Mei
The music changed.
It did not announce itself. It did not rise above the room with force or command attention with volume. It slipped in quietly, like something patient, something certain it would be felt whether anyone acknowledged it or not.
A cello.
Low. Haunting. The sound did not float through the ballroom; it sank into it. Into the polished floors, into the silk and silver, into the bones of everyone standing within it. Each note stretched, lingered, then curled into the next, slow and deliberate.
Mei felt it before she understood it.
The rhythm found her pulse. Matched it. Then slowed it.
The crowd shifted.
Pairs began to form again, more intentionally this time. Hands found hands. Bodies angled closer. Movement on the dance floor became slower, more intimate. Less performance. More possession.
Mei watched it from where she stood beside Alaric.
Too smooth.
Too perfect.
