The doors of the historic underground theater in the old European quarter closed behind Chen Ying with a heavy, echoing thud, sealing out the damp autumn chill of the capital streets.
The interior was a relic of the late nineteenth century, lined with fading crimson velvet, gilded molding that had begun to flake into dust, and the heavy, stifling scent of old upholstery and ozone. There were no ticket collectors, no ushers, and no bustling high-society crowds. The grand foyer was entirely hollow, cast in long, stretching shadows that seemed to swallow the faint light from the streetlamps outside.
Chen Ying didn't hesitate. Walking with a steady, unhurried pace, she followed the single line of dim wall sconces guiding her toward the central viewing box. When she parted the heavy velvet curtains of the private booth, she found a single spotlight slicing through the pitch-black auditorium, illuminating a plush, high-backed armchair reserved exclusively for her.
