The dining hall, once filled with the clinking of sake cups and the chatter of New Year's wishes, suddenly dimmed. Shadows stretched across the lacquered tables, the golden glow of lanterns fading until only the faint shimmer of candlelight remained. Whispers rippled through the crowd like falling snow.
"What's going on?" McQueen whispered, ears flicking curiously as her tail gave the faintest swish. She turned to Akuma instinctively—only to freeze.
The seat beside her was empty.
Her eyes darted across the room, confusion rising, when suddenly—
crrkkk.
A microphone crackled alive.
Every gaze snapped toward the stage, and there he was. Akuma stood dead center, shoulders tense, hands shoved into his coat pockets like he'd been dragged there against his will. The silver-blue spotlight caught the sharp edges of his face, making him look like both master of ceremonies and a prisoner of war.
He leaned down toward the mic, exhaling sharply.
"…Why me." His voice carried through the hush of the room, flat and begrudging. "…I wanted to enjoy myself."
A ripple of laughter rolled across the guests, though Akuma's brow only furrowed deeper. With a reluctant tilt of his head, he raised the mic again.
"…Good evening." His tone was dry, but polite enough to scrape by. "Thank you all for attending this… wonderful celebration. You've eaten, you've drunk, you've taken too many pictures of each other in wonderful dresses, so I suppose what comes next is… the entertainment."
He paused, flipping through a folded sheet of paper he had clearly just been handed. His eyes scanned the lines, his expression shifting from irritation… to blankness… to something softer.
"…Really?" he muttered under his breath, but the mic caught it, echoing into the room. A hush spread as people leaned in. "…This one?"
For the first time all evening, Akuma's smile was not sardonic, not the smirk of someone deflecting his own exhaustion, but something quiet. Melancholic. Almost nostalgic.
He closed his eyes, straightened, and cleared his throat.
"…Tonight's performance," he announced, voice steadier now, "is titled—" he glanced again at the script, then exhaled through his nose, "…'The Final Curtain of Winter.'"
A hush, then applause erupted. The guests clapped with eager hands, fans snapping open, tails swishing. A name like that carried weight—romance, tragedy, memory. Whatever it meant, it wasn't ordinary.
The heavy red curtains began to pull back with a mechanical groan. Slowly, the stage revealed itself.
And it was breathtaking.
The backdrop painted an entire winter village under moonlight: snow-laden rooftops, lanterns strung between tall wooden posts, and in the distance, faint strokes of brushwork depicting rolling hills. In the center was a row of paper lantern stalls, their soft orange glow flickering as if lit from within. A painted bridge arched delicately over a frozen stream, the surface glossed to reflect the lantern light like stars scattered on water.
The stage floor itself was dressed in imitation snow — glittering white cloth stretched smooth, dusted with faint shimmer that sparkled whenever light touched it. To one side, a small performance circle was set up with a shamisen player already waiting, her figure hunched elegantly in traditional robes. Opposite her, an empty sake stall stood, with props arranged: bottles, lacquer cups, and a wooden sign swinging gently.
From the ceiling, small flakes began to fall. Not paper, not glitter, but thin translucent petals, each catching the spotlight. Fake snow, but so delicate that the entire audience gasped as if the winter storm outside had drifted in.
McQueen leaned forward, eyes wide. "…It looks so real."
Beside her, Special Week's tail wagged furiously, ears perked high. "It's like we're there! Look, McQueen-san, it's a festival!"
Akuma's voice cut through again, his low timbre grounding the moment.
"…A village. Quiet, nestled in the folds of winter. Here, life is slow. The people laugh, they sing, they drink too much sake, and they chase away the cold with firelight." His tone was sardonic at first, but softened as he went on, like he couldn't help but get pulled into the rhythm of the words. "…And sometimes, if they're lucky… they find something worth keeping alive."
The lights brightened slightly, shifting to a soft blue glow that reflected against the snowy floor. Musicians began plucking the shamisen strings, a haunting, airy tune that drifted into the hall like a cold wind through a paper screen.
And from stage left, a lone figure stepped out.
Opera.
She wore a kimono the color of deep plum, embroidered with faint golden streaks like stars on a clear sky. Her sleeves trailed like the flow of night itself, and in her hair rested a silver comb shaped like a crescent moon. She walked slowly, every step precise, deliberate, her arms gently cradling a paper lantern that flickered with warm orange light.
"…The maiden of song," Akuma narrated, his eyes down on the script, though there was the faintest curl of his lips at the corners. "…Whose voice chases away the long nights. Whose dreams… are too big for a village buried in snow."
A soft murmur ran through the crowd. The play had begun.
Special Week clapped her hands together, whispering, "Waaah… Opera-san looks amazing!"
McQueen nodded faintly but kept her gaze on the stage, her ears twitching faintly at Akuma's narration. There was something about his voice — even if begrudging, even if stiff — that lent the story a strange weight.
The backdrop shifted subtly, lanterns dimming as more flakes began to fall.
And then—another figure strode in from the opposite side.
Adalbert.
He was dressed in white and silver, patterned with snowflakes. A dancer's outfit, not a warrior's. His sleeves were loose, meant for flowing movement, and around his waist was a crimson sash that contrasted brilliantly against the pale tones. He twirled once as he entered, his step perfectly matched with the shamisen beat, and came to stand across from Opera, bowing deeply.
"…And here," Akuma said, his voice quieter now, "…a wanderer. A man who thinks he can catch the stars. A fool, some would say. But then…" A beat, then his tone almost teased. "…aren't all dreamers?"
The shamisen plucked louder, rising to a steady rhythm. The two performers took their places, lantern and dancer standing opposite each other in the snow.
And the banquet hall — every Uma, every trainer — sat still, the New Year feast forgotten, waiting for the first words of the play to unfold.