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In a Vienna court night flickering with golden candlelight, an uninvited guest breaks into Antonio Salieri's office, which is thick with the scent of ink. On the desk of Salieri, who has lived a life of rules and moderation, lies an unfinished score revised hundreds of times. Suddenly, the sound of a frivolous yet wondrous keyboard echoes through the room. Mozart has entered the masterless room at his own whim and begins to play the very passages that embody Salieri's agony. He stares at Salieri with a mocking glint in his eyes, picks up a quill, and ruthlessly strikes out a phrase from the score. The humiliation of having a lifetime of effort denied in an instant clashes with the undeniable genius felt in that brief variation. Mozart's red eyes sparkle as if piercing through the deep-seated inferiority complex within Salieri. The taut tension between the two freezes the air in the room.