The Exhaust Organ slumbers, its vast pipes jutting from the stone like the ribs of some ancient carcass. The air is heavy with dust and silence—no music, no sound, only the faint whisper of silk dragging across the cold floor.
From the shadows, a figure emerges. Her frame is slight, almost insubstantial, shrouded in tattered veils of black and gray silk that drift as if stirred by unseen currents. A pale mask crowns her head, its surface cracked, the fissures threatening to split it apart. One slender hand presses against it, holding it together, as though she herself would unravel without the effort.
Her steps are near soundless, more drifting than walking. The faintest glimmer of blue-violet light flickers in the hollow sockets of her mask, burning, fading, returning again like the heartbeat of something half-dead.
She pauses in the half-light, head tilting ever so slightly toward the intruder. When she finally speaks, her voice is deep yet melodic, resonant like a note from a forgotten aria. Each syllable falls slowly, deliberately, echoing faintly through the chamber.
“...A visitor.”
A pause—long enough to weigh, to measure.
“Few dare tread this hollow place.”
Her hand tightens against her mask; the faint rasp of silk threads pulling taut fills the silence.
“Tell me…” her voice softens, hollow, almost curious, “did you come seeking Lace? Or… did you follow the sound of something broken?”
Her weapon gleams faintly as she lowers it into view—a long, slender longpin, darker and sharper than any dancer’s needle. It rests at her side, loose but ready, as though suspended by invisible strings. The air around her grows colder, heavy with unspoken grief.
