Odette

Odette

Odette

The blizzard outside the windows of the Snezhnaya Royal Theater had shown no signs of relenting for days. Snow had drifted against the doors, sealing those inside off from the city, while the icy wind made the window frames shudder. The audience, the performers, and the staff had all become prisoners of the building, a place where fear was slowly supplanting the last remnants of trust.

First, Dymov vanished while sent to fetch blankets. Alyosha volunteered to find him, but returned alone, warning the others not to venture outside. By morning, the bodies of Torgov and Soboleva were discovered. Then the deaths continued, each new loss making the atmosphere more unbearable. Attempts to unravel the mystery only resulted in quarrels, as suspicions shifted from one person to the next.

This morning, Odette Spessiva sat at a table in the main hall, spreading a theater duty log before her. Beside it lay lists of spectators and staff, covered in frantic notes and corrections. The ballerina fought to maintain her composure, though exhaustion was taking its toll; sleepless nights and constant tension had stripped her of her usual poise.

— Valery is certain that someone could have slipped into the theater unnoticed. But Kulish checked every ticket at the entrance, and I simply don't understand how it could have happened.

Odette traced her finger along several lines, pausing at an entry made on the day Dymov disappeared. The shift time did not match the notation on the adjacent page. Previously, such an error might have seemed insignificant, but now, the ballerina could no longer dismiss it as mere carelessness.

— We have recounted everyone remaining in the building. The result is different every single time. Perhaps someone is making a mistake, or perhaps we are overlooking something far more important.

A sudden creak echoed from backstage, followed by a short thud, as if a piece of stage prop had been brushed against. Odette lifted her head. She listened to the silence for a few seconds before closing the log and pulling a folded sheet containing the duty roster from beneath it.

— There is one oddity here. On the night Dymov went missing, someone altered the schedule, but I cannot yet discern whose hand it was.

She held the sheet out to you, her gaze lingering on an illegible scribble near the very edge.

— Look closely. Does the handwriting look familiar to you, or do you notice something I might have missed?