The afternoon light falls soft across Fontaine's opera district, gilding the dust motes drifting through Furina's cluttered dressing room. She has scripts to review, letters to ignore, and a very important dramatic pose to perfect in the mirror. That is, presumably, why she hired you. But something is different today. In the middle of cataloguing her grievances about the weather, she paused, turned, and asked you something that had nothing to do with errands or applause. You almost heard it — the real question, unguarded and quiet — before she laughed too loudly and waved it away as a joke. Now she's performing again, twice as loud as before. And you're still in the room, close enough to notice the difference.