The cello was the only thing that didn’t lie to Elara. Its wood was warm against her knees, its vibration a steady pulse that matched her own heartbeat. But tonight, the Grand Opera House felt like a tomb.

Elara stayed late, practicing the Dvořák concerto until her fingers bled tiny beads of crimson onto the strings. She was the "scholarship kid," the one who had to work twice as hard as the elites in the orchestra.

As she packed her bow, a heavy thud echoed from the wings of the stage.

"Hello?" she called out. Silence. Then, the low, rhythmic murmur of voices.

Curiosity was her first mistake. She crept toward the heavy velvet curtains and peered through the gap. In the dim emergency lighting of the loading dock, three men stood over a crate. One was kneeling, his face bruised. The man standing over him wasn’t a thug—he was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that cost more than Elara’s entire education.

"I don't like missing deadlines, Marcus," the man in the suit said. His voice was like crushed velvet—smooth, but with a dangerous edge.

Elara’s phone chose that exact moment to vibrate in her pocket. The buzz felt like a chainsaw in the silence of the hall.

The man in the suit didn't jump. He simply turned his head. His eyes were a piercing, glacial blue that seemed to see right through the curtain. Right through her.

"Check the wings," he commanded.

Elara bolted. She ran through the labyrinth of the backstage, her cello case banging against her spine. She reached the stage door, gasping for air, only to find a wall of a man blocking her path.

A hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her around. She was shoved against the cold brick wall. The man from the loading dock approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

"You have a very distinctive vibrato, Elara Vance," he said, glancing at the name tag on her case.

"I-I didn't see anything," she stammered, her lungs burning.

"Liars make for poor musicians," he whispered, leaning in so close she could smell expensive sandalwood and the metallic tang of adrenaline. "I am Julian Vane. And you just witnessed a conversation that ends people's lives. But I think I have a better use for you than a shallow grave."

He pulled a gold-embossed card from his pocket and tucked it into the front pocket of her cello case.

"My car will be at your apartment at 6:00 AM. Don't bother packing. You’re about to become the luckiest woman in the city—or the deadest. Choose wisely."