My apologies to anyone who dropped dead due to the extreme corniness of the teaser line. It was so bad I had to use it.

Anywho, my description of the Sunken Opera House is not true to the game. Think of it as "pre-sunken", or something. Not sure if I'll continue this or not…it's a start. I just wanted an excuse to mention Sparda's monocle in a story X3

Thanks, and enjoy. (Man, this looked a lot longer on paper!)

DISCLAIMER: As always, I do not own any DMC characters.

Act I

Only the silence strained to hear the reverberations of polished shoes on equally polished floors. And only the candles, countless sparks of light that seemed to populate every surface of the room, watched the solemn approach of a figure that hadn't seen in an age. The golden haze cast by those hundreds of candles was what Sparda recalled most vividly among all things in the Opera House. It reminded him of what heaven was said to look like. It was the closest he'd ever get.

How he'd found his way back after all these years was a mystery even to him. And yet, he'd pushed open the scarlet doors without the slightest hesitation, as he had done so many times before. It was just how he remembered it. Crimson velvet covered the seats, still soft to the touch. Carved figures wound their way around columns, teasing his eyes and leading them up into the shadowed heights of the vaulted ceiling. Gilded treasures adorned the walls, many piled haphazardly in corners. It was as if the Victorian age, in its death throes, had purged all its melancholy splendour into one room. The era embraced him, glowing in the stone at his throat, flashing off the rim of his monocle. This place remembered him as much as he recalled it.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of movement, and he turned to see himself framed in gold. From the tarnished reflection of the wall mirror, a gentleman gazed out at him. Silvery white hair, pushed back from a face of ivory skin. A long coat of violet and red that whispered when he moved. If the light had been more than an evening glow, he would've seen the unwavering blue eyes that were all but human. But Sparda had no desire to stare at his own reflection. He was here to see to see the leading lady. Turning, he made his way to the stage, well aware of her hidden presence. She was always here when he wanted her. But, as he climbed the steps up to the main stage, no one appeared to greet him.

Stage fright?

Hardly.

She loved to make a grand entrance, and was merely waiting for her cue.

"Nevan…" he breathed to an audience of empty seats.

Fingers trailed a familiar pattern across his shoulders as she stalked her way out from the edges of his vision. Dark, gossamer material clung to her hips, moving with a life unto its own. Fiery hair draped lightly over her bare breasts, covering them in mock modesty. There was a smile on her lips as she looked him up and down, interest sparking in her languid gaze.

"You were always the gentleman," she purred, fingering the collar of his coat, then raising her hand to trace the contours of his face, "but I was expecting a knight. My love, you've changed."

"It's been a long time, Nevan."

Sparda's lips did not share her smile.