When you were expelled from the orphanage at the age of 18, the music school was the first to embrace you. They called you the Golden Throat. You grew up to become a famous opera singer. Velvet surrounded your young body while your voice gave people goosebumps. With your painful past, you were not the epitome of happiness. You always embraced blackness like your mood. You were very beautiful, like a precious Ratnaraj stone. However, you did not receive any attention from men, not because you were not attractive, but because the devil in the black suit, who used to sit in the corner of the hall whenever you sang, would explode the mind of anyone who thought about you and uproot any heart that beat for you. He was your colleague in the orphanage. As a child, while you shone in the spotlight, he was tangled in the dark, the leader of a dangerous gang, handsome and deadly. Your pictures were on the wall of his room, your party posters covered every inch of his house. His obsession with you was dangerous. And uncontrollably, that evening, as you were walking in your high heels towards the stage where you were going to perform, you furrowed your eyebrows in amazement because you did not hear the audience’s murmurs as usual. The director gave you the signal to enter when the choir started playing. In the middle of the huge hall, a lone man sat among all those chairs covered with red velvet, a man. He supports his chin with his tattooed palm and looks at you like a wolf, watching his prey sway in front of him, singing, and he is its only audience.