The interior of the '78 Opala smelled of straw cigarettes, wet dog, and "Pine Forest" air freshener. On the dashboard, a bobblehead of Saint Anthony shared space with a shrunken Goblin skull that bobbed as the car hit potholes.

  "So," said the driver, adjusting the rearview mirror to stare at Gristle in the back seat. "You guys are from S?o Paulo? Can tell by the accent. And the smell of stress. Here, we take death at a slower pace."

  The driver was named Beto "Fine-Claw." He was a Beta Werewolf, with sideburns covering half his face and nails that scratched the leather steering wheel.

  "Just drive, pooch," Valéria grumbled, cleaning her shotgun with a rag.

  "No offense, lady." Beto stepped on the gas. The V6 engine roared, not like a car, but like a living beast. We flew through a red light, nearly running over a family of Armored Capybaras crossing the crosswalk. "Just sayin', going to the Wire Opera House this time of year is asking to become sheet music."

  "Sheet music?" I asked, watching the city pass by the window. The streets were lit by necrotic gas lamps. In Barigui Park, I saw gigantic shapes grazing in the fog.

  "Yeah. The Maestro." Beto shuddered, and the car swerved slightly. "That place isn't a theater anymore, Doctor. It's a soul acoustics lab. They say the Maestro is trying to compose a symphony to resurrect the old gods. But for that, he needs very specific vocal cords."

  I looked at Luna. She instinctively put a hand to her throat.

  "My voice isn't for sale," she said quietly.

  "The Maestro doesn't buy, kid. He extracts."

  The car entered a tree-lined avenue. The trees here didn't try to kill us, but their branches formed an oppressive tunnel.

  I took the moment to analyze our driver's biology.

  [CLINICAL OBSERVATION]

  [SUBJECT: URBAN LYCANTHROPE.]

  [HEART RATE: 140 BPM (CHRONIC TACHYCARDIA).]

  [PUPILS: DILATED BY THE WANING MOON.]

  "Beto," I said. "You have tachycardia. Too much caffeine or fear?"

  "Fear, Doctor. The Opera is in Shadow Council territory, but not even the Lich you cured dares to go in there. It's a neutral zone. Or rather, a dead zone. The water in the lake around the Opera... it doesn't reflect the moon. It swallows the light."

  "Perfect." I smiled. "Water with high dark mana density. It's the best natural preservative there is. If the Crypt of Genesis is there, the records will be intact."

  We reached the destination twenty minutes later.

  The entrance to the Paulo Leminski Quarry was blocked by fallen rocks, but there was a side trail leading to the Opera entrance.

  Beto stopped the car a hundred meters away.

  "This is where I stop. The smell from here on..." he wrinkled his wet nose, "...smells like old formaldehyde and an out-of-tune violin. Give me the payment."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Gristle tossed the slab of Ogre meat into his lap. Beto sniffed the steak, his eyes glowing yellow.

  "Prime cut. Swamp-aged. Thanks." He shifted into reverse. "Friendly advice? If you hear music, don't cover your ears. Cover your soul."

  The Opala peeled out and vanished into the fog, leaving us alone at the entrance of the South's most dangerous tourist attraction.

  The Wire Opera House had always been an impressive structure: a circular theater built of steel tubes with a transparent roof, situated over an artificial lake, surrounded by rock walls and forest.

  Now, under the apocalyptic moonlight, it looked like a skeletal cage.

  The metal structure was covered in black vines. The polycarbonate roof was dirty with slime. And the lake...

  Beto was right. The water was black as India ink. There were no ripples, no reflections. It was a mirror of liquid obsidian.

  The access bridge—a metal walkway over the water—creaked when I stepped on it.

  "Arthur," Luna called. She was pale, clutching her sonic baton tightly. "I hear it."

  "Hear what? It's absolute silence."

  "Not with ears. With resonance." She pointed to the dark theater. "Someone is singing inside. It's a continuous note. A B-flat. But... it's sad. So sad it makes me want to jump in the water."

  "Siren effect." Valéria pumped the shotgun. "Sonic mind control."

  "No," I corrected, crouching to examine the bridge railing. There were runes scratched into the metal, corroded by time. "This isn't a trap to lure people in. It's a barrier to keep something inside. The wire structure... it's a magical Faraday Cage. It blocks spectral energy from escaping."

  Gristle sniffed the air.

  "Smells like rotten food. But also smells like... lavender?"

  We walked along the walkway. The sound of our footsteps on the metal echoed unnaturally, as if we were walking inside a drum.

  We reached the double glass doors of the main entrance. They were locked with thick chains and padlocks that looked like they were made of human bone.

  "Valéria, the torch," I requested.

  "No need." Luna stepped forward. She touched the glass with the tip of her baton. "The lock frequency is C-sharp."

  She emitted a short, precise sonic pulse. Ping!

  The bone of the padlocks vibrated and crumbled into calcium dust. The chains fell.

  I pushed the doors open.

  The air that rushed out was cold and dry.

  The interior of the theater was plunged in gloom. The audience seats were empty, but in every seat, there was a doll.

  Human-sized dolls, made of porcelain, wood, and wax. Thousands of them. Sitting in silence, "watching" the empty stage.

  "What a friendly audience," Valéria quipped, shining her gun light on the dolls. "And they don't even eat popcorn."

  "Look at the stage," I pointed.

  In the center of the stage, illuminated by a single beam of moonlight entering through a hole in the roof, was a grand piano.

  And sitting at the piano, back to us, a figure.

  He wore an old tailcoat, torn at the back. He had long, disheveled white hair.

  He wasn't playing the keys. His hands were still over the keyboard.

  But the sound... the sound was coming from him.

  His body vibrated, emitting that sad hum Luna felt.

  "The Maestro," I whispered.

  Suddenly, the figure stopped vibrating.

  He swiveled slowly on the piano bench.

  There was no face. Where eyes and a mouth should have been, there was only the smooth surface of varnished wood violin.

  But in his chest, open like a sound box, stretched gut strings vibrated on their own.

  A voice came out of his chest, sounding like a deep, raspy cello.

  "Tuned... in E minor. You are out of tune. The harmony has been broken."

  The theater floor began to shake. The dolls in the audience turned their porcelain heads simultaneously in our direction. Crack-crack-crack.

  "Intruders in the sacred acoustics." The Maestro stood up. He was two and a half meters tall. His fingers were too long, with tips sharp as tuning forks. "Silence in the concert hall. Rehearsal is about to begin."

  He raised his hands. The dolls stood up.

  They didn't walk. They moved like puppets pulled by invisible strings, jerky and spasmodic.

  "Arthur," Luna said, her voice steady despite the fear. She spun the baton, the crystal glowing brightly. "I think he wants a battle of the bands."

  "Then let's give it to him." I drew my scalpels. "But our style is more Surgical Punk Rock. Gristle, clear a path! Valéria, aim for the dolls' joints!"

  "And you, Doctor?" asked Gristle, already swinging her cleaver.

  I looked at the Maestro, at the exposed strings in his chest.

  "I'm going to cut the strings of that instrument. Let's see if he plays without a heart."

  The music started. But it wasn't classical. It was the sound of chaos.