Chapter 7: The Violet Blade

  [The Next Day – The Barcelona Show]

  The air inside the hall bore no resemblance to the Barcelona air outside. It was dry, cold, and carried a faint chemical scent that evoked hospital corridors. Behind Oweis, the roar of La Rambla gradually withered with every step he took into the hallway, replaced by a monotonous, metallic hum. He felt it vibrating against the roof of his mouth—a phantom echo of a massive engine churning deep underground.

  Oweis placed his phone into the plastic bag held by a silent security guard in white gloves. For a fleeting second, he felt as if he were surrendering his final tether to reality. At that exact moment, a pale white flash strobed from the ceiling—a flicker unnoticed by anyone else, yet it made his pupils dilate painfully, as if something in his head were being recalibrated without his consent.

  Adrian walked ahead of them, flipping his entry card between his fingers while scanning the filling hall. "Numbered seats... Row 4, seats 103, 104, 105. This setup doesn’t feel like a street performance; they’ve poured a fortune into this."

  Oweis hesitated for a second at the start of the row, the afterglow of that flash still ringing in his head. Matthias noticed the sudden pause but didn't overthink it; he saw only a friend looking slightly pale, perhaps from the chill of the room or the fatigue of the journey. Oweis pressed his fingers to his temples and rubbed them violently. He no longer knew if what he was seeing was a mere trick or if he was approaching something far more profound.

  "The AC is on full blast," Matthias remarked casually, stepping past him to take his seat. "Looks like they want us wide awake the whole time."

  Oweis nodded wordlessly and sat in seat 104. The initial flash in the corridor had left no mark on the others... but for Oweis? It felt like proof that his senses could no longer be trusted.

  [Above – The Distant Viewpoint]

  In one of the high back seats, Maver Holmer sat perfectly still, observing the tide of the audience. Beside him, Professor Karl skimmed the promotional pamphlet with visible boredom.

  "It’s not a spectacle, Karl," Maver whispered, his eyes locked onto the light sources. "Look at the angles of the seats. Listen to this hum... it doesn’t behave like sound. This hall is designed as a biological snare; it forces your body to doubt everything your eyes see."

  Silence followed as Maver scanned the crowd. His gaze lingered for a split second on Oweis, who was busy kneading his temples, before he resumed his mechanical sweep of the rows. The fingerprints of something invisible are all over this room... or so my mind tells me.

  [Backstage – Control Room]

  Digital monitors displayed the room's activity levels. Ariel stood behind the console, noise-canceling headphones clamped over his ears, his eyes fixed on a specific frequency indicator.

  "The audience has settled," Ariel murmured. "Shall we?"

  [Inside the Hall]

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  An unfamiliar silence fell—not the eager hush of an audience, but a suffocating, dense quiet that pressed against the eardrums as if the air itself had been sucked out. Then—without warning—the lights died. It wasn't a gradual fade, but a sharp severing, as if an invisible hand had amputated the light. The hall was plunged into a darkness so absolute it felt like falling down a bottomless well.

  From the heart of this void, from an impossible point mid-stage, a violet beam sliced through the dark. It was sharp, clean, and cruel... like a razor blade. It settled on a chrome sphere suspended by invisible wires. The sphere wasn't still; it spun at an unnatural speed until its polished surface seemed to throb, throwing off distorted reflections that cheated the eye.

  Ariel appeared under the light. His metallic mask caught the violet hue, reflecting it with surgical coldness. He stood motionless, arms relaxed, his presence eerily static. When he spoke, his voice was flat and polished, sounding as if it came not from a human body, but directly from hidden speakers within the walls.

  "Welcome," Ariel began. "We appreciate your presence from the depths of our hearts. Before we commence the main event... we have prepared a brief prelude."

  A few nervous chuckles rippled through the audience. Alfredo took a half-step forward, a slight, practiced smile on his lips. "And also," he added in a tone of false warmth, "before we begin... let us ensure there are no small children—or the elderly—among us for this particular performance."

  An unearned tension crept through the rows. Ariel’s voice returned, even lower: "Close your eyes... now."

  Before Ariel’s hand dropped, his eyes met Alfredo’s. It wasn't a look of request, nor confirmation. It was something closer to a question never asked, or an answer that arrived far too early.

  It wasn't a request; it was an order, delivered in a tone that forbade hesitation. The moment the audience’s eyelids snapped shut, the control room released a 19Hz sonic pulse—a frequency felt rather than heard. The chairs vibrated beneath them, and something cold crawled up the length of their spines.

  In that silence, Oweis was certain he heard a single word:

  "Stop." And then... nothing. When he turned, no one was looking.

  "Open them."

  When eyes opened, there was no longer just one sphere. Thanks to stroboscopic lighting synchronized with the rotation speed, it appeared as if dozens of metal orbs were floating in the air—overlapping, drifting apart, and reuniting in an impossible geometric dance that defied perspective and logic.

  Oweis’s stomach lurched. He didn't see spheres. He saw a tear in space itself. It was as if reality had cracked open and been forced back together the wrong way. He rubbed his temples again; the headache that had haunted him for days was no longer a pain—it was the rhythmic strike of a hammer inside his skull.

  Alfredo stepped onto the stage. His dark attire made him look like a ghost bleeding out from the edges of the light. He didn't look at the crowd; his eyes were fixed on the swimming orbs.

  "As you know," he said, his voice deep and slow, "the eye sees what it expects to be there... but the mind—the mind always tries to fill the gaps. What you see now... is the gap."

  He waved his hand in a single, calculated motion. The phantom spheres exploded.

  They shattered into thousands of light fragments that lunged toward the audience at a shocking speed. Someone in the back rows shrieked, shielding their face. But the shards froze centimeters before impact and vanished, leaving behind the sharp, ozone scent of a lightning strike—a sting that confused the senses.

  The usual sensations flickered out one by one, as if someone were flipping switches. Only one sense remained active... but no one knew which one it was.

  Silence returned. Seconds stretched out, heavy and still, as if the air had stopped moving. Then, the clapping began. Hesitant at first... scattered... a few thin sounds colliding without enthusiasm. It wasn't the applause of admiration, but of confusion. Soon, others joined in, rising into a cold wave of noise—devoid of warmth, devoid of passion.

  No one was certain of what they had seen... or what was beginning to leak into them.

  A heavy silence returned as Ariel stepped forward. For the first time, he smiled beneath his metallic mask—a chilling expression that didn't reach his eyes.

  "The main event will require nothing of you... but to watch. And the prize... goes to the one who sees the truth for what it is."

  To be continued...