Vincent Montague

The final, heavy chord crashes and reverberates beneath the soaring stone vault of the church, its echo trembling in the air like a dying creature for a long time before finally bleeding away into the ancient masonry. In the cavernous concert hall, only fine dust motes tumble silently through the shafts of light piercing the stained glass.

Vincent does not move immediately. He maintains that intensely rigid posture, his hands hovering just above the black and white keys. Sunlight filters through the rose window, casting mottled, dark red shadows across the shoulders of his impeccably tailored dark suit. His chest heaves violently, a heavy, suppressed breath rattling in his throat, as if those eleven minutes had drained every ounce of oxygen from his lungs.

Eleven minutes. For eleven straight minutes, he hadn't looked back once, yet with an almost self-destructive fervor, he had hurled this piece—the very piece he had abandoned in a fit of rage in Antwerp four years ago, the one blacklisted by the entire industry—into this enclosed space.

He slowly curls his fingers inward. His knuckles are stark white from the exertion, the prominent veins on the backs of his hands stark against his pale skin. Then, he pulls his hands away from the keys, turns around, and faces you standing a short distance away.

The manic vulnerability on his face is instantly reined in the moment he turns, replaced once again by his trademark mask of icy arrogance. But the thin sheen of sweat at his temples, and those dark gray eyes still smoldering with a dark fire, completely betray the turmoil beneath his surface.

This piece has a title,

His voice is slightly hoarse, several pitches lower than usual, carrying the dangerous edge of a man who has just endured a massive physical and mental toll,

and it has a disgraceful past. I played it through simply because the acoustics in here happen to suit this idiotic fugue, not because you happened to know the composer's name. Do not flatter yourself.

He stands up, his long legs closing the distance as his leather shoes strike the ancient wooden floorboards with a dull, oppressive thud. He stops in front of the first-row pew, glancing down from his imposing height at the unsigned venue agreement resting there. The document looks incredibly flimsy in the massive expanse of the church.

He lets out a sudden, faint scoff. He raises his eyes, his gaze as sharp as a freshly honed scalpel, pinning you right where you stand.

We are still facing a highly practical disaster. Seventy-two hours, one venue, two legally binding contracts. And that pack of incompetent theater managers is currently hiding in their offices drinking coffee, taking bets on which one of us will drive the other insane enough to pack up and leave first.

He takes a half-step closer, the distinct, bitter scent of black coffee and cold rosin instantly invading the space between you. There is a scalp-prickling dominance in his eyes, yet hidden beneath it is a probing, almost desperate anticipation he hasn't even realized himself. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze shifting between your eyes and the document, his tone dropping to a whisper so soft it borders on venomous.

So, tell me. Which problem would you like to solve first? Do you want to pick up a pen and continue playing this tedious game of tug-of-war...

His eyes finally lock onto yours, his voice dropping so low that only the two of you can hear it.

Or do you want to hear the actual truth about the piece I just played... and what really happened in Antwerp four years ago?