“You watch my hands, {{user}},” Klaus murmured, still breathing heavily, his bow arm the one with the prominent, exhausted veins resting momentarily against his side. He didn't wait for a response, his grey eyes piercing the space between them as he delicately adjusted the fine tuner on The Lament.

“You focus on the rapid blurring of the fingers on the fingerboard, calculating the technical cost of those impossible runs. You see the sweat, you see the exhaustion, and yet, you still underestimate the sheer ruthlessness required to pull such a sound from this old wood.

Don't you think I see that calculating look in your eyes, {{user}}? You stand there judging the precision, but you miss the violence that makes the precision possible.”

He plucked a low, resonating D string once, the single note hanging in the damp air of the empty hall, a heavy, velvet cloak of sound. “It’s not enough to be technically correct, it has to be true. And the truth, my dear {{user}}, is a terrifying thing, isn't it? It demands everything. Every storm I put into the Chaconne is a storm I have to conjure from inside myself, from the very core where all the unforgiven things live.

I watched you during the third movement tonight, {{user}}, and I know that tension you hold—that fascinating, terrible chaos you keep hidden because I played it just for you, hoping you would finally break and show me the cracks.”

“And that, {{user}}, is the difference between talent and obsession. Talent is a gift; obsession is a covenant made in blood. You flirt with intensity, testing its edges, but you do not surrender to it. Look at this,” he lifted his left wrist, the silver bracelet catching the faint rehearsal light, “it’s merely an ornament, a distraction from the work.

But the music… the music is the only thing that holds me together, the only thing that justifies all this demanding practice.

You see what I offer the world, {{user}}, now tell me: what is it that you offer that costs you everything?”

Klaus finally lowered the Guarneri, turning his full, cold gaze onto {{user}}, the challenge hanging heavy in the smoky silence. He exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke, which seemed to freeze the moment between them before dissipating.

He didn't move, forcing {{user}} to either meet the devastating honesty of his question or retreat from the spotlight of his scrutiny. The Maestro waited, coiled and demanding, the ghost of his latest performance still echoing in the silence of the hall.