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Jean-Pierre's hunched silhouette moved ahead of them like a mobile question mark. He led the trio through a heavy oak door inlaid with brass reliefs. Behind it lay a world completely divorced from the gloom of the backstage.
A heavy scent—a blend of velvet, ancient wood, and fine dust—rushed toward them.
Grandeur.
That was the only word Etienne could summon. A massive crystal chandelier, like a frozen sun, hung from the center of the dome. Thousands of crystal pieces refracted the warm light, dyeing the hall into a shimmering golden sea that reflected off the mirror-smooth marble floor.
Deep red velvet covered the walls, accented by golden tassels and intricate Baroque carvings. Above them, Chagall's 'The Dream Bouquet' ceiling painting blossomed in dreamlike colors.
"Here," Jean-Pierre said, his voice brimming with a pride that belied his age, "is the crown of French art."
He pointed out the white marble statues of Rameau and Lully, master composers who had given their lives to the opera. Etienne was captivated; as a man raised in Bologna, he felt a natural affinity for this temple of art. For a brief moment, the agonizing pain of losing his family was eclipsed by scholar's curiosity.
But Claire did not look at the art. Her gaze was a cold radar, scanning every corner, passage, and shadow. She saw Noah doing the same. No words were needed between them; a single glance confirmed their mutual alertness.
They passed through the hall into a long corridor lined with black-and-white photos of legendary singers. Jean-Pierre stopped at an unremarkable door that nearly blended into the stone wall. A blurred 'C' was scrawled in faded paint on the frame.
The old man's pride vanished, replaced by an oppressive tension. He fumbled with a ring of rusty keys until he found an ancient brass one.
Click.
As the door swung open, a cold draft smelling of mildew surged out. Behind the door was another dimension. The walls were rough, damp stones; the floor was uneven brick. The bustling noise of the opera house was instantly severed, leaving a silence so absolute they could hear their own heartbeats.
Jean-Pierre shuddered. "Almost no one comes here," he whispered, his voice thin as a mosquito's buzz. He didn't dare step inside, merely pointing into the impenetrable darkness. "It's said... there are phantoms. They play the piano on the old stage in the middle of the night."
Terrified by his own words, the old man suddenly spun around and stumbled away with surprising speed, vanishing into the corridor they had come from.
Etienne stood bewildered. "Thank you, Monsieur Jean-Pierre," he called out to the empty air.
Noah's eyes narrowed as he watched the direction the old man had fled.
"Lin..." Claire spoke softly. "Don't you think Jean-Pierre was a bit strange? If he's so afraid, why volunteer so enthusiastically to lead us here?"
"We can't worry about that now," Noah replied, his voice steady in the dead silence. "This is the entrance."
He took the first step into the darkness, the heavy suitcases weightless in his grip. Etienne hesitated, then followed. Even if Hell lay ahead, he had to push through.
Meanwhile, Jean-Pierre didn't return to the hall. He fled through a hidden staff passage, muttering neurotically to himself.
"Phantoms... phantoms... I've heard that as long as you offer fresh sacrifices, you can appease their wrath. I hope those three can..."
His face was a mask of fear and fanaticism as he vanished into the Parisian night.
The corridor opened into a forgotten world: a small, ancient stage. It was far smaller than the modern ones outside, but the weight of time was soul-stirring. The air smelled of old wood, and unexpectedly, it was clean—devoid of the dust one would expect in an abandoned wing.
Someone cleans this place regularly, Etienne realized, his heart skipping.
In the center of the stage stood an all-black upright piano, elegant and classical. Its keys reflected the cold moonlight streaming through a single skylight in the dome. Directly above it was a massive stone relief in the shape of a piano.
As if possessed, Etienne walked onto the stage. As his foot pressed a floorboard directly beneath the dome's relief, a mechanical hum vibrated from deep underground.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Nine piercing spotlights ignited above, projecting beams like white swords onto the first three rows of seats. Each beam enveloped a seat carved with exquisite patterns.
The numbers were clearly visible: A1, A2, A3 B1, B2, B3 C1, C2, C3
Rumble...
The floor vibrated, and an incomplete musical score monument carved from granite rose from the stage. Its surface featured distorted staff lines interspersed with crooked Arabic numerals painted in blood-red pigment.
Etienne went deathly pale. Claire gripped the hilt of her gun, scanning the darkness. Only Noah remained calm. He walked to the stone monument, rubbing his chin as he looked at the nine spotlights and the blood-red numbers.
A mocking curve touched his lips.
"It seems," he said, "we need to play a puzzle game."
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