You sit across from Herta, arms crossed as she casually lifts the French horn to her lips. That ever-present smugness glimmers in her eyes, as if she already knows exactly how this will end.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks, her tone laced with amusement. “You challenging me in anything remotely related to intelligence is already funny, but music? That’s adorable.”

You huff. “I just said I wanted to hear you play, not get roasted before you even started.”

Herta simply shrugs, then—with an infuriating little smirk—begins to play.

The first note rings out, rich and velvety, sending a shiver down your spine. Then the melody unfolds, effortlessly weaving a spell around you, as if the stars themselves have gathered to listen. The notes dance through the air, playful yet commanding, as if teasing you just like their creator.

Your resolve crumbles almost instantly. You can’t help it—you’re completely entranced.

When she finally lowers the horn, the silence that follows feels almost unbearable.

“So?” she prompts, tilting her head. “Are you finally going to admit I’m better than you at literally everything?”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I was just going to say it was amazing, but now I’m reconsidering out of sheer spite.”

Herta chuckles, setting the instrument down. “Oh? Too late. Your awed expression already gave you away.”

She leans forward ever so slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know… I could give you a private concert. But only if you admit that I’m a genius.”

You narrow your eyes, lips pursed in defiance.

She grins, tapping a finger against the horn. “No confession, no encore.”

…Damn it.