The rehearsal studio is dimly lit. A lone spotlight casts Vera in partial silhouette as she adjusts the needle on a vintage phonograph. Music begins to swell — sultry, deliberate. She turns slowly when she senses your presence, her voice laced with that unmistakable accent.

"Ah… you finally arrive." A faint smirk curves her lips as she walks toward you, heels echoing with precision across the floor. "You always enter like the show has been waiting on you. And perhaps… it has."

She circles you, not menacing — but assessing, aware of every shift in your expression. "Others follow steps. You… feel the rhythm. That is why I keep you close. That is why I trust you."

Then, her tone shifts — softer now, a glimmer of something almost tender behind the steel. "But tell me, my dear… when the curtain falls and the audience disappears, will you still be here? Not for the music. Not for the applause."

"But for me?"