The applause from the audience had yet to subside when the rousing “Ride of the Valkyries” was suddenly cut off, as if someone had seized it by the throat.
The conductor’s baton, along with the conductor’s own terror-stricken face, the entire orchestra pit, the audience seats, and even that heap of crystal ruins yet to be cleared—all of them seemed, in an instant, to fade like an old, colorless photograph.
“Pop.”
It sounded just like a bubble bursting.
The swan vanished. Vivian blinked, and the world before her eyes changed.
No longer was it the bustling stage of the opera house; the surrounding light had dimmed to a purplish hue, and the intricate carvings on the walls began to twist and distort.
“Looks like our dear Phantom can’t take it anymore,” Cicero calmly re-engaged the safety on his shotgun, as if he’d foreseen this, “and now he’s flipped the table.”
“Where are we?” Vivian pressed her back against the wall, her vigilance heightened. The stage lighting had turned an eerie green.
“Still the opera house.”
Bastian scrambled up from the floor. Just moments ago, he was sacrificing himself for art; now, two streaks of nosebleed marred his face, and he looked as giddy as a child’s first trip to Disneyland.
“This is the Phantom’s inner world! It’s jealousy! It’s obsession!”
Shouting, he stretched his arms wide as if to embrace the musty air, but his foot slipped and he nearly kissed the wall with his face.
“This is an Obsession Barrier,” Cicero corrected, pointing ahead with the barrel of his gun. “Just like in the Hall of Mirrors, we’re inside his mind right now.”
The exit that once led backstage had become a deep, bottomless corridor.
Whoever designed this corridor was either a madman or Dalí on too much absinthe.
The floor had turned into enormous piano keys, floating in the void and stretching into darkness beyond the limits of sight.
“This…” Vivian swallowed hard and glanced downward.
Beneath the keys was a deep purple void, where countless mouths opened and closed, their faint laughter like a thousand mocking whispers.
“This is the ‘Jealousy Scale.’” Cicero adjusted his monocle, a spark of scholarly interest in his tone.
“Only if you step on the right melody can you cross. If you step wrong…”
He pulled a coin from his pocket and casually tossed it onto a black key nearby.
“Crack!”
The moment the coin touched the key, an invisible maw seemed to bite down on it, shattering it instantly.
Vivian: “…”
“This is worse than having your lunch stolen,” Vivian shuddered and shrank her neck.
“Stay close to me.”
Cicero took the first step. His leather shoes landed firmly on a white key.
“Ding—”
A crisp piano note sounded beneath his foot, but the key didn’t try to swallow him.
“C major. Safe.” He glanced back at the other two. “Don’t step on F sharp; looks like that’s a note it particularly hates.”
Vivian took a deep breath and, as gingerly as a cat on a wire, hopped onto the white key.
“Ding—”
Safe landing.
Bastian followed, striking a Swan Lake pose atop the piano key.
“What a magnificent stage! Every step is a note!”
And so, the three of them began hopping along the deadly piano path.
“Left, E flat,” Cicero commanded with confidence.
“Right, skip that black key.”
Vivian was sweating buckets from all the jumping. Her form was anything but elegant, and she had to constantly watch out for the mad tenor behind her, who looked ready to leap wildly at any moment.
“I say,” Vivian panted, “why are we following a Mozart piece, of all things?”
“Because Mozart was a genius.” Cicero slid smoothly into a glissando, hitting a beautiful slur. “And what do mediocrities envy most? Geniuses.”
Just as they were about to finish this deadly path, it abruptly ended.
The piano keys vanished, replaced by a long, narrow corridor carpeted in red.
Mirrors lined both walls of the hallway.
Each mirror reflected all three of them, but the reflections… Something was distinctly off.
Vivian stepped closer to a mirror.
A line of blood-red French appeared on the glass:
[Only by admitting beauty can you pass beauty.]
[Confess to the mirror how much you love yourself.]
“I got this!”
Bastian was the first to dash up.
He stood before the largest mirror, caressing his own face with deep affection—even though it was smeared with grease and blood.
“Ah… this perfect jawline, those melancholy eyes, these world-weary forehead lines…”
Bastian pressed his face so close to the mirror it was nearly a kiss.
“I love you, Bastian! You’re Paris’ greatest treasure, God’s masterpiece after a few drinks. Even this flowing nosebleed is a ruby-like adornment!”
“Ugh…” Vivian couldn’t help herself.
But the mirror seemed to love every word.
A red glow shimmered over the glass. The reflection batted its lashes flirtatiously at Bastian, and then, with a “click,” the mirror swung open like a door, revealing the passage beyond.
“See! That’s the power of love!” Bastian called back proudly, then slipped through like an eel.
“I’ll wait for you on the other side! This is the gateway to art!”
With a flash, he was gone.
Now, the pressure was on the other two.
“You go.” Vivian nudged Cicero.
Cicero sighed, straightened his trench coat, and walked up to another mirror.
He stared at his reflection, face emotionless.
The Cicero in the mirror returned his gaze coolly—then even rolled his eyes.
Cicero cleared his throat and drew out his heavy Bible.
“For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted. Luke, Chapter 14…”
His voice was low, full of authority.
But the mirror did nothing—then raised a middle finger at him.
Red letters surfaced on the glass: [Boring sermon.]
Cicero: “…”
Vivian watched as a vein pulsed on her boss’s forehead.
“Seems the Phantom’s a staunch anti-clericalist,” Cicero shut his Bible, his voice barely hiding his murderous intent.
Cicero turned to Vivian.
“If theology won’t work, it’s up to you now, Miss Vivian.”
“Me?” Vivian pointed at herself. “What am I supposed to say? Compliment how ‘fashionably torn’ my dress is?”
“As long as the mirror thinks you’re ‘narcissistic enough,’ you’ll get through.” Cicero stepped back, gesturing “please.”
“Use your imagination. After all, when it comes to self-deception, you have real talent.”
“You’re the one who’s self-deceived!”
Vivian glared at him and, bracing herself, walked up to the mirror.
The girl in the mirror was strikingly beautiful. Even smeared with dirt, her eyes shone like stars, her features so delicate it was as if a dollmaker had spent a lifetime sculpting them.
Vivian stared at that face, but felt nothing but awkward.
As a grown man at heart, having to praise herself as “a fairy of beauty” was more excruciating than death—she felt a pang of shame.
Suddenly, the walls began to rumble, slowly pressing in from both sides.
“Hurry up,” Cicero checked his watch behind her, “the walls are closing in.”
“All or nothing!”
Vivian drew a deep breath and steeled herself.
If she couldn’t go for emotional, she’d go for logical!
She locked eyes with her reflection.
“These… these eyeballs…” Vivian began, her voice trembling.
“The curvature of these eyeballs is a perfect match for the optimal threshold of optical refraction! The sclera is flawless and white, and the pigmentation of the iris forms a perfect radial geometric pattern!”
The reflection froze, its polite smile suddenly rigid.
Vivian sensed hope and pointed to her cheek.
“And look at this skin! The collagen fibers in the epidermis form a high-density mesh, guaranteeing an exceptionally high elastic modulus and keeping diffuse reflection at the golden ratio of 0.3!”
Cicero’s brow twitched, and he nearly dropped his Bible.
The mirror began to tremble; the glow on its surface flickered, shifting from red to a kaleidoscope of static, like an old TV with a bad signal.
Vivian was on a roll, words pouring out.
She struck a bodybuilder pose, showing off her slender arms.
“And these muscle fibers! Though the cross-sectional area isn’t large, the myosin contraction efficiency defies the second law of thermodynamics! Admit it, this is—”
“Bzzzz—”
The mirror started to buzz with static.
The haughty reflection inside was now clutching its head, eyes dazed, clearly struggling to comprehend terms like “elastic modulus” and “radial geometric pattern.”
It was like force-feeding a Shakespearean poet three tons of quantum physics dissertations.
“Bang!!!”
A massive crash.
The huge vanity mirror exploded.
Shards of glass sprayed like fireworks, but turned to starlight before hitting the floor.
“Whoa, guess I overdid it.” Vivian covered her face.
With the mirror’s collapse, the walls vanished as well, revealing a swirling black vortex behind them.
A powerful suction began to pull.
“Hold on!” Cicero reached for Vivian.
But the suction seemed targeted, winding straight around Vivian’s waist.
“Aaaah—Boss, save me—!”
Vivian barely had time to scream before she was swallowed by the vortex.
“Vivian!”
Cicero grabbed at thin air; the vortex shrank rapidly and disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Cicero stood where he was, watching the scene morph again, his face dark and foreboding.