Extra's Descent

Brandon's fingers moved across the piano keys skillfully.

The music began slowly and heavily with sorrow. It was a composition born of pain, of mourning a loss that could never be undone, of grieving something stolen too soon, and of the burning vengeance that smoldered in its wake.

It was a story without words, a confession, and Brandon, through it all, played without pause.

The piece he played was Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 23 in F minor, Op. 57. Otherwise known as "Appassionata."

It was one of Beethoven's most turbulent and emotionally charged works, written during a time when he was already going deaf and struggling with the growing despair of his isolation.

And for Brandon, it wasn't just a simple performance for the masses gathered.

It was a eulogy.

A vow.

"...."

And a warning.

The contrast was noticeable, as mere minutes ago, the hall had echoed with lighthearted pop songs. But now, ushered by Brandon's haunting rendition, the audience grew silent, yet reverent to his performance.

Num—

Amidst the beautiful notes that filled the room, without lifting his eyes from the keys, Brandon spoke.

"What does it mean to be a mentor?"

Num—

"Is it teaching someone how to succeed? Guiding their steps? Shaping their path?"

He paused.

"Or is it watching them fall, over and over again, knowing you can't always catch them… but still choosing to stay by their side?"

A soft breath escaped his lips as his shoulders subtly rose.

"I used to think being a mentor meant having all the answers. But now I know… sometimes, it's about holding space for someone while they find their own."

He finally lifted his eyes. Not to the crowd, but somewhere distant.

"I used to have such a person. She was clumsy, shy, and a social recluse, really. And if you looked at her, you'd never think she had it in her to be anyone's mentor. She didn't have the charisma. She didn't even believe in herself half the time."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"But she was powerful and beautiful. Not in the way people usually mean it, but in the way she only knew pain and still chose to be kind.. She lacked a lot of things, sure. But even so... I consider her the best mentor I've ever had."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"Not because she gave me all the answers. But because she taught me how to keep asking questions. How to keep going when it hurts. How to believe in myself when I didn't even know who I was."

Num—

"She probably never realized what she meant to me. People like her rarely do. They think they're just stumbling through life, messing up, trying again. But from my point of view… she lit the path."

Many among the audience began exchanging glances. Confusion bloomed in scattered pockets of the crowd, especially among the investors and the guests Lianna had personally invited.

They hadn't come here for this. Certainly not for some pianist's melancholy soliloquy.

A few cleared their throats. One or two whispered behind fanned programs. There were even some who looked toward Lianna, silently asking if she planned to put a stop to it.

After all, this wasn't part of the expected performance, but a full redirection.

But before any of them could rise, Brandon lowered his hands to the piano once more, and played.

Num—

The music answered them all.

"She understood I was always just trying my hardest."

He didn't look up as his fingers moved, drawing out each chord with grace.

"My head was a mess. Always has been. Thoughts pulling me in ten different directions, never knowing what the hell I was doing... but I still tried."

The music darkened. Lower keys rumbled, echoing every word with a sorrow the language itself couldn't capture.

"I failed. Over and over again. And every time I did, I looked at her, expecting disappointment. But it never came."

Brandon closed his eyes for a moment, letting his words hang in the silence that followed.

"So, I dedicate this performance solely to her."

Then, slowly, he opened them. His eyes gleamed coldly like blue ice crystals as they turned toward Lianna.

"For Evelyn Cessna."

The name rang out. A name that didn't belong to anyone in the crowd.

Not to Lianna.

"...."

In an instant, her eyes widened.

Just moments ago, her heart had swelled with pride. She had listened to his playing, her chest filled with joy as she watched everyone around her marvel at him.

Her Brandon.

But then she suddenly felt a slight, imperceptible tug at her wrist.

She blinked.

"...?"

Her gaze drifted down.

Threadshad wrapped themselves around her wrist. They hadn't been there before. She was certain of it.

She looked up, stunned and met Brandon's gaze, staring directly back at her.

His fingers continued to glide across the keys. And with every movement of his hands, the threads stretched out from his fingers in all directions/

And then, what had once seemed like empty air came alive.

"...."

Threads were everywhere.

Thousands of them.

They coiled above the heads of the crowd and ran along the walls. And as realization set in, panic broke loose. Gasps turned into screams, and people began to rise.

But they froze just as quickly.

The threads had already reached them. Every single one of them. Woven around limbs, shoulders, necks.

Brandon didn't stop playing.

Num—

"Move, and I'll cut all your heads off."

The crowd froze.

No one dared breathe. Some still stood half-risen from their seats, trembling mid-motion. Others gripped the arms of their chairs, too afraid to even blink.

The threads wrapped around them didn't tighten, but the threat in Brandon's voice made it clear they didn't need to.

"Good."

His fingers danced ominously along the keys once more, as if coaxing the silence into submission.

"You're all here to bear witness to what it means to take from me."

Then, his eyes locked with hers.

"Especially you. Archbishop of Lust… Lianna Venice."

The name landed like a curse, and in an instant, the audience, once too startled to think, now slowly began to understand as they all looked at Lianna.

"B-Brandon…?"

Lianna's blood ran cold.

"W-What are you talking abou—"

"You heard him," came another voice.

It was Raven.

He had appeared out of nowhere with his blade drawn, its edge barely an inch from her neck. His eyes were calm, but there was no mistaking he was here to ensure she didn't move.

"Move, and your head comes off."

The words were quiet, but they didn't need to be loud.

The investors and VIP guests seated near her recoiled in terror. Some gasped. Others looked away, as if doing so would distance them from the danger.

But none dared to flee.

Not with those threads still webbed across the room.

And certainly not with the music still playing.

Lianna, with her breath shaking, tried to summon her power to burn away the threads binding her limbs.

"...What is this…"

But nothing came.

She tugged harder, calling upon her strength again and again, but the threads remained unmoved.

It didn't make sense.

Ba… Thump!

Her pulse quickened as panic began to stir in her gut. Then, the truth began to sink in.

She, the Archbishop of Lust, who had always been in control, always the one to seduce and ensnare, had been the one ensnared.

Blinded by her own desire, she hadn't seen it. She hadn't wanted to see it. That the man she had flaunted beside her, cherished in public, loved in private, had been playing her all along.

Brandon had worn love like a mask. He had smiled for her. He had touched her like she meant something. Looked at her with warmth, she now realized had been anything but warm.

He had pretended to be hers.

Pretended to love her.

And the worst part wasn't the trap he had set, nor the humiliation of being exposed before the entire dome.

No.

It was the feeling now blooming in her chest.

Fear.

Not fear of death. Not of the blade resting against her throat, or the threads coiled around her limbs.

But fear of that truth.

That all of it, every word, and every moment shared with him, had meant nothing to him at all.

That the warmth in his gaze had never belonged to her.

And now, standing frozen as the requiem played on, Lianna Venice, the Archbishop of Lust, felt it for the first time.

The pain of not being loved back.

The agony of being desired… but never cherished.

"B-Brandon, t-this joke has gone on far long enough—Ukh!"

Her voice cracked mid-protest as the threads around her neck suddenly constricted. She clawed at them instinctively, but they did not budge at all.

Brandon, still seated at the piano, lifted his right hand from the keys and waved it through the air like a conductor guiding a symphony.

And the threads obeyed.

——!

With the slightest motion of his wrist, Lianna's body was pulled upward, lifted from the ground by the neck. Her heels scraped the polished floor for only a second before they left it entirely, her toes dangling helplessly above the ground.

"B-Brandon!" she choked out, the scream barely more than a strangled gasp.

But he didn't look at her.

His eyes were closed.

The music never stopped.

"This is my requiem."

"Brandon!"

"Farewell."

———!

In the next instant, her body convulsed.. A sickening snap echoed through the dome, followed by the soft, wet thud of something hitting the ground.

It was her head.

Blood sprayed upward like a grotesque fountain. The audience, trapped by threads and terror alike, could only watch, frozen in place, as the warm droplets rained down upon them.

Some gasped. Others flinched. Most just stared with widened eyes.

And Brandon continued to play, as if nothing had happened.

As if the execution had merely been part of the score.

Num—