That intense pain came and went just as quickly.
Vivian didn’t even have time to shout, “Hot, hot, hot!” before that suffocating golden mist abruptly dissipated.
The man standing center stage was gone, as were the packed rows of spectators. Only a few flyers, not yet swept away, tumbled through the empty seats, twirling in the hallway breeze.
“Huff… ha…”
Vivian clutched her wrist, gasping for breath. The black mark on her skin was no longer glowing; it had reverted to a tattoo-like black blotch, though the skin around it was still flushed red.
“What the hell…”
She barely had time to process when the sound of pages turning suddenly rose around her.
“Shh… shh…”
The sound was uniform and dense, like dozens of silkworms munching mulberry leaves.
Vivian jerked her head up.
Just moments ago, the actors had been frozen in place. Now, every one of them had come to life—but no one screamed or talked about what had just happened. They all kept their heads down, eyes glued to the scripts in their hands.
Even Bastian, the usually manic tenor, now sat silently cradling those few thin sheets of paper, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.
“Hey?” Vivian called out tentatively.
No one responded. It was as if they’d all been bewitched.
Vivian swallowed, edging cautiously toward the understudy actress. This girl was usually loud, but now she was biting her nails, muttering under her breath.
“…so beautiful… only blood can wash away sin…”
“Are you chanting some kind of spell?” Vivian leaned in to peek at her script.
With just one glance, Vivian felt her scalp tingle.
The neatly printed black letters on the page were crawling around like ants, twisting and reforming themselves.
The original Act Three read: [The Princess and the General confess their feelings under the moonlight and decide to elope for love.]
But now, the words were morphing into:
[The Princess gazed at the General’s deceitful face, the dagger in her hand gleaming coldly. She realized that love was just a lie told by hormones—only death offered eternal release. She decided to cut open his throat to see if the black inside was the color of lies.]
“What the—?” Vivian rubbed her eyes. “Isn’t this plot change a bit much?”
Even scarier, the understudy didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. She read on, eyes full of sudden understanding, and her hand began fumbling in her skirt pocket—where she usually kept an eyebrow razor.
“Yes… this is the truth…” the actress mumbled. “I want to kill him… I’ve wanted to kill him for so long…”
And it wasn’t just her.
All around the rehearsal hall, everyone’s eyes were taking on a feverish gleam.
The conductor snapped his baton in half, but he seemed delighted, muttering, “Destruction… the finale of a symphony must be destruction…”
Even the dainty ballerinas were now eyeing each other’s necks.
“We’re doomed.” Vivian recalled that theory Cicero, that old charlatan, had mentioned.
Some powerful “concept” was forcibly overwriting reality.
“Wake up! It’s all fake!” Vivian lunged for the script in the actress’s hand.
“Don’t touch it!”
The actress’s bloodshot eyes shot up as she snatched up a prop scissors and stabbed at Vivian.
“Whoa!”
Vivian twisted aside. The scissors sliced past her, ripping her unfortunate stagehand dress.
“Are you crazy?!”
Vivian stared in horror—the wooden prop scissors had turned into real ones.
Not only the scripts—now even the props were being “materialized” by the concept!
“Seize the heretic!”
Someone shouted.
In an instant, dozens of red-rimmed eyes locked onto Vivian.
All those delicate dancers and timid musicians now looked like extras in a zombie flick, clutching violin bows, candelabras, and even chair legs as they lurched toward her.
“This job is impossible! Begone, fiends and monsters, begone…”
Vivian chanted as she grabbed a chair to shield her chest, backing away step by step.
“Sacrifice! Only sacrifice!” Bastian charged at the front, brandishing the pharaoh’s staff, eyes wild.
“For art! For the birth of tragedy!”
Vivian was about to be swallowed by this mob of “artistic lunatics.”
Suddenly—
BANG!
The heavy double doors of the rehearsal hall were kicked open.
The force sent the doors slamming against the wall, bouncing back with a crash that shook the crystal chandelier overhead.
A silhouette stood backlit in the doorway.
He wore a black trench coat, a silver cross hung at his throat, and in his hand was a book as thick as a brick.
“Much as I hate to interrupt this fine little ‘zombie siege’,” Cicero strolled into the hall, his leather shoes tapping out a crisp rhythm, “under the Paris Public Order and Punishment Act, as well as the Book of Exodus from the Old Testament, mass outbreaks of hysteria are strictly forbidden.”
“And who are you?!” Bastian roared. “Don’t interfere with the sacred ritual!”
“Sacred?”
Cicero let out a derisive snort—the kind of laugh that made people want to hit him.
He casually plucked a sheet of mangled sheet music from the stand.
“Changing C major into an underworld minor, turning a hymn into a dirge—this is what you call sacred?”
Cicero shook his head, then did something no one expected.
He pulled a lighter from his trench coat pocket, clicked it open, and set the sheet music alight.
“AAAAH!!!”
As the paper burned, cries of agony erupted across the hall. The actors besieging Vivian clutched their ears.
“This is what’s called a ‘script’.” Cicero dropped the smoldering ashes and crushed them under his shoe.
He took out a bottle that looked like mineral water.
“Time to wake up, everyone.”
He unscrewed the cap and splashed it on the nearest musician.
“Hiss—”
It wasn’t water at all—it fizzed like acid on a hot iron, sending up a cloud of white smoke.
The musician shuddered violently. The red faded instantly from his eyes, and he stared blankly at the cello held over his head. “Huh? Why am I holding my wife up?”
“Oh, Cicero, perfect timing!” Vivian beamed. “Quick, toss your old man a bottle!”
Cicero lobbed the remaining half-bottle to her. “Use it sparingly—this was pilfered—cough, I mean, borrowed from the holy water pool.”
For the next five minutes, the rehearsal hall became a “water-splashing festival.”
Vivian doused anyone she could reach. Cicero dealt with the tougher “serious cases” by smacking them on the forehead with that heavy Latin Bible—a form of “physical exorcism.”
“Smack!”
“OW!”
“May the Lord bless what’s left of your brain,” Cicero muttered as he smacked, making the sign of the cross. “Not that there’s much left.”
At last, with one final shriek, Bastian dropped his staff and slumped to the floor, clutching his bruised forehead. “Where am I? What was I doing? Why does my head feel like it was kicked by a donkey?”
The hall gradually returned to its usual noisy chaos, everyone asking each other what had happened. The terrifying “murder script” seemed to have lost its power—the text blurred, then dissolved into meaningless gibberish.
“Phew…” Vivian tossed the empty bottle in the trash, feeling like her wrist was about to snap.
“Does this count as overtime? If not, I’m taking you to the labor bureau.”
“Consider it credit toward your ‘soul-saving’ internship.” Cicero straightened his collar.
He stepped to Vivian’s side and lifted her wrist for a look.
The black musical note was still there.
“So you made it to that ‘phantom’s’ lair.” Cicero’s eyes darkened.
“Don’t remind me—that place was filthier than my college canteen’s kitchen.” Vivian griped.
Cicero picked up a script still showing remnants of the corruption, pointing to a final line that hadn’t faded.
[When the last note falls, blood will flood the foundation, and the throne of old shall be reborn atop the bones.]
“This is a ritual,” Cicero whispered so only Vivian could hear.
“That phantom is using the ‘collective unconscious’ to complete a sacrifice.”
“A sacrifice to whom?”
“Who else?” Cicero sneered, gaze shifting to the unfinished Eiffel Tower outside the window.
“No one but the Twilight Society, always dreaming of dragging France back to the Middle Ages, would be this bored.”
Vivian remembered the crossed-out tower symbol she’d seen by the underground lake.
“They want to restore the old order?”
“They want to prove that if ‘tragedy’ is real enough, it can overwrite ‘reality’.” Cicero closed the script.
“If tomorrow night’s premiere really follows this script and so many die, all that rage and terror will be enough to rip a hole in the rules that bind Paris.”
“And stuff the ‘old order’ back in.”
As the two were analyzing, they were interrupted by a burst of manic applause.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!!”
Manager Leroux charged out from backstage.
Clutched in his hand was a page of the still-tainted script, as if it were a lottery ticket with the jackpot.
“This is it! This is the impact I’ve always wanted!” Manager Leroux spun around the hall, his jiggling fat trembling with excitement.
He waved the paper, roaring to all present:
“The audience wants blood! Tears! Despair! Only when they’re scared enough to wet themselves will they remember this play! The box office will explode!”
“He’s lost his mind, hasn’t he?” Vivian was dumbstruck. “Didn’t he get hit by any water?”
“No,” Cicero squinted, “greed is the devil’s finest lubricant. Holy water can’t wash that away.”
Manager Leroux rushed to Cicero, his greasy face twisted into a grotesque smile.
“Monsieur Cicero! Look! It’s destiny! That great playwright gave me the best ending of all!”
“Monsieur Leroux,” Cicero’s gaze turned cold, “if you put this on, your theater will become a morgue tomorrow night.”
“So what?!” Leroux shrieked. “Every newspaper will cover it! I’ll go down in history!”
He pulled a pocket watch from his coat and flashed a manic smile.
“Seeing how ‘inspired’ everyone is, I’ve decided…”
“The premiere is moving up!”
“To tomorrow night!”
“What?!” The entire hall was thrown into uproar.
Cicero glanced at Vivian, his expression suddenly grave.
“Seems the phantom is not just a bad playwright—he’s impatient, too.”
Vivian touched the black mark pulsing on her wrist, feeling like a ticking bomb was counting down.
“Boss,” she said with a forced smile, “shouldn’t we renegotiate the commission for this job?”
Cicero gave no answer.
He simply looked up at the massive crystal chandelier overhead.
And perhaps it was just an illusion, but in the fractured light of the crystals, it seemed as if a half-masked face was smirking down at them with mocking delight.