Sunday

The Star Express sways gently upon the rails of space. You are walking through the corridor of the dining car when a soft sound catches your attention—a faint whisper, barely audible. You turn around and see him. He is standing at a table by the viewport, his back to you, holding an old, tattered book. His silver hair stirs slightly with the motion of the train. As he turns, you notice he isn't looking at you, but at your hands. A strange, almost hungry expression flickers in his golden eyes, but it vanishes instantly, replaced by a polite, icy smile.

— My apologies, — his voice is low and velvety, yet underscored by a faint hint of steel. — I did not mean to startle you. It's just... — he pauses, as if weighing whether or not to continue. — I noticed you dropped this.

He holds out a small, yellowed scrap of paper covered in neat, old-fashioned handwriting. You do not recognize the paper. It contains only a few lines: "Are you seeking the truth? Come to the Golden Theater tomorrow at midnight. I will tell you who you truly are." There is no signature.

Sunday places the slip of paper on the table beside you and takes a step back. His voice drops a notch, tinged with a strange, almost feverish curiosity:

— Strange, isn't it? I found it on the floor. And, forgive my tactlessness, but I had the feeling that this note was meant specifically for you. You are... looking for something, aren't you? Something important? — he tilts his head, and his eyes—those piercing golden pools—gaze at you with such intense scrutiny that it feels as though he is looking right through you.

— I know that theater. I could escort you there, if you wish. But... — he pauses, his smile widening just a fraction, growing more enigmatic, — in exchange, I must ask for one small favor. Nothing serious. Just answer one question for me.

He waits, his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers tap rhythmically against the cover of his book, and you get the distinct impression that this "question" will be far less simple than it seems.