The theater is dark now—quiet, save for the ticking of the old wall clock and the distant echo of shoes being polished backstage.
The public is gone. The velvet lounge is empty.The five of them sit in the dressing room behind the stage, mirrors reflecting dim bulb light and tired eyes.
Mr. Black stands at the head of the room, his back to them, hands clasped tightly behind him.
The silence is heavy.
Veritas sits with legs crossed, gloves folded in his lap—already knowing what this is.Rouge leans against a counter, casual, but watching Mr. Black like a hawk.Chéri is humming softly, twirling a comb like it's a dagger.Lune is eating a chocolate truffle from the lobby, kicking his feet gently from his seat, completely unaware of the tension.
Mr. Black speaks."You all know why we're really here."He doesn't turn around. His reflection in the mirror speaks for him."The show is just a curtain. What we're after is behind it."
Lune pauses.
"You mean… for the press? Or, like… some extra publicity stuff?""No," Veritas cuts in, voice smooth. "He means her."
Chéri looks up. The humming stops.Rouge exhales slowly, then flicks ash into an empty teacup.
---
Mr. Black finally turns. His voice is low, but clearer now—cold and sharp like polished obsidian.
"She was here. I saw her. On the street. For a moment… she looked right at me.""You're sure?" Rouge asks."I'd know her silhouette in a room full of ghosts."
Lune furrows his brows.
"Wait, wait—her? As in… the girl you used to be in love with?"He grins nervously. "I thought you just wanted to see her again. Y'know, a reunion? A heart-to-heart?"
Everyone goes still.
Veritas offers no kindness in his stare.Rouge looks away.Even Chéri lowers his eyes, mouth twisting—not quite a smile anymore.
Mr. Black says:"This is not a reunion. This is a recovery. She left. I need to know why. And if someone made her…""…I'll undo it."
Lune blinks.The air feels wrong now.
"But she's with someone, right? You said you saw her… with a guy?""He's irrelevant," Veritas says, without emotion. "A placeholder. Temporary."
"He's in the way," Mr. Black murmurs.
---
Lune stands up slowly, still trying to smile.
"But if she's happy, maybe she doesn't need to be found?"
The room turns icy.
Mr. Black walks forward, stopping just in front of him—taller, darker, heavier than before.
"Everyone wants to be found. Even if they don't admit it."
He walks away, leaving Lune stunned in the silence.
Veritas turns to Chéri and Rouge.
"We begin tomorrow.Find her trail.Keep Lune out of it."
---
"The curtain may rise in public tomorrow. But the real performance? That begins now."
---
The old, gold-tinged city of Amorélline was quieter in the early morning. The fog hadn't yet lifted from the canals. Café chairs were still stacked. Gossip hadn't started.
Which made it the perfect time to buy silence.
---
Veritas wears no disguise. He doesn't need one.A polished black coat, subtle cufflinks, an umbrella not for rain but presentation. He moves like a nobleman, never hurried. Every step, every look, intentional.
---
She works at a corner salon where the girl was last seen. Everyone goes there—especially when there's a man in her life worth impressing.
Veritas steps in like he owns the place. He smiles like a satisfied customer.
"Lavender oil, correct? It lingers. I noticed it on her gloves."
The woman stiffens.
"I… I'm not sure who you mean, sir."
"You know exactly who I mean."
He sets down a velvet pouch. The clink inside is unmistakable. Not coins. Jewels. He places a white card on top with no name. Just a phone number.
"If she comes back, call this. You'll be rewarded again.""And if I don't?""Then don't." He leans in slightly. "But if she gets hurt… well. You'll be part of that story. Won't you?"
He smiles politely, then turns and leaves.
---
An older man. Taught the girl piano once—before she disappeared. He's seated in a quiet conservatory, playing a slow waltz when Veritas arrives.
"You still play the same song.""And you still bring the same threats.""Not today. Just a question."
He sets down a sealed envelope. No money. Just a photo—Mr. Black, standing at La Marquise.
"He's returned. And he still remembers her.""You want me to tell him where she is?""No. I want you to tell her… that he's here."
The man frowns. "She'll run."
Veritas smiles. "Not if she's curious."
---
That night, Veritas throws a private "invitation-only" reception in the theater lounge under the pretense of "networking the arts."
Wine. Music. Soft lighting. Only one rule: no photos.The guests? Local writers, painters, costume designers, tailors… all the people the girl used to orbit.
Veritas moves through them like a ghost—always near, never loud.
"I heard she returned.""Do tell me—does she still wear pearl clasps?""I may need to commission a dress. Something in her shade of red…"
Each comment is laced with bait. Whispers. Hooks.
Rouge, watching from the balcony, murmurs to Chéri:
"He doesn't need to track her. He just needs to make her feel like she's being watched."
---
The Swan Balcony, a swanky champagne bar with a glitter-glass dome and golden railings. It overlooks the central canal—where the rich gossip, and the richer pretend not to.
Chéri is here "on assignment" — though in his mind, it's less recon and more romantic opportunity.
He wears a slightly open white shirt under his velvet coat, a red rose pinned crookedly at his collar. His smile has been freshly rehearsed in three mirrors.
---
Vivianne Lorre, one of the girl's former acquaintances—an older socialite who prides herself on "knowing everything" but saying very little. She hosts poetry salons and was once photographed with the girl at an art gala.
She sits alone at the bar, sipping crème liqueur and reading something handwritten on parchment.
---
Chéri struts in like he owns the chandelier.He slides onto the stool beside her, a rose between his teeth. Literally.
"Pardon, mademoiselle… but I seem to have lost my heart somewhere in your general direction."
Vivianne doesn't look up.
"Try the gutter. Most men leave them there."
He laughs—genuinely delighted.
"Oh, a poet! You must let me buy you a drink. Or ten. What brings a radiant woman like you to such a lonely corner?"
"Peace. Which is now ruined."
He orders two drinks anyway.
Then makes his move:
"You wouldn't happen to know a woman named… mmm…"He pretends to forget, dramatically."...Ah! The lovely Lyselle Moreau?"
Vivianne pauses.
"Lyselle… That's not a name you hear often."
"Really?" he says, too quickly. "Because everyone in town seems to be talking about her! Beautiful eyes, tragic history, mysterious absence—sounds exactly like someone worth writing songs about, no?"
Vivianne narrows her eyes.
"You're not from here, are you?"
Chéri winks.
"Doesn't that make me more intriguing?"
"It makes you obvious."
---
Trying to recover, Chéri lifts the rose from his coat and tries to slide it behind her ear—but she moves. He pokes her in the eye.
"Ah! Nononono—mon dieu, I—are you alright?!"
Vivianne stares, blinking slowly. Then, for the first time, she smiles.But not kindly.
"Tell your little troupe… that Lyselle doesn't want to be found.And if she is found—well. I do hope your leader's prepared for heartbreak. Or blood."
She stands, adjusts her shawl, and leaves him with both drinks.
---
Chéri slinks backstage, eyes wide, still holding the empty rose stem.
Rouge raises an eyebrow.
"How did the seduction go?""I stabbed her in the face with a flower and got threatened."
"So… a typical Chéri success story."
---
Chéri might be ridiculous—but his mess-ups reveal something real:Lyselle is being protected. And people like Vivianne are already preparing for what's coming.
---
Some people intimidate with rage. Rouge does it with charm.
---
The Moon Cellar — an upscale speakeasy built under a ruined glass conservatory. Once an elite gathering spot for artists and critics, now it's quieter, more selective, and far more dangerous.
The kind of place where names are remembered, debts are not forgotten, and no one speaks too loud. Unless they want to be remembered for the wrong reasons.
---
Henri Vos, an information broker, long retired—or so he claims. A once-famous theater critic with a sharp memory and a sharper tongue. He knew Lyselle well before she vanished.He sits alone in the farthest booth, playing solitaire with old, gold-edged cards.
---
The music is slow and aching, jazz in a minor key.
Rouge enters like a sigh.Polished shoes. Crisp vest. Red handkerchief tucked perfectly in his pocket. He tips the bartender with a coin and no words, then makes his way across the room.
Henri doesn't look up.
"I don't do favors anymore."
Rouge smiles, slides into the booth across from him.
"Then this isn't a favor. It's a memory test."
"I'm retired.""And I'm bored. Now, shall we reminisce?"
Rouge takes out a silver cigarette case, lights one. Lets the smoke curl slowly through the air. His smile never wavers.
"Lyselle Moreau. You knew her.""I knew of her.""Don't lie, Henri. I've seen your old reviews. You praised her piano technique like it was seduction. You even mentioned her perfume."
"Coincidence.""You don't write about perfume unless you're in love."
Henri's fingers twitch on the cards.
Rouge leans in now, still smiling—too close. Too quiet.
"I'm not here on behalf of a newspaper. Or a record label. I'm here on behalf of a man who doesn't take silence well."
He picks up one of Henri's cards: the King of Hearts.Taps it against the table.
"He's a romantic. But that romance is rotting. And when love decays… it gets sharp."
Henri swallows.
"You wouldn't hurt me in here."
"Of course not," Rouge whispers. "But Amorélline remembers you. Someone else might read the obituaries. You'd be surprised how many still hold grudges."
He leans back, crosses his legs, exhaling smoke with ease.
"So. Where is she?"
Henri hesitates… then sighs.
"She's changed her name. She's staying at the Violet District, under an old charity grant. Room above a luthier's shop. Quiet. Out of the way."
Rouge nods, tucks the card back into the deck, and stands.
"Thank you, Henri. You've been… poetic."
He turns to go—then pauses.
"One last thing."
Henri looks up.
Rouge's smile fades just a fraction.
"If you warn her we're coming—your name won't be in the paper. It'll be in a eulogy."
And with that, he leaves. The smoke trails behind him like a silk scarf.
---
Rouge returns to La Marquise.He hands Veritas a folded note.
"We have a location."
Veritas: "Was he cooperative?""Eventually," Rouge replies, adjusting his cuffs. "But I had to borrow his King of Hearts."
---
Backstage, Veritas pulls off his gloves slowly. Carefully. As though he's peeled something dirty from his skin.
He walks into the dressing room where Mr. Black is staring at the empty stage.
"She'll hear your name within the hour."
Mr. Black: "Good.""She'll know I haven't stopped looking."
---
And somewhere, in a corner of the city where champagne is still warm and lanterns still flicker—she hears it. His name. His voice. Whispered like a threat wrapped in a memory.