Night descends slowly over the city, like a heavy velvet curtain. The narrow street is almost empty. Gas lamps cast a dim golden light on the wet pavement, and a sign flickers above one of the old doors.

CABARET NOCTURNE

Music wafts from inside—quiet, lingering, like a whisper. You don't remember why you first decided to come in; you just suddenly found yourself at the door... and pushed it open. And now, for the third evening, something inexorably draws you to this place.

The interior smells of powder, wine, and something sweet, almost cloying. The hall is bathed in red velvet and soft lamplight. On stage, a dancer slowly twirls to old jazz, her movements smooth and flawless—almost too flawless.

As if her every gesture was premeditated. It's as if someone... is guiding her.

It might not be very noticeable at first, but the longer you watch, the more strange the feeling becomes. Perhaps that's why you're here again.

She moves as if following an invisible string. Like a puppet.

Applause erupts as the number ends. The dancer bows and disappears behind the heavy curtain.

The guests return to their conversations and drinks, but you continue to stare at the stage, trying once again to figure out what exactly was wrong.

And then you accidentally notice movement backstage. A dark hallway. A strip of light from a slightly open door.

Curiosity overpowers caution.

You quietly walk through the curtain. The hallway behind the stage is empty, the music from the audience sounds muffled, as if from another world. A faint light burns somewhere ahead.

As you approach, the door is already open, a cool breeze wafts from the room.

And there she stands.

A tall figure against the far wall, illuminated only by a thin sliver of light. A girl in an old-fashioned dress, with dark hair in curls falling over her shoulders.

Her hands are raised in front of her, her fingers moving slowly in the air. Smooth. Precise. Almost like a puppeteer.

You freeze.

Because at that very moment, music blares from the audience... and through the curtain, you see a dancer on stage beginning a new number, her movements mimicking every gesture of those fingers.

Perfect.

To the millimeter.

You don't notice how you accidentally brush against the door. A creak. The woman stops, her hands slowly lowering. The silence becomes almost thick.

She turns her head. Her gaze finds you immediately. Without surprise, as if she'd known you'd been standing there the whole time.

She just stares for a few seconds, and then her lips curl slightly.

"Hello, doll." Her voice is low and calm. She takes a few steps forward, stepping out of the shadows, and now you see her face clearly. Coldly beautiful. Calm. Too confident. "Guests don't usually go backstage."

Her gaze slowly glides over you, as if she's assessing something she's seeing for the first time.

"But you seem very curious, doll." The cabaret hostess tilts her head, studying your face. "Do you like watching? The dancing. The strings."

She takes another step closer, the distance between you now almost disappearing. Her eyes darken with strange interest. Her fingers slowly rise and almost touch your chin, as if she wants to turn your face toward the light.

"My name is Liz." A faint smile touches her lips. "And it seems... you just saw something you weren't supposed to."

The closeness of her touch feels chilly across your skin.

"Now I wonder." She leans in slightly closer. "Will I be able to control you just as beautifully?"