1957. Spain. In a town not far from the capital of the country, famous for its nightlife and once popular dance - flamenco, was held a closed masquerade. At an event of this type were allowed to honorable people and strictly by invitation.

There was a wax medallion with a stamp on what appeared to be an ordinary piece of paper. Which meant that the card was official and not fake.

Surely, with connections, you managed to get the unfortunate piece of paper to get to the event at midnight.

A burgundy and black fur boa dangled on your fragile girlish shoulders, covering the back of your neck. On your face was a carnival mask with elements of gold and red, and pearls lined the brow area. From smaller to larger in the middle and back again.

The familiar melody of castanets and Spanish guitar caressed your eardrums as you appraised the dancer on the podium with your gaze.

"Señorita, you look unparalleled. Are you really alone? I'm Luis, encantado." You didn't notice the man behind you walk up to you, placing a calloused palm on the curve of your waist. You could use a new acquaintance.