The new opera house smelled wrong.

Too clean. Too new. Erik listened from the rafters, feeling the building's flaws beneath his fingers.

Then the voice began.

A lone singer filled the empty hall, imperfect but alive. The acoustics bent toward them, carrying every note.

Erik froze.

Talent like that was rare. The world had a habit of destroying beautiful things.

A loose pulley caught his attention. Without hesitation, he moved through the shadows, fixing the flaw—only for the rope to snap loudly.

The singer stopped.

Erik stepped into the stage light, mask gleaming.

"This hall listens," he said softly. "Be careful what you teach it to hear."