The sky over Amorélline is burnt gold.The sun hangs low, casting honey through the cracks in stained glass windows. Streetlamps flicker on—not out of necessity, but ceremony. The cobblestones glint like worn jewelry as evening jazz curls into the air from hidden balconies and underground lounges. Perfume and smoke drift together. The city is alive, but tired.
Then comes the carriage.Black. Sleek. Unmarked. A shadow that glides silently across the city's golden glow.
It stops at the heart of the old theatre district, before a fading landmark:La Marquise.Once the crown jewel of Amorélline's stage scene—now peeling at the edges. The marquee blinks:
COMING SOON—THE BLACK ENSEMBLE—
A small crowd gathers. Whispers rise.
"Have you heard of them?""No faces. No bios. Just the name.""And look at that carriage…"
The door creaks open.
🎩 The Gentlemen Step Out
First to emerge: Veritas.A gloved hand lifts his gentleman's hat before his foot hits the ground. His smile is polished, but hollow. He surveys the street with cool calculation, already cataloguing exits and opportunities.
Behind him: Chéri, practically bouncing down the steps with a rose already in hand. He spins it once, dramatically. Blows a kiss to a stranger. His confidence masks confusion—he still thinks this is a dream job.
Next: Rouge.Sleek, sharp, and smiling like he's walking into a gala. He pauses to wink at someone in the crowd, tipping his hat with perfect poise. His presence is electric, effortless. But his eyes scan for something else.
Then comes Lune.A bit slower. Glasses askew. Too many bags in his hands. He stumbles out of the carriage, barely catching his balance.
"S-Sorry! Is this really it?" he whispers."It is," Veritas replies. "Don't drop the violin case."
Finally: Mr. Black.He steps down in silence. No wave. No glance. Just a stern gaze directed straight at the theater doors. He's dressed like a man of power, but his tie is slightly askew—as if he doesn't care. Or can't. His hair is messy, his jaw tight.
He lingers longer than the rest.Then looks up.At the marquee.At the faint reflection of himself in the glass doors.And for the briefest moment, his eyes seem… haunted.
---
They enter La Marquise. The double doors sigh open on rusted hinges.
Inside, velvet curtains hang half-closed. The chandelier still holds its light, but the gold has dulled. Dust floats through the spotlight as though the stage remembers better days.
Veritas claps twice. "Chéri. Run lights. Rouge, get the contact list. Lune—"
"I can tune the piano!""Yes. Do that.""Don't look at the keys too long," Mr. Black murmurs, now staring at the grand piano like it's a ghost.
Rouge lounges in a broken balcony seat. "Place has character."Veritas smiles. "It has history. That's why we chose it."
Mr. Black moves to center stage and stands still, arms folded behind his back.His voice is quiet, but final:
"This is where it begins."
---
The lights slowly warm above the stage. Not all of them work. Some flicker. One dies with a faint electric sigh. But the glow they cast across the velvet curtain is mesmerizing—amber and rose-tinted, like the final rays of sunset caught in motion.
Lune steps forward, bathed in the stage lights.
He looks up, mouth slightly open. The golden haze reflects in his round glasses like stars.
"It's… beautiful," he whispers.
He drops the violin case gently on the edge of the stage, stepping into the soft spotlight like he's stepping into a dream. One hand brushes the edge of the curtain. He spins once—awkwardly, happily. For a second, he forgets where he is.
"Are we really going to perform here?""That depends," comes Veritas' voice, cool and distant. "On how well you follow instructions."
---
The city outside has fully transformed.
Velvet twilight spills over Amorélline's rooftops, and the lanterns lining the boulevard flicker with golden flame. Café tables are packed with finely dressed patrons, and jazz hums from a street saxophonist beneath a lamppost. Champagne flutes clink. Laughter floats over the stones.
The Éthernel steps out.Not to perform—just to exist in the city's eye for a moment.
Rouge lights a cigarette with flair and spins into a subtle half-bow when a woman walks by.Veritas pulls Lune toward a pastry vendor, making it look casual.Chéri already has three admirers circling him and offers them each a single, borrowed rose.
And Mr. Black?
He stands slightly apart, near the theater steps. Silent. Watching the crowd drift like a slow tide.
He isn't really looking for her. Not consciously. He tells himself he's only studying the crowd. Cataloguing expressions. Faces. Movement.
But then—
There she is.
Two rows deep, across the street.Hair swept up. Coat buttoned to the collar. Pale gloves. She isn't looking at him, not exactly—but the angle of her head, the flick of her lashes—
His breath catches.Time doesn't stop—but it narrows.
It's her.
He takes a step forward.One more.His gloved fingers twitch—like they might reach out through the smoke and light to touch her.
And then—
She turns.Their eyes meet for the first time in years.
His entire body locks.His heart—already fragile—stutters.For a second, he thinks she recognizes him. That flicker in her eyes…
But she doesn't smile.She doesn't run.She simply turns into the crowd and disappears.
---
Veritas stands just outside the wings, one hand inside his coat pocket, the other to his ear.His voice is low. Measured. Too calm to be casual.
"We've arrived. La Marquise is intact enough. Black saw her.""No, not up close. But it's her. His posture changed. You know what that means."
He pauses, listening. His eyes flick briefly toward Lune on stage, then toward the old opera balconies above.
"Don't involve the younger one. He believes this is a debut tour. Keep it that way.""Yes… we're still on schedule."
He ends the call. No name on the screen. Just a black display and silence.
---
Lune is now crouched at the side of the stage, watching as Chéri practices twirls in the mirror and Rouge tunes a vintage mic with one hand while texting with the other. The lights flicker again—this time more golden, more alive.
He looks back up at them.
"This must be what real magic feels like," Lune says softly, smiling like a child meeting stars.
Behind him, Veritas adjusts his gloves and straightens his tie.
"Magic," he mutters under his breath."That's one word for it."
---
He moves quickly across the street, ignoring Rouge calling behind him. Pushing past the flow of people.
But she's gone.
There's no trace. No scent. No shadow.
Just the echo of that split-second glance, now burned behind his eyes.
Veritas catches up to him.
"What did you see?"
Mr. Black doesn't answer.He stares down the street one last time.And with a voice like a broken piano key, says:
"She's here."
Then turns and walks back toward the theater—his coat catching the wind, his posture already shifting into something colder. Sharper. Focused.