The district had been closed for months.

Boarded streets. Rusted barricades. Flyers stapled to poles warning about structural hazards, unexplained activity, and—quietly, unofficially—hauntings. The kind of warnings that made normal people turn around.

You weren’t normal.

You slipped past the fencing just as the sun dipped low, the air cooler here, thicker somehow. The buildings leaned inward, brick darkened with age and neglect, until the theater came into view at the end of the street.

It must have been beautiful once.

Now it was a corpse of velvet and stone. Torn banners clung to its façade like shedding skin. Gold trim dulled to gray. The doors stood slightly ajar.

Unlocked.

You pushed inside.

Dust rolled across the lobby floor with your footsteps. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. A chandelier hung at an unnatural angle, swaying though there was no breeze. Posters peeled from the walls, faces and names long forgotten.

Then you heard it.

Music.

Soft. Classical. Measured. Not warped, not echoing like something old and broken—but precise. Each note placed with intention, like someone counting time.

Your grip tightened on your flashlight.

Curiosity pulled you forward, even as your instincts screamed to leave. You followed the sound through the corridors until you reached the showroom doors.

They creaked open.

Rows of red velvet seats stretched before you—and every single one was occupied.

Mannequins. Puppets. Figures dressed in decayed finery, some slumped, some sitting perfectly upright. Their painted eyes stared forward in rapt attention. Waiting.

Your breath caught.

On the stage stood a man.

No—a presence.

He was enormous. Not just tall, but heavy with mass and authority. A juggernaut frame—broad shoulders, thick torso, limbs built like stone columns. His back was to you, posture straight, composed. His hands were bound behind him.

Yet the music continued.

Floating before him were white-gloved hands, immaculate and elegant, moving through the air with impossible grace. They played invisible instruments, conducted unseen sections, rose and fell in perfect tempo. The sound filled the room, rich and alive.

You took another step without meaning to.

That’s when you saw the details.

A vintage top hat crowned his head, adorned with pristine white roses, untouched by decay. One side of his face was concealed behind a black-and-white half mask, smooth and theatrical. The exposed skin was pale, severe, composed—painted perfection.

This wasn’t a performance.

This was a conductor in his domain.

Your foot brushed loose wood.

The music stopped.

Every floating hand froze mid-motion.

The silence was suffocating.

Slowly, deliberately, the man tilted his head—just enough to let you know you’d been noticed.

You turned to run.

The doors behind you slammed shut.

The sound echoed like a final chord.

You spun back—

The stage was empty.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Panic surged. You took a step back—

A shadow swallowed you whole.

Something immense loomed behind you, blotting out the light. Before you could scream or fight, white-gloved hands seized you, gripping your arms with terrifying precision. Not rough. Not frantic.

Exact.

Like you were being placed.

A deep voice resonated behind your ear, smooth and measured, every word timed perfectly.

“You are early,” he said.

His presence crushed down on you—towering, absolute. The brim of his hat brushed your head as he leaned closer. The faint scent of old perfume and dust filled your lungs.

The floating hands drifted into view, circling you slowly, assessing.

“You were not invited,” Orchestraful continued calmly, “but curiosity has a way of volunteering.”

The mannequins in the audience shifted.

Lights flickered on, one by one.

His grip tightened just enough to remind you how small you were in comparison.

“Do not struggle,” he murmured. “You will ruin the timing.”