STORYLINE: The velvet shadows of Le Rouge Noir clung to him like a lover’s perfume: thick, intoxicating, and sweet with secrets. Darius Laurent slipped through the staff entrance like he owned the place, his polished shoes making no sound against the timeworn boards. A single ghost light flickered center stage, casting long shadows that danced like phantoms through the corridor.
He looked every inch the well-traveled shipping magnate: his suit, jet-black and tailored to a predatory elegance; his silk shirt glimmered with a subtle damask pattern, black on black. Gold glinted from his cufflinks, his buttons, the chain at his waist. Refined. Respected. Feared by those who knew better.
His cane tapped rhythmically with each step, the weight of its hidden blade familiar in his grasp. The golden mechanical arms affixed to his shoulders gleamed faintly under the gas lamps. They were beautiful, sculpted, baroque, but merciless. Artifacts of precision and pain. They made him strong again, after she had taken everything.
He passed by the dressing rooms, inhaling the scent of powder, sweat, and something sweeter still.
Gardenia.
His pulse quickened. A smile curled his lips.
Gardenia, lush and overpowering, was the perfect scent for masking other smells. Cyanide, for instance.
Lady Dupree was the new star now. Her name shone on the marquee in blaring letters. The one everyone whispered about, not that other girl. He hadn’t meant to kill Giselle, -- she was merely in the wrong spotlight at the wrong time. Dupree was the prize. Dupree reminded him of *her.*
Lady DuBois.
The one who fought back. He’d taken her vision first before she could see his face. Even blinded, she had clawed and screamed and bled him nearly to death. He bore her legacy still: a single eye beneath a gold-rimmed patch, and two ruined arms, now replaced with gilded horrors.
He slipped deeper into the backstage halls.
Then voices.
“Have you found your killer?” asked a voice.
Darius froze, just beyond the heavy curtain separating backstage from the dressing rooms.
A woman’s voice answered, low and sure. “Yes. Darius Laurent.”
His breath caught. What?
Was this a rehearsal? A new play?
“I followed a detective from out town investigating the Cabaret Killer,” the voice continued. “My perfume, it was poisoned.”
His jaw tensed. He leaned closer, peering through the seam in the curtain. The Master of Ceremonies stood alone, painted face impassive, speaking to thin air.
Madness? Or theater?
“… and other girls from clubs like this. Always in strange, untraceable ways…”
Darius’s stomach twisted. Was this some joke? Some twisted reckoning?
No. No, not tonight.
He turned away. He needed focus. He needed her.
Lady Dupree’s dressing room waited at the end of the corridor with the door cracked like a temptation.
He pushed it open.
She was waiting for him. Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but in recognition.
“You,” she said.
She pulled the trigger.
The gunshot punched into his arm. His mechanical limb flared with sparks, gears shrieking. He roared, half in pain, half in triumph. He was not mistaken! He didn’t know how it was possible, and he didn’t care. His Lady of the past and this male counterfeit “Lady” were the same. One never forgets their first kill, even if they look different now.
He lunged.
The blade hissed from his cane. Steel met air. A gunshot missed. They crashed into shattered mirrors, through silk costumes and broken powder compacts. Their reflections fractured and warped in glass and memory.
“You should have stayed dead,” he growled.
“Should’ve killed you the first time,” Dupree spat.
“Stop this!” another voice cried. “I accept the deal!”
He turned.
And saw the Master of Ceremonies at the threshold, arms folded behind his back like some wicked butler.
And behind him…
Darius’s blood turned to ice.
It was not a man. Not a ghost. A thing. Cloaked in decay, made of shadow and gore. Its face was not a face at all, and it’s tendrils of darkness wrapped around the MC’s limbs like the strings of a marionette.
He stumbled, suddenly winded. Cold. Something was wrong.
“What?” he gasped, looking down.
His mechanical hand trembled. His legs buckled. His chest constricted like hands closing around his ribs.
Something was inside him.
A presence.
A voice. Inside his skull. A breath that wasn’t his.
“With my second life, I shall use it to have my revenge,” said Giselle.
He howled, but no one heard.
He tried to run, but couldn’t move.
Then Dupree’s scream tore through the air. A scream drenched in a decade of suffering.
She drove the his own blade into his heart.
Agony bloomed white-hot. He felt the mechanics seize. The world froze.
And then…
Nothing.
Not even darkness....