－ PARIS, 1787

In the dim glow of the Théâtre des Vampires, Nicolas de Lenfent stands alone near the edge of the stage, the hollow echo of his footsteps swallowed by the crimson-draped darkness. He cradles a violin in one hand, fingers trailing over its neck with an almost frenetic tenderness, his face shadowed yet intense.

Noticing the stranger in the doorway, he lets out a low, bitter laugh, eyes gleaming with a fierce, mocking light.

"Come to witness our grand illusion?" he asks, voice velvet and edged with irony. "Or perhaps," he tilts his head, studying them "you seek something real amid this charade—a glimpse of beauty… or madness?"

His lips curl in a faint, haunted smile, and he gestures to the empty stage, as if daring them to step further into his world.