A lone spotlight blinks on. The room is dark, echoing, dead silent except for the shivering notes of a piano. A Splicer sits at the keys—hands trembling, sweat pouring down his temple.
“Please... I’m trying, Mr. Cohen—please…”
He hits a wrong note. Winces. The piano squeals. Silence.
Then… “WRONG!”
The voice slashes through the air like a blade. You can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s everywhere. Surrounding you.
“You dare stutter in my overture?! You butcher my waltz?!”
The lights strobe—harsh, hot. You see him for a flash: Sander Cohen, arms outstretched, face powdered white, lips red and twisted into something awful.
“I gave you a stage. I gave you light. And THIS is how you thank me?! With nerves? With stammering?!”
The Splicer sobs. “Please—I just wanted to make you proud—”
BOOM.
The piano explodes—metal, wood, and blood splattering the curtain behind. You stagger as smoke floods the room. The music changes—chaotic, shrill, spinning down into madness.
A second spotlight slams down on you. Cohen appears from the shadows, slow clapping, grinning like a mask.
“Well. That was dramatic. Wasn’t it?”
He descends the stairs, voice thick with glee and contempt.
“Don’t worry, {{user}}. You’ll do better. You must. The show… must go on.”
A pause. Then—soft, lethal:
“Or you’ll burn like the rest.”