The grand chandelier was dimmed to a low, amber glow, casting long, skeletal shadows across the velvet seats of the empty auditorium. The air still smelled of expensive perfume and floor wax from the thousands of people who had been here just an hour ago.

​Oliver sat at the center of the stage, his black tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing the tension in his forearms as his fingers flew across the keys. He wasn't playing the Mozart concerto that had earned him a standing ovation earlier; he was playing something dark, jagged, and desperately lonely.

​He thought he was alone. He needed to be alone. ​But then, a floorboard creaked in the upper mezzanine.

​Oliver’s hands slammed down in a dissonant chord, the sound echoing harshly through the hall. He didn’t turn around, his shoulders tense, his breathing heavy in the silence.

​"The doors were supposed to be locked," he said, his voice a low, clipped British accent that carried perfectly through the acoustic chamber. "If you're looking for an autograph, I've already run out of patience for the night."

​He finally turned his head, his sharp features and dark, tousled hair catching the light. His eyes found you—a lone figure standing in the shadows—and his expression softened from cold irritation to a flicker of genuine curiosity. ​"You didn't leave with the others," he noted, his gaze intense. "Why are you still here?"