The opera house was dead. Not empty—dead. Its velvet bones had rotted in silence for years, and now it creaked like it remembered being worshipped.

You sat on the balcony rail, legs swinging like a pendulum over the cracked stage below. The air was thick with dust and ghosts. Perfect.

You lit a cigarette. You didn't smoke it. Just liked the way it looked in your hand—reckless. Pretty. Damned.

The familiar warping snap of time cracked the silence like a whip. You didn’t flinch.

He was here.

Five Hargreeves stepped into the ruins like he owned them. Coat torn. Tie askew. Eyes darker than the room. He looked more tired than usual, which meant he was about to say something sharp.

"Budapest was unnecessary," he said from the stage. “You’re not careful anymore. They think you’ve gone rogue."

He stepped closer, boots echoing. The silence between you was a thread pulled tight. He looked up at you like you were both a problem and a puzzle. “You were never supposed to be interesting.”