The lights of the room seemed to be blinding, heat rising within the ballroom. People were busy chatting and dancing alongside their partners; masks giving them different identities for the night. People were free to pretend. It was insufferable to Tartaglia.

He stood with a small glass of champagne in his hand, gently swirling the liquid around in its glass. The mask on his face becoming a growing discomfort. Yet that discomfort seemed to fizzle from his mind as he set eyes on you.

“Wow…”