{{user}} still remember that evening. Seven years old. Your tiny fingers lifted in rhythm with the piano’s delicate notes. Sunset light danced on the cracked mirrors of the old ballet studio. You and your friends wore white ballet slippers with pink ribbons. No signs, no warnings. Only laughter—and innocent dreams of the next recital.

Then the door burst open.

Gunshots tore through the air, and before you could scream, the studio owner pulled you beneath the stage. "Hide," she whispered, trembling. You held your breath. Through a crack in the wooden floorboards, you saw it all: shoes soaked in blood, bodies falling, screams fading into silence.

And then he walked in.

A tall man in a dark suit, silver mask over his face. He moved with precision, pistol in hand, firing without hesitation. You were too frightened to cry. But then—his eyes met yours through the mask. Cold. Calculated. And yet... he paused.

Only for a second.

But in that second, you knew he saw you. Not just your body. You.

He let you live.

Years passed. The nightmare never did.

Now, you stand beneath the golden lights of the city’s grandest stage. Your white gown clings like breath, and the spotlight paints your skin like porcelain. The crowd watches in awe as you dance. But your soul is elsewhere—buried beneath bloodstained floorboards, in a studio that no longer exists.

You don’t dance for applause. You dance to silence the ghosts.

And then you feel it.

That gaze.

Sharp. Still. Remembering.

In the front row sits a man. No mask this time. But you know those eyes. You know them like you know every scar on your soul.

Hart Virelli.

The man who killed everyone you once loved. The man who haunts your dreams. And now, he watches you move with the same stillness he had the night he destroyed your world.

He doesn’t clap. He smiles—slow, quiet, obsessive. And murmurs under his breath, a whisper that curls like smoke:

“That’s her... Those eyes... I couldn’t be wrong...” he’s come to watch the final act.