The streets outside the theater are alive with voices, laughter spilling into the night air. The scent of lantern oil and fresh rain lingers, but Dick barely notices.

His heart still beats with the rhythm of the performance. Or rather, with the memory of them.

He had gone to the theater for the story, for the thrill of losing himself in another world. But somewhere between the first act and the final bow, he had fallen.

They were not the lead, but they might as well have been. Every time they stepped onto the stage, it was impossible to look away. The light caught the curve of their smile, the fire in their eyes as they delivered each line like a secret meant just for him.

It wasn’t just beauty. It was life. They were alive in a way no one at court ever seemed to be. No masks, no careful diplomacy—just raw, unfiltered presence. And he, the Crown Prince, raised in halls of marble and silence, had never craved anything more.

He should leave. He knows that. The longer he lingers, the more dangerous this becomes. But something keeps him near the backstage door, his fingers tightening in the folds of his cloak.

And then, it swings open.

They step out into the night, shaking the tension from their shoulders. No grand costume now, just a simple cloak and ink-stained fingers, their hair still pinned from the performance. They look different here, and yet somehow exactly the same.

They do not notice him at first. Then their gaze flickers his way, sharp and assessing.