"You look surprised."

Marianne studied the room before returning her attention to Charles.

"Didn't expect me to find you?"

The Photographer—leaning against the kitchen counter in his unbuttoned shirt—glanced at the bulky machine in Marianne's hand.

"Not so readily," he answered.

"You are chipped." With her pink nails, she tapped on the screen of the machine. "Any resident can find you if they have enough sway."

She leaned back in her chair. It was the only one in the room.

"So?"

Charles looked at her questioningly. "Yes?"

"Any progress?"

The man shook his head. "Nobody knows where to find her."

"Of course, they don't…" she whispered. "You can't hope to obtain anything of substance from the… uncultured, shall we call them?"

Eyes on the fridge door, Charles swallowed nervously. Marianne's picture seemed to taunt him.

She hadn't noticed it yet, and he didn't want her to see.

"As for—"

"I went to a gallery," he interjected.

She raised a well-shaped eyebrow. "Good."

He opened the fridge, pretending to notice items that needed stocking, and removed the picture with one hand.

"He chased after an idea, my father," Marianne said. "Jacquet has put you on a phantom trail. Whoever my father saw back then has by now withered away."

She looked at the cot Charles used as his bed and whispered.

"You will be dead before we can be together."

We.

That word stuck in Charles's head.

The woman had clearly taken an interest in him, but Charles knew better than to mistake it for one of romantic nature.

What did she want?

He tapped the kitchen counter and asked, "Are you fine with this… arrangement?"

Perhaps Marianne didn't expect him to ask, because all she replied with was an unbothered stare.

With a long, smooth leg sticking out of her dark green dress, she slid the bag by the chair towards him.

"Dress." Her gaze fell on his frail figure. "We must be on our way."

Despite his unsure stares, she didn't budge.

The camera moved away from Charles and slowly latched onto Marianne's expression. The off-screen rustling of clothing suggested The Photographer's compliance.

Yet the woman remained unfazed and inexpressive.

The camera cut to the pack of Dachshunds drinking water from a metal can.

They looked up, their little tails wagging, as a pair came down the stairs and climbed into the wagon parked by the entrance.

It was pulled by a pair of Great Danes, which were large even for the breed famous for its size.

The chauffeur clicked his tongue in a cacophony of sounds, uttering "gid boy" every once in a while.

With lethargic eyes, the Great Danes pulled the wagon. Before long, it was running towards the center of the floor, where the elevators were located.

The sad scenery of the lower floors passed by quickly, but the white seats of the wagon proved too comfortable for Charles as he fidgeted with his fingers.

He was dressed in a burgundy suit with matching shoes. On top of that, his hair wasn't done as he normally would.

The wagon entered a large elevator designed specifically for the high society. It had golden buttons and transparent walls.

As they went up, Charles had the opportunity to witness the many floors of The City as the nobles would: from great heights.

The floor they got off on was one of the higher floors known for its cultural significance. As if to provide proof of that, a great chandelier hung from its ceiling. It was the radius of a small city, and the candles it held were as large as seven-storey buildings.

Averie felt excitement surge through him.

'It turned out well,' he thought.

While filming, he had to imagine a great many things, as the crew was forced to heavily utilize CGI for a number of scenes.

But this wasn't one of those scenes.

The prop team had actually designed a detailed chandelier, which was nowhere near as large as depicted in the scene. It was the smart angles that the director of photography suggested that entirely achieved the desired effect.

'Voila! We have a gigantic chandelier.'

The devilish actor liked these sorts of neat methods and smart approaches, especially since the cost of CGI wasn't something to scoff at.

Unfortunately, because of the nature of the film, they had to use a lot of it.

Marianne, who had been sucking on a lollipop, nudged Charles. Like one would offer a rose, she held the lollipop to him.

Bemused, The Photographer stared at it as if contemplating its complexities.

With hesitation, he accepted and rolled it around in his mouth.

It tasted like strawberries, apples, and lipstick.

For some reason, he felt calm. It felt like he could notice more of the passing scenery; he could spot the scratches on every lamppost.

He wondered whether the candy contained cannabis or if he was high on sugar.

The worry of the chandelier crashing onto him disappeared as he licked the candy like an ice cream.

Ladies in fur coats and men with monocles could be seen on every street they passed. There were no stores or houses.

It was a fancy place of culture and entertainment. It was—after all—the hub of high society.

He held the candy up to his eye like an artist measuring his subject with a pencil. As the focus of the camera shifted, the candy blurred. A fancy building entered the vision.

Charles lowered the lollipop, his face full of intrigue. The wagon had arrived at its destination—a venue frequented by very few.

"Château du péril."

The quiet words of Marianne carried a sense of admiration, and Charles could guess why.

It was too humble to be called a chateau, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

It was two storeys tall and mostly made of marble and gold.

"There aren't many who even know about its existence."

Surrounded by bronze gargoyles, its open doors greeted the pair.

"What is this place?" Charles asked.

He couldn't take his eyes off the venue and his lips off the candy.

"The oldest theatre in The City."

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