Ravenhill, 1890.
Dust shimmered in the dying sunlight as Livia pushed open the heavy door. Hinges groaned like a beast disturbed from its slumber.
Before her stood the remnants of a forgotten puppet theater—tucked at the edge of a silent district, abandoned by time, crumbling into memory.
But in Livia's eyes, it was perfect.
To most, the warped floorboards and peeling walls whispered decay.
To her?
They were curtains waiting to be drawn. A stage begging for light.
She stepped into the center of the hollow room. The air was thick, expectant, like the breath held before a confession.
Then, softly, she whispered into the silence:
"This place... is enough to begin."
Opening night.
Only six came.
Drawn not by reputation, but by a strange crimson poster that had appeared overnight, plastered on lamp posts and bar windows:
A Show of Minds and Dreams.One night only.Entry: A single secret.
The stage was nothing more than splintered wood under a single dangling light. No velvet drapes. No orchestra. No applause.
Just her.
Livia.
A simple black dress. Pale skin. And eyes that burned like candle flames in a cathedral of shadows.
She didn't speak into a microphone.
She didn't need to.
Her voice bloomed directly into their minds—quiet, invasive, undeniable.
"Welcome…"
"No need for applause. I'm not here to be adored."
"I'm searching for something... far more precious."
She stepped closer, heels tapping like a metronome of fate.
"Someone here lost a sibling to fire."
"Someone dreams of blood-stained hands."
"And someone... wishes they never came tonight."
A ripple passed through the audience. No laughter. No denial.
Just silence.
Livia smiled.
"You think I read your faces?""No.""I read your breath. Your heartbeat. The regrets you hide behind morning coffee and practiced smiles."
The light dimmed.
The air chilled.
And in her hands, a single crimson fan flicked open with a soft snap.
She danced it through the air.
And memories began to pour.
Fears. Desires. Shame.
She didn't take anything.
Not yet.
She watched. She learned. She listened.
And when the show ended...
Some left in silence.Some left in tears.Some left hollow.
Livia retreated to the dressing room. Not to change. Not to powder her face.
But to sit.And stare into the mirror.Searching.
"Not yet," she whispered. "Not tonight."
But one truth had revealed itself:
The show had begun.And there would be no intermission.
Word spread.
Not in shouts—but in whispers.Not through papers—but through alleys and salons.
By the second night, there were twelve.
Among them...
Alden Whitmore.
Heir of the Whitmore name.Aristocrat.Golden boy of Britannian bloodlines.
No invitation. No escort.
Only his secret.
And a quiet curiosity that pulled him to the dying theater like gravity.
The stage hadn't grown—but it felt alive.
The air itself seemed to breathe, sighing through cracks in the walls.
And then—she appeared.
Livia.
Not a mystery anymore.But something far more dangerous:
A promise.
"Welcome, all..."
"Tonight, I offer not truth—but reflection."
She stepped down from the stage, fan in hand, fingers trailing across the wooden chairs as though caressing the ribs of something long dead.
"We wear masks."
"We toast. We smile. We pretend."
"But what happens... when the mask starts wearing you?"
She paused behind a woman with trembling hands.
"Your father said you were cursed."
"He lied."
"You were simply... inconvenient."
Gasps. Stillness.
No laughter.
A man with ink-stained fingers turned his face away.
"You forged your brother's will."
"Was it worth the land?"
He stood. He left.
No one stopped him.
And then—
Her steps slowed.
Her gaze shifted.
To him.
A young man in a velvet coat. Hands clasped too tightly in his lap.
Alden.
He didn't blink.
But he felt it.The heat of her attention.The weight of being seen.
She smiled—but said nothing.
No reveal. No cruelty.
Only—
"Some minds..."
"are harder to read."
"Not because they're empty..."
"But because they've buried their hunger so deep..."
"even they don't recognize it."
The lights dimmed.
The show ended.
No encore.
Alden stayed long after the others had gone.
His hands no longer shook.
But his thoughts did.
He wasn't sure what she had seen.
But he knew—
He wanted her to look again.