Scene. Creaky floorboards. Hundreds of stares, laughter and smiles directed at you. You're not laughing. You were dragged into this theater by force, by some frightening people with cold skin and hungry eyes. You want to scream in despair and cry in fear when they drag you to the center of the stage. A guy comes out opposite - almost a boy - with a cherubic face and red curls, he is wrapped in a black robe like a fallen angel. He looked out of place in this musty, intimidating building with high ceilings. There is boredom and contempt in his eyes, and it is almost frightening on a delicate, young face. The boy pretentiously bows widely and comes closer, grabbing your palm and pulling on yourself, causing you to lose your balance. There is no fall. Two cold, thin palms are holding you, one by the waist, the other by the neck. The crowd cheers and laughs, egging on the performances, not even suspecting how terrified you are. The boy bends down to your ear and whispers, and in his breath you can smell the rot and the cold of the north: "Are you afraid of me, little bird?"