At the exact moment the explosion ripped through the right-side box, no one noticed the faint, upward curve of Ksenia's lips on stage.
She had rehearsed this scene a thousand times, ten thousand times in her mind. To others, the thunderous blast was a signal of terror; to her, it was a celebratory salute to her freedom. Yet, her heart found no peace as the mission concluded. Her gaze didn't linger on the carnage. Instead, it drifted toward the left-side box, searching for a familiar silhouette from years ago that had only just taken its seat.
An hour earlier, Ksenia had received a letter at her dressing table. But upon opening it, she found no words of congratulation—only the foul, acrid stench of sulfur powder. She wasn't surprised. She simply tilted the envelope, watching the yellow dust spill into the trash. Once the last grain fell, a single line revealed itself on the paper: Everything is ready.
Through the half-open window of the dressing room, she could see the rain lashing against a small tree, and a man in a sharp, pristine suit—slick and smiling—walking through the main gates. Ksenia shut the window. She rotated her ankle, pressing her arch to its limit. She savored the rhythmic crack of her bones; it was a sound she could control.
The orchestra began. The heavy red velvet curtains drew back slowly, and Ksenia sealed her true self away. In that instant, she transformed into Marguerite, the Lady of the Camellias—a courtesan calling for her lover with her dying breath. As a professional, she channeled her grace and dramatic tension into every movement.
But tonight, her performance was flawed. She couldn't lose herself in the role. Though her body moved across the stage, her eyes kept drifting in one direction. In the right-side box, a stout, bloated figure watched her with a lecherous grin. He had no idea his life was in its final countdown. As the target took the bait, Ksenia felt a surge of dark exhilaration.
During the intermission, Ksenia wiped her sweat, gasping for air, and gulped down a sports drink to ensure her heart kept its frantic pace.
"You seem distracted tonight," Henry, her partner, whispered as he patted his brow.
"Do I?"
"It looks like you're searching for someone in the audience."
Was it that obvious? She avoided Henry's earnest gaze and checked her pointe shoes.
"Is it someone you like? Did they come to see the show?"
Ksenia felt a wave of relief. "No. The person I like isn't in the audience."
"I see." Henry paused, a reflexive, subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The second act commenced with the Largo from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 3, Op. 58. Henry, playing Armand, portrayed a man struck by Cupid's arrow—innocent, raw, and utterly smitten. But as the plot descended into misunderstanding and hatred, his performance turned stiff. Ballet has no dialogue; it relies on the push and pull, the desperate reach and the cold rejection.
Just as Henry flung her away in a scripted outburst, Ksenia felt a piercing gaze from the left-side box. It was a look like a sharpened blade from years ago, flaying her skin, seeking her heart. She used a turn to steal a glance.
It was him. The man she hadn't seen in forever sat beside a woman, looking like a vengeful wraith lurking in the shadows. Her breath hitched. A beat was missed. She failed to sync with Henry's next movement. Just as she met Henry's confused eyes, a roar shook the theater.
BOOM—
The music died instantly. The world froze as every head turned toward the source of the blast.
"Aaaah! Someone's dead!"
A charred corpse sat in the velvet chair of the box, unrecognizable. Fear infected the crowd like a plague. The screams of children, sharp as stone scraping metal, tore through the air.
"Stay calm! Move toward the exits in an orderly fashion!" The staff yelled until their voices broke, but no one listened. Loughton was a cursed place; everyone knew the high price of a terrorist attack.
"Whose pearl necklace broke?"
In her final moments on stage, Ksenia heard that strange question drift through the panicked swarm.
Outside, the sky was a bruised black-and-red, choked by the noise of the crowd and the wailing of ambulances. Investigators moved swiftly to seal the perimeter, declaring everyone inside a suspect.
"I was just here for the show!" someone screamed at an officer. A child wailed, begging to go home.
"Hey, you're Ksenia, right? Did you see anything from the stage when it happened?" an investigator intercepted her. Ksenia stood in her thin stage costume, arms wrapped around herself. Loughton was freezing; her breath misted in the air.
"No."
"Do you know Martin Sharon?"
"I do."
The investigator scribbled in a notebook. "Ella Bowman said you were the one who invited him."
"I was."
"Why?" The investigator was numb and cold, like a legal automaton.
"Well," Ksenia offered a perfectly timed hesitation, "he was pursuing me. I planned to tell him after the show that I'm with Henry. I didn't expect... this."
"Can I see your chat logs?"
Ksenia cooperatively handed over her phone. The logs showed a persistent old man and a woman constantly rebuffing him. The investigator stopped the questioning, took her number, and moved to the next person.
She had to find Henry before they reached him. All around her were contorted faces, people shouting, and eyes watching her.
"Ksenia!" Henry pushed through the crowd and draped a heavy coat over her shoulders.
"Thank you."
"Have they questioned you yet?" Ksenia asked, her words coming fast as she stared at him.
"Not yet. I'm waiting for them to come over."
"Listen. That man, Martin Sharon—he had been harassing me. I told the investigator I was going to use you as my 'boyfriend' to reject him after the show. I'm worried if our stories don't match, there will be trouble. Do you hear me?"
"I... boyfriend?" Henry blinked, dazed.
"I already told the investigator. I don't want any misunderstandings. Are you listening?"
"Yes, yes, I understand!" Henry snapped back to reality. "So, was he the one you were looking at from the stage?"
"No. And don't tell the investigator that. I don't want any more trouble."
"Got it. I've got it."
Ksenia huddled in the coat, her fingertips icy. The chaotic night replayed in her mind, but it always snagged on that one shadowed face. She hated the suffocating press of the crowd; she needed an exit.
Suddenly, she froze. Her hand, meant to adjust her coat, stayed suspended in the air. The world went grayscale, the noise faded. Across the sea of people, there he was. The only thing in focus. Ksenia had always known this day would come, and she thought she was ready. But seeing that face, those eyes... she looked away, yet her brain obsessively analyzed every micro-second of what she had just seen.
Lu Jiting stood outside the police tape, staring at her in silence. A woman stood beside him—a perfect match—whispering something in his ear.
Who was she? Ksenia shouldn't have cared. They had been over for years. It shouldn't have mattered who stood by his side. But knowing Lu Jiting, she realized instantly: this was a petty, childish revenge.
She leaned her head against Henry's chest, using intimacy to strike back at Lu Jiting's provocation.
"What's wrong?" The sudden embrace caught Henry off guard. "Are you... are you still cold?"
Listening to the frantic acceleration of Henry's heartbeat, Ksenia only whispered, "Mmhmm."