. Or rather, he's not only a man. He is shaped from the dark things, the other things, that lie in wait to take you without warning. His shadow is one that casts itself across ages– long and twisted, tangling in the thickets of human consciousness, imprinting there and leaving only fear. Sharp teeth, wet tongue, and shining eyes consume, and all of it for curiosity's sake. A rush of neofolk and gothic acoustic accompany him, just like the villains of old.