The curtain rose once more.
A single spotlight, harsh and white, fell upon him. Adalbert stood alone at center stage. No cape, no mask, no flash of showmanship. Only a man in black, his posture rigid, his head bowed.
No music greeted him. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then — faint, slow notes drifted from the shamisen. Each pluck carried weight, hollow and resonant, echoing through the banquet hall.
Akuma's voice spoke softly over it.
"…There are songs meant for the crowd. Songs meant for joy. For celebration. But this… this is not a song for others. This is not even a song for himself. This is the sound of silence made flesh — the waltz of a man left behind."
Adalbert lifted his head, and his body began to move.
It was not a dance in the traditional sense. There were no flourishes, no grand sweeps to impress. His arms reached outward, then fell to his sides, trembling. He spun once — not with grace, but with the weary collapse of a man chasing after something already gone. Every step he took seemed heavy, each one landing with a thud against the wooden stage.
The shamisen was joined by a soft piano, its melody stumbling deliberately, like a drunk trying to keep their balance. His movements matched it — a stagger here, a sudden lunge forward, then a halt, hand stretched out as though reaching for Opera who was no longer there.
The audience had gone completely silent.
"…The Silent Waltz," Akuma continued, his voice low. "It is no performance. No act. It is grief given rhythm. The story of a jester without a stage, a partner without a hand to hold. A man whose song has ended before the curtain has closed."
Adalbert twirled once more — a broken pirouette — before collapsing to one knee. His hand pressed against his chest, his other outstretched as though begging the spotlight itself for mercy. For a moment, it looked as though he could not rise again. But then he did. Slowly. Painfully. He lifted himself up, dragging his feet as though through snow that wasn't there.
The piano deepened, chords dropping like falling icicles.
His arms spread wide as though to embrace an audience — yet no joy reached his face. His smile was faint, brittle, more like a mask to hide the hollow beneath. He spun once more, then stilled.
A sharp intake of breath came from the audience. Rice Shower's. She sat at her table, her little hands gripping the fabric of her kimono so tightly her knuckles whitened. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she whispered something inaudible to herself.
She wasn't the only one.
From Akuma's table, chaos began in its own strange way. Tachyon was openly sobbing, clutching the edge of Akuma's coat sleeve like a lifeline, and with no hesitation at all she used it to blow her nose. Loudly. Messily.
"Uwaaaaaaahhhh! It's not fairrrrr!" she wailed between honks, making a few nearby Uma cover their ears.
Special Week, sniffling just as badly, grabbed the other side of his coat. "I-I can't take it either! Poor Adalbert-san!" she hiccuped, joining Tachyon's nasal orchestra without hesitation.
McQueen, sitting primly as ever, tried her best to hold her composure. Her lips pressed tight, her hands clasped neatly together. But when she saw Special Week glance at her with those teary, puppy-dog eyes, she sighed in defeat. "…Good grief. If I don't, you'll call me heartless, won't you?"
And so, with all the dignity of a queen, McQueen dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "…Forgive me," she muttered to no one in particular.
The hall was a mess of tears, sniffles, and muffled sobs. Even Vodka, who had sworn to Scarlet she wouldn't cry, sniffled loud enough to earn a pointed look.
Only Akuma's voice cut steady through the haze.
"…A song does not always need words. A story does not always need lines. Sometimes… a man can tell you everything with the way he breaks in silence."
On stage, Adalbert slowed. His steps grew smaller. His arms sank. The shamisen's strings fell quiet one by one until only the piano remained — a single, trembling note fading into nothing.
He stopped.
No grand finale. No bow. Just stillness. A faint smile, cracked at the edges. His chest rose once, fell.
The spotlight dimmed.
And the stage was swallowed by black.
Akuma whispered the final line.
"…This is the waltz of the winter jester. No applause. Only silence."
The audience did not move.
The curtain lingered closed on Adalbert's broken form, his faint smile cutting sharper than any blade. The hall was dead silent. Rice Shower was biting her lip, her tears silent now, her small hands trembling against her lap.
Then—
A spotlight flared.
Stage left.
And there he was.
Akuma.
Dressed no differently than before, but with a microphone in his hand. His expression was reluctant, almost annoyed, yet the moment he opened his mouth—
The hall gasped.
"…When the night devours the world,
And all the fires die to ash…
Still, a flame survives.
Faint… but alive."
His voice was not rough or clumsy. It was rich, a low baritone that rolled like thunder across a winter sky. Smooth, resonant, and far too skilled for someone who claimed to want no part in the stage. It filled the venue with a warmth that wrapped around every listener, commanding them to hear, to feel.
Adalbert's head snapped up. His hands twitched, his body swayed as if caught in a current.
Akuma took a step forward, the spotlight following. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, but his voice burned brighter with every word.
"…The stars above—
Do you see them, jester?
Though they hide,
Though they fade,
They are never gone.
Reach! Reach for them still!
Sing, dance—
And they will answer!"
The piano struck a chord, strong and bold, as though galvanized by him. The tempo quickened, giving Adalbert something to move to. He staggered upright, his arms trembling, then spreading wide as though to catch the light himself.
Akuma's voice rose, baritone carrying through the vaulted hall like a bell ringing at midnight.
"…Even if the world forgets your name,
Even if silence drowns your flame,
Burn! Burn brighter still!
Let the heavens see you!
Let them remember you!"
The audience was spellbound.
Rice Shower's tears flowed harder, but her lips curved in awe. Mischa was frozen mid-sip of his drink, the cup hovering forgotten before his mouth. Tachyon was wailing into Akuma's abandoned coat like a child, Special Week joining her in noisy sniffles. Even McQueen, desperately maintaining her poise, eventually cracked, muttering a strained, "...s-sorry," as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
On stage, Adalbert began to move again. Not the hollow shuffles from before, but true steps — wide, steady, alive. He spun, turned, arms cutting clean lines through the air, the light catching every motion. His faint smile broke, replaced by something raw, almost desperate, as Akuma's song lifted him.
And then—
The left curtain rippled.
Another spotlight. A voice, clear as crystal, rang out to meet his.
Opera.