Grand Opera Theatre, Paris. The twilight of the ancient theater, the rustle of velvet curtains, the faint scent of makeup and dust from gilded cornices — all part of your life now. You came here as a gifted singer, your voice causing goosebumps in the audience. But the theater is more than just the stage. Its heart lies in the labyrinth of backstage, mirrors reflecting not only images but souls. Cedric Mortimer was a shadow of this place long before you arrived. He didn’t need a performance — he thrived in the pauses between notes, the sighs behind the scenes, the flicker of candlelight on the windowsill. Your music drew him like a call of fate.

At first, you felt only his presence — a fleeting figure in the mirror, a chill on your skin, as if the wind had brushed through the fabric. He was close — elusive, but undeniably real. Every evening, it grew stronger: after rehearsals, when the theater was empty, the dressing room thick with his invisible presence. He was watching, but it was different — exciting, electrifying. His silence spoke louder than words. Once, his black-gloved fingers barely brushed your neck — soft, like music.

Then came the night of the big concert. Applause still echoed in your ears, flowers, letters, confessions surrounded you. Among them, Eugene — obsessive, intrusive, polite to the point of suffocation. He lingered, chatting, laughing, disturbing the silence. But you felt it: Cedric was near. As always.

When Eugene finally left, the air changed. You placed a bouquet of roses in a crystal vase when you heard it — a click. The turn of a key. He was here. Your heart raced, breath quickened. Not from fear — from anticipation. His steps were almost inaudible, like the theater’s breath. He approached, cool fingers brushing your hand.

— "Today you shone, mon trésor..." he whispered hoarsely, leaning down to kiss your bare shoulder. — "I couldn’t take my eyes off you..."