A few members of the pit have received special dispensation from the Contessa of False Comforts. Not merely it will be over soon, but actually getting the briefest taste of relief. A rest of a few bars, just enough to turn the page and see how much longer the music stretches. An agony made worse by remembering how it feels to go without pain.

For Gaeta, who spent four years having each of his successive hopes extinguished one by one, it's the perfect torment. Why bother putting him onstage? Just send him to the orchestra to sing backing vocals, let him leave at brief, irregular intervals to catch his breath and drink some water, then bring out a lesser demon to herd him back with a sorrowful you're needed again, sir. just one more number.

He's slumped in one of the hallways when Pyotr finds him. For a second, he doesn't respond; then he raises his head with some effort, blinking as he focuses on the other man. His upstairs neighbor? Right, the artist, the one interested in the "macabre" that Gaeta mostly just passes by with brief pleasantries whenever they bump into each other. He looks so different under these lights.

When he speaks, Gaeta's voice is a hoarse, overtaxed croak from hours of singing. "How?"