The Blackwood Opera House was a mausoleum of velvet, gold leaf, and pretension. Under the blinding glare of a thousand crystal chandeliers, the city’s elite didn't just mingle; they paraded. It was a space designed for the curated performance of power, a stark contrast to the grease-slicked, industrial rot of the Industrial District. Tonight, however, the air in the Great Hall felt thin—brittle, like a pane of glass waiting for a single, heavy vibration to shatter it into dust.
Julian Vane moved through the crowd not as a guest, but as an apex predator in a velvet-lined cage. He wore a bespoke, midnight-blue tuxedo that fit him with the lethal precision of a second skin. His dark hair was slicked back, his jawline sharp, his expression a mask of aristocratic indifference. Yet, beneath the
