Above the stage, steel cables and rigging lines crisscross the darkness, forming a tangled web over the performance space.
From down here, I know exactly what they are.
The strings for the ballerina marionettes.
It’s a monument to human cruelty dressed up in splendor.
Off to one side of the stage stands a glossy wooden podium beneath its own beam of light. The setup is simple, but impossible to miss.
That’s where the auctioneer stands.
From that position, he can see the entire auditorium, the private boxes lining the balconies, all bidders raising their paddles, and is able to command the room while whoever is being auctioned off beside him. The arrangement feels practiced. Refined.
My hand curls around my knife’s handle as I take it all in. The chandeliers, the velvet and the obscene amount of gold. They can dress it up however they want.
At the end of the day, this place is nothing more than a cage wearing a crown.
My gaze travels upward to the balconies, where private boxes overlook the theater floor. Three of them are occupied.
Three men.
Three buyers.
They sit behind the gold railings decorated in rich red velvet, faintly tinted glass and bathed in warm chandelier light, giving them the appearance of luxury suites rather than front-row seats to a fucking nightmare. All of them have an unobstructed view of the stage.
I scrutinize as one buyer lazily swirls amber liquor inside a crystal glass between his fingers, the ice clicking against the sides with each rotation.
Another buyer sprawls comfortably in his chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee as though he’s settling in for an ordinary night of entertainment.
The third bends forward, elbows braced on the railing in front of him, his stare riveted on the empty stage below. Anticipation radiating from him.
None of them have cellphones near them, they could be in their pocket or not allowed.
None of them look nervous or guilty.
They look eager.
The performance hasn’t even started yet, and they are already entranced, preparing for the curtain to ascend that they’ve paid a fortune to see.
They wear the faces of respectable men, but I’ve seen enough of the world to know evil doesn’t always come covered in blood. Sometimes it sits in private balconies counting down for a show to begin.
A darkness black and poisonous unfurls inside of me, staining every thought it touches. My rage crystallizes into a deadly calm that only ever means one thing, blood is about to spill.
I shift my grip on the knife, like an extension of my own body.
“Three,” I whisper.
Tyler follows my line of sight and gives a slight nod.
“Three.”
My focus continues analyzing through the auditorium, searching for anything out of place. There are no security guards patrolling the aisles, no bodyguards standing watch outside the private boxes, and no employees lingering near the exits. The buyers sit completely alone, undisturbed and unprotected. Which means the real threat isn’t out here, it’s backstage.
My eyes lock onto the enormous velvet curtains hanging at the edges of the stage. The reason we are here is waiting behind them.
“The doctor?” I breathe out.
Tyler’s eyes darken, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
