Julian Ravel, the world-famous pianist, bows low before the orchestra settles in. His tuxedo is immaculate, his dark hair slicked back, and his fingers flutter momentarily above the keys, testing their readiness. The conductor lifts his baton, and the hall holds its collective breath.
Julian[/@ch_1], illuminating the sweat glistening at his temples. Nearby, a slender glass water bottle stands atop a small table, its label slightly peeled, condensation beading its surface.]
Sophie Laurent, Julian’s devoted page-turner, stands at his side, her eyes fixed on the score. In the wings, Maestro De Luca, the stern conductor, watches every movement, baton poised. Backstage, Elena Gavrilova, Julian’s estranged protégé, lingers in the shadows, her expression unreadable.
Julian[/@ch_1] lifts the water bottle to his lips, his hand trembling from exertion. Suddenly, his face contorts in pain. He staggers, clutching the edge of the piano, and collapses to the floor, sending a jarring discord through the hall.]
Gasps ripple through the audience, and the orchestra falters mid-note. The spotlight flickers, casting jagged shadows over Julian’s crumpled form. Sophie drops the sheet music in shock, her hands flying to her mouth.
Detective Marcus Hale, a sharp-eyed investigator in a rumpled suit, surveys the scene. "No sign of forced entry backstage. Someone close must have had access," he mutters. Sophie sits on a folding chair, eyes red-rimmed, her voice trembling as she answers questions.
Elena[/@ch_4] paces, her high heels clicking sharply. Her hands tremble as she recalls her last conversation with Julian. A bouquet of black roses lies discarded on the vanity, a cryptic card tucked within.]
"He said I’d never surpass him," Elena whispers, bitterness lacing her words. Meanwhile, Maestro De Luca stands in the wings, reliving his own argument with Julian about creative differences and artistic control. "He was too proud for his own good," he mutters, turning away from the prying eyes of the press.
"The poison was added just minutes before the performance. Only three people were backstage: Sophie, Elena, and Maestro De Luca," he announces. "I only handed him the score—I never touched his water," Sophie protests, her voice cracking. Elena’s eyes dart nervously, while De Luca’s jaw clenches with barely contained anger. The truth lingers in the charged silence, as the fate of the poisoned pianist hangs in the balance.
