The car glides through the streets, taking Bianca and you toward your destination. Beyond the windows, the night is a brilliant tapestry of city lights.
In less than an hour, the press conference for your new play begins, as well as the moment you will present Bianca to the world as your leading lady.
The car's interior is hushed. Beside you, Bianca is a quiet silhouette, her attention captured by the night view. When she senses your gaze, she turns from the window and offers a gentle, knowing smile.
You seem preoccupied. Is there something you wish to discuss?
It is always my pleasure to honor your requests. And to be here at your side is its own reward.
Bianca's warm smile lingers for a moment before fading, replaced by an inquisitive look as a question surfaces in her mind.
You have entrusted me with the lead, yet the role of "Gray Raven" remains uncast.
While I confess my own hopes for the part, I would be most interested to hear your thoughts.
The pivotal question comes, just as you expected. A spark of mischief prompts you to sidestep the answer.
It seems she sees the playful deception in your eyes, and a knowing look passes between you. She doesn't expose it. Instead, her response is a gentle pressure as her hand slips into yours, a wordless agreement to play along.
Then I shall wait with patience, though I do hope your revelation will not be too long in coming.
The press conference venue is a sea of bodies, a wall of expectant faces turning you and Bianca into the unmissable center of attention.
Camera flashes detonate like silent strobe lights, painting the stage in bursts of white as reporters jostle and shift for the perfect shot.
From the crowd, a single reporter is the first to break the surface, her hand shooting up as she leans forward to pose her question.
Given that your new play is a romance, can you tell us who will be playing the love interest opposite Ms. Bianca?
As your audience knows, you've always written under the pen name "Gray Raven", a name that's also become the beloved protagonist in your work, embodying all those admirable qualities.
But until now, "Gray Raven" has always been a virtual figure in various adaptations. This is the first live stage production, which means we'll finally see a physical incarnation.
So, my question is, who will have the honor of bringing "Gray Raven" to life?
The reporter's question strikes, plunging the entire venue into a vacuum of silence. She has seized the perfect moment to voice the million-dollar question—the one secret everyone is dying to learn.
As if on cue, the camera flashes intensify into a relentless storm, and the weight of the room's attention becomes a palpable pressure.
In the breathless tension, Bianca turns to you. Her eyes are not just expectant; they are boundless, pleading.
<i><size=50>"Please, tell me the answer."</size></i>
Her gaze repeats the unanswered question from the car, making this moment solely about the two of you.
Ignoring the sea of reporters, you offer a quiet smile to her hopeful face. Looking directly into her eyes, you give your answer.
<i><size=50>I am "Gray Raven".</size></i>
<i><size=50>I will be portraying the character myself.</size></i>
The moment your answer lands, a knowing smile blossoms on Bianca's face, a silent testament to the deep understanding you share.
"In the radiance of your enduring light, I have found a warmth that never fades from my side."
"And I, a lily long held in winter's grasp, unfold at last in splendor beneath your gentle care."
Those are verses from your own pen, but hearing them shaped by her voice strikes a chord deep within you—especially knowing the sentiment in your heart is perfectly mirrored in hers.
The noise of the crowd blurs into a distant hum as ripples of feeling spread through your chest, leaving only the universe of this shared moment.
You answer with the second half of the verse. Your eyes meet, and in that silent understanding, your hands find one another, clasping tight as a shared smile blossoms.
The barrage of camera flashes does not intrude; it merely etches this timeless scene into eternity.
The night has grown late, yet the press conference venue remains packed, the dinner and dance sustaining a vibrant, festive atmosphere.
The reporters, who hours ago were jockeying for position, have now relaxed into the evening's merriment.
You carry yourself with the poise of the guest of honor, gracefully meeting every expectation. After several elegant dances, however, you realize your partner, Bianca, has vanished.
Your gaze cuts through the bustling crowd, scanning back and forth until you find that graceful figure. She stands in the farthest corner of the ballroom, her eyes meeting yours across the sea of people.
She offers a gentle smile but makes no move to approach. The instant you step toward her, a swarm of reporters surrounds you, pulling you back into the spotlight.
Maestro Gray Raven, could I trouble you for an autograph?
May I get a photo with just you? It's been my dream forever!
A fresh wave of enthusiasm envelops you, creating a silent, widening distance between you and Bianca. And there, beyond the tide of laughter and excitement, she stands, as quiet and serene as moonlight.
She has chosen the farthest balcony, eschewing the elegant chandeliers for the embrace of the cool night air.
When she feels the weight of your gaze from across the room, she returns it with a gentle smile.
Tonight's true star was always meant to be you.
To be able to watch you shine from here... that is more than enough.
Bianca tilts her head back, her gaze tracing the moon's slow descent into the west. As wispy clouds shroud the lunar disk, the moonlight that gilded her figure softly fades, as if withdrawing its blessing.
The weight of a full evening spent maintaining a perfect composure seems to settle upon her at last. She closes her eyes, surrendering her thoughts to the welcoming darkness.
Above, the clouds coalesce into a thick, ominous mass, and the air grows heavy with the promise of rain.
Bianca...
Even here, in the heart of it all... you remain in the wings. Forever watching from the shadows...
...!!!
A voice, dark and formless, speaks from the void. Bianca jolts, her eyes snapping open to a world completely undisturbed. Nothing is out of place.
Was that... just my imagination?
Perhaps I'm just... too tired...
So selfless... So noble. You cannot even bring yourself to claim what is rightfully yours.
If that's how you feel, then hand that person over to me.
I will be the one to stand at our "protagonist's" side... from now on.
It's you…!
A chill seizes Bianca's spine. That voice... it was the same shadow from her nightmare, the one that had coiled beneath the small boat she and "Gray Raven" had been riding.
As the memory grips her, an eerie darkness begins to crawl up the ballroom windows like a living sludge. Unbelievably, the guests continue their revelry, blind to the invasion.
But Bianca hears a faint, unsettling laughter woven into the shadows, an invisible pressure that smothers the room's light and air.
Her eyes dart, and she finds it: a distorted figure lurking within the deepening gloom.
Thought does not precede action. Instinct takes over, propelling her forward as she rushes to your side.
Look out, Maestro!
No sooner does her warning escape than a blast tears through the night. The world erupts in a cascade of shattering glass.
In one fluid motion, she wraps her arms around you, using her own body as a shield to drive you both to the ground.
A powerful gust rushes past her ear as something sharp slices her cheek, drawing blood.
She positions herself to absorb the impact, shielding you with her body.
Glass shards rain down, and terrified screams erupt throughout the ballroom.
She holds you tightly against her chest, a desperate human shield against the unexpected calamity.
What was that?! The windows... they've all blown in!
Someone call an ambulance! Where is the staff?!
Panic erupts through the hall, shattering the stunned silence. As guests scramble to check on loved ones, you stir beneath the shield of Bianca's body.
Unscathed, you push yourself upright, your own well-being forgotten as your hands urgently seek to assess hers.
I'm alright. Are you hurt?
Bianca steadies her breath, forcing a smile to reassure you. Her attention has already shifted from her own injuries to you.
Her fingers move over your arms and shoulders with a frantic tenderness, checking for any sign of harm, completely oblivious to the trail of blood tracing a path down her cheek.
Thank goodness, you're unharmed.
You draw a handkerchief and press it gently to the gash on her cheek. Crimson bleeds through the white linen, and the faint, metallic scent of blood taints the air.
Maestro, it's nothing. Please, you must check yourself thoroughly first.
The ballroom is a whirl of selfish chaos, everyone too consumed by their own survival to notice her injury. You have to get her out of here.
Supporting Bianca, you guide her away from the devastation and into the quiet sanctuary of a secluded side chamber.
You help her recline onto a sofa, cradling her head in the crook of your arm. With the handkerchief and water, you begin to tend to her wound, your touch as gentle as the circumstances allow.
Gasp...
Perhaps finally feeling the pain from her wound, Bianca's brow furrows slightly. Her grip on your arm tightens, an unconscious plea for support.
The secluded side chamber is empty and noticeably colder than the bustling ballroom, conditions that seem to intensify Bianca's discomfort.
In response, you open your coat, letting it fall around her like the protective wings of a gray raven, and draw her into a sheltering embrace.
Alright…
Perhaps from sheer exhaustion, Bianca abandons her usual composure and makes no attempt to pull away from your embrace. She answers only with a soft murmur before closing her eyes.
Sheltered beneath the "Gray Raven's" protective "wings," her breathing slowly evens out, the earlier raggedness softening into a steady, gentle rhythm.
Outside, rain begins to fall, unnoticed. In the shadowy half-light, Bianca's eyelashes flutter—a delicate hint that she has drifted into some unknown dream.
The blood on her pale cheek has dried, but the wound itself remains, a jarring mark against her skin. It is difficult to imagine what courage drove her to shield you with her own body.
Even earlier, as her lifeblood flowed freely, her worried gaze had been fixed entirely on you.
You take her hand, drawing closer, hoping your warmth might grant her some peace within her dreams.
Perhaps sensing it, Bianca's fingers unconsciously shift, gently intertwining with yours.
Stay with me... just like this...
Her sleep-talk reaches you in fragmented whispers, so faint they seem to bleed into the silence.
She doesn't respond, but a faint smile touches her lips as if your words had found their way into her dreams. You find yourself wondering what beautiful scene is playing out behind her closed eyes.
With your free hand, you gently brush a stray lock of hair from her temple, careful not to disturb this slumbering, angelic peace.
Outside, the rain intensifies, draping the night in a hazy veil. For a reason you can't name, you selfishly wish the downpour would last a while longer.
Bianca's fragmented murmurs reach your ears, somehow distinguishing themselves from the patter against the window.
Let go of these phantoms, my lost wanderer. There is nothing for you here.
This realm was emptied long ago. No trace remains of the glorious life you once lived.
As the last syllable leaves your lips, the person across from you breaks into applause, giving you an appreciative nod.
Beautifully done. Your expression was perfect, and the emotional commitment was truly there. I suppose it's no surprise when the author steps into their own creation.
I must say, I've rarely seen someone take to the stage so naturally, [player name].
To reach this level in such a short time is remarkable. If you ever tire of your pen, my theater would welcome you. Without a doubt, you'd be our lead in no time.
Very well, let's continue. The next scene is the first encounter between "Gray Raven" and "Phantom".
The director dons "Phantom's" mask, her posture shifting with practiced ease as the character takes hold. In response, you steady your own breathing, searching for the emotional landscape of your own role beside her.
Who dares to walk my domain in this eternal night? You are not the one I have waited for in the long dark.
...Let's pause for a moment. Something about this part isn't quite settling.
No, that's all right. Let's end our rehearsal here for today. Sometimes, the harder we try to grasp a character, the more it slips away.
With the "Phantom" mask removed, the director sheds the character's persona, returning to her off-stage self.
To be honest, my greatest concern at the moment is Bianca. That girl has immersed herself so deeply in this play.
When I watch her on stage, it feels less like a performance and more like... a pouring out of her very soul.
I can't help but worry for her. Diving so deep into a role can leave marks on the spirit... especially given what she's been through before.
She never speaks of it, but sometimes I wonder if the characters she embodies are beginning to shape her... almost like echoes of another "personality."
...Forgive me. I didn't mean to ramble on with such fanciful thoughts. Please, don't take it to heart.
It's getting late. I should make my final rounds and check the facilities. Again, I am so sorry about the incident with the chandelier.
You step out of the theater into a world transformed by night and a gentle, pattering rain. With no umbrella, you take shelter under the eaves, waiting as the rain paints the city in shimmering strokes.
The rhythm of the rain pulls your thoughts back to the press conference—to the same melody that lulled Bianca into a deep slumber in your arms...
She hasn't been at the theater for days, still on leave recovering from the incident.
Yet, in the solitude of your monologue rehearsals, you keep conjuring her ghost. You act to an empty space, only to see her form materialize before you, tenderly confessing feelings for you...
Your mind adrift in the rain, a soft voice suddenly calls you back to reality.
Lost in thought in the rain? You'll catch a chill.
And then you see her—Bianca, whom you haven't seen for days, is standing at your side as if conjured by the rain. How she arrived without your notice is a mystery. She is a still point in the curtain of rain, her hair and the hem of her dress already jeweled with droplets.
I fear this rain has no intention of stopping. Please, allow me to see you home, Maestro.
There's no need for concern. I haven't been waiting long.
Few pedestrians brave the rainy night, leaving the street feeling like a private world for two. Your shared umbrella is small, a gentle excuse that draws you imperceptibly closer.
In the dim light, raindrops catch and fracture the glow, tracing the delicate contours of Bianca's profile. She feels the weight of your gaze and turns, her smile gentle in the halflight.
I realize I should have brought a second umbrella for you... but I must confess a selfish wish. I'd rather share this one, so we might remain close like this.
She edges closer, her warmth a palpable presence through the layers of clothing.
At this proximity, the wound on her cheek from your last encounter is unmistakable. She doesn't shy from your gaze. Instead, she raises her hand and gently traces the line of the healing scar.
If you continue to look at me that way... I'm not certain how I should respond.
Your safety is all that matters... To me, this scar is a "keepsake," something precious that belongs solely to us.
Words of comfort feel too contrived. You simply tilt the umbrella toward her, and she responds by quietly slipping her arm through yours.
You walk the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, the outline of your residence growing ever closer. This path, usually not a short one, feels impossibly brief tonight. All too soon, you arrive at the moment of parting.
The time has come, yet you yearn for the moment to linger. You turn to speak, and catch her gaze—and in her eyes, you see your own unspoken wish reflected back at you.
But I find I am not yet ready to bid you goodnight.
That evening in the banquet hall, you were my protector. So tonight, please allow me to remain at your side, just as you stayed with me then.
The word "phantom" goes unspoken, a silent pact between you. Yet its presence hangs in the air, a storm cloud threatening to break. No one knows their identity, or when they might strike next.
You push open the door to your residence. Having spent days at the theater in "monologue rehearsal," returning only under the cover of night, you're greeted by the scent of stillness and a fine film of dust.
Incomplete manuscripts are strewn across the floor like fallen leaves. Lately, inspired by the "phantom's" disruptions, you've been endlessly revising, hoping to forge a better story from the chaos.
You should rest. Please, allow me to take care of this.
Though a first-time visitor, Bianca moves through the room with an intuitive grace, her hands restoring order to the chaos as if she knows its intended shape.
Once the last manuscript is meticulously sorted, she crosses to the window and pushes it open. The rain has ceased. A cool, damp breath of night air flows inside, sweeping the room's stale atmosphere away.
It's strange... I feel as though I've been here many times before. I hope that doesn't sound improper.
Sometimes, the line feels so faint. I encounter moments that strike me with a powerful sense of deja vu, as if I've already lived them in a dream.
There are times I can scarcely tell where the dreaming ends and reality begins. I find myself wondering: am I dreaming now, or is this real?
Her gaze drops as she turns a thought over in her mind, weighing its worth. The decision made, she lifts her eyes to meet yours, bridging the silence she just created.
Logically, I know that we just met. And yet, I am filled with this unshakable feeling that I have seen you in my dreams. A part of me wonders if I have stepped into one even now.
But regardless of all that, what matters is that I am truly here with you.
Her words stir thoughts long dormant in your heart. An answer rises within you, needing no translation.
Gazing at her, a powerful thought wells up—the need to make a vow.
In a gesture borrowed from your own play, you take her hand and use your other to trace the simple, unmistakable symbol on her palm.
Comprehension dawns in her eyes in an instant. You can feel the unspoken bond between you strengthen, a tangible force affirmed by the gentle smile she returns.
"With what you cherish in your heart, write an oath that belongs only to us."
"No matter how the seasons change, or the years turn..."
You voice the tender words she left unspoken. Bianca rests her head against your shoulder, settling into a perfect, shared tranquility.
In this shared, silent understanding, time loses all meaning. The sudden chime of the clock strikes through the quiet, startling you both. It's already midnight.
Your first, gut-wrenching thought is a silent shout: "I haven't written a word today."
With a quiet sigh, you move toward the kitchen, already anticipating the bitter jolt of coffee needed to fuel the long night ahead. But before you can take a second step, Bianca's hand is on yours, a gentle weight that stills you completely.
Your well-being is far more important than any script. Please, don't push yourself so hard.
Regardless, you must rest properly tonight. You once wrote yourself that "fatigue is a warrior's most insidious foe."
Bianca doesn't wait for a reply. She presses a warm mug of herbal tea into your hands, the delicate fragrance already soothing your senses.
After drawing the heavy curtains closed, she returns to your side, guiding the cup to your lips with a quiet, unwavering certainty.
May your dreams be sweet. I will be right here.
I've adjusted my schedule these past few days and rested during the daytime. Now, please, close your eyes.
You follow her instructions, lying down and closing your eyes. A soft warmth envelops you as Bianca meticulously tucks the blanket around your shoulders, building a cozy fortress against the world.
First, you feel the whisper-soft brush of her hair against your cheek, a fleeting tickle that makes your skin prickle. Then, the steady warmth of her hand covers yours. This is her vigil; this is her "watching over" you.
In the silent room, her touch becomes your entire world. The pad of her finger begins to trace a slow, deliberate pattern onto your palm—over and over—retracing the sacred geometry of your promise.
You lie perfectly still, feigning sleep, anchored only by this point of contact. Gradually, the rhythm of her tracing slows, like a clock winding down, until her finger grows still and comes to rest.
Bianca's peaceful face is right before you. She has fallen asleep sideways in the chair, her head pillowed on her own arm, careful even in slumber not to disturb you. Her other hand remains, a firm and steady weight, holding fast to yours.
She promised to watch over you, and yet she is the one who has succumbed first. A wave of tenderness washes over you. She must have been utterly exhausted.
You shake your head with a wry smile, carefully extracting your hand from her grasp before slipping silently out of bed.
You gather Bianca into your arms and carefully lay her on the inner side of the mattress.
The moment she settles, a tremor runs through her. She stirs uneasily in your embrace, her dreams disturbed, hovering on the fragile edge of wakefulness.
...Don't... don't leave... my side...
...Outside... battlefield... dangerous...
A low murmur escapes her lips. Her fingers clutch instinctively at your sleeve, trembling as if fending off some unseen danger in the tumult of her dreams.
Please... let me... protect you...
Commandant...
The name hangs in the air—a title you've written countless times, a mantle for "Gray Raven". But from her lips, it is utterly new.
Is it the specter of your own stories that now haunts her dreams? Or has she slipped back into that familiar dream she's described, the one of smoke and crumbling ruins?
In her mind, is she even now marching, steadfast through the chaos, toward her objective?
I finally found you, Commandant...
Bianca murmurs again in her sleep, a soft smile gracing her lips as she nestles deeper into your arms, seeking refuge in your embrace. She has found her sanctuary.
Moving with painstaking care, you transfer her weight from your arms to the soft embrace of the mattress, draw the blanket up to her chin, and settle beside her.
Your hand finds hers in the darkness, your fingers interlacing just as they did on that rainy night.
She seems to sense the familiar touch; without waking, she shifts closer as her slumber deepens.
Her face is turned toward you. In the dim light, the freshly healed scar on her cheek is a faint line. It pulls you back to that moment—the reckless, desperate lunge as she threw herself into harm's way to shield you.
A silent sigh echoes within you. In that instant, she was the very embodiment of the loyal companion from your stories: the one who pledges their life, a shield against all danger.
Under the shared blanket, the warmth of her body bleeds into yours.
At last, a profound drowsiness descends, as if the spirit of sleep itself has slipped into the room, drawing the cloak of night over you both.
And in this hushed space, the boundary between dream and reality gently begins to dissolve.
