I shriek, the mask landing on the floor with a soft clatter as my hands release it in surprise. The entire left side of his face is littered with prominent, uncaring burns. My hand flies to my mouth, sparing him from whatever reaction may escape from it. The man's face contorts into a pained grimace as he turns away from me, steadying himself on the balcony's railing.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I'm sorry." He falls to the ground, repeating the phrase over and over again as if it would never be enough. I feel my eyes welling up with tears. He thinks I'm disgusted, I think to myself. It wouldn't be a lie... but I'm not disgusted by him at all. I'm disgusted at the situation. How could anyone do this? How could anyone live with this? I can't help but pity him, a godlike and stoic man reduced to a heap of self-hatred and sadness. It makes me even more emotional and even more upset for him. I crouch on the ground and move closer to him, like someone attempting to approach an animal without frightening it.

"Don't apologize," I reply softly. He shuffles away, pressing his back as hard as he can against the railing. I continue towards him.

"Don't look at me!" he cries out. I stop. In his voice, I hear a change. His smooth, clear speech has become gravelly and harsh, and his steady volume has heightened. Still, I don't back away. I want to tell him that everything is all right, that a face is just a face. But when I reach him and his bloodshot, tear-filled eyes meet mine, I am rendered mute. Instead, I take his hand in mine again, intertwining my fingers with his and caressing the back of his hand with my thumb. He presses back against my grip, clutching my hand tighter. I smile gently at him reassuringly. Then - and I cannot tell whether prompted by my own intentions or on its own - my other hand lifts slowly towards the scarred portion of the man's face. He winces, noticing the change, but doesn't cower away like he had before. My hand finally reaches his leathered, delicate skin, cautiously running it over his skin and calming his distorted features. I feel the wetness of his tears as they pass through my touch. My own tears run down my face as the two of us stare at each other. I draw my face closer, resting my forehead on his. Our noses touch softly, the contrast between weathered and soft skin filling the space between us with electricity. I can't help but yearn to be even closer to him.

"I need to tell you..." the man says softly. His voice is back to its normal composure, but it is more timid than usual. I nod in reply. He reaches for the mask that still rests on the ground, moving his face away from mine as he brings the mask back to its normal place. "You must know by now that you aren't safe here."

"I'm all right," I reassure him.

"No, you aren't." He grabs my hands tightly, a little too tightly. I wince, and he eases up. "I can't let you suffer the way I have."

"You aren't safe here either," I insist. "I'm not wrong, am I?"

The man remains silent, but we both know his answer.

"Come with me," I urge him. "You don't want me to be in danger, I know, but I don't want you to be, either."

"I can't go back out into the world," he says. "They fear me. I repulse them. What kind of life would that be? To be hated?"

"I don't hate you," I declare without any hesitation. "The spectators that come to your shows don't hate you."

"They don't know me!" The man raises his voice. "They... they know a mysterious musician that they can use to entertain them. They don't know me."

"It's okay to let them in," I say. "Not everyone is heartless and cold. There is always someone who will accept you."

"How can you sound so sure?" he asks. "Besides, even if I wanted to leave, I couldn't."

"If you can get me out, it shouldn't be so hard for you to do the same for yourself, right?"

"They would come after me, bring me back, hurt anyone who stood in their way."

"Who are 'they'?"

The man's eyes widen at my question. The air changes, becoming one with his apparent melancholy.

"The real masters of this hall," he replies finally. "My music belongs to them, and them alone. There is nothing I can do."

"Of course there is!" I argue. "You can still leave."

"It isn't all bad," he says, trying to put me at ease with a smile. My jaw is set firm and his smile wavers. "This is all I know. Since I was a child, this has been my home. I was raised here, learned to play here, and I couldn't imagine my life without my music. And since I can't imagine my life without music... I suppose I can't imagine one without them, either."

"You don't really feel that way though, do you?" I ask. He opens his mouth to reply but shuts it again after a moment. I continue. "You aren't doing this for the music. You're doing it to appease them."

"And why should I need to to do that?"

"Because..." I hesitate. "Because I think you are actually afraid of them."

The looks to me quickly with a fire in his eyes that was not there before. "Afraid?" he scoffs. "Don't be stupid."

"No," I say adamantly. He looks surprised by my sudden confidence in my own accusations. He lets me speak. "You're lying again."

He looks down at the ground, shame clear on his face. I rest my hand on the masked portion, my fingertips feeling the soft brush of his dark hair. "It's okay to be afraid."

"I can't afford to be," he says, putting his hand over mine and interlocking our fingers. "If I let myself feel fear, then living itself becomes unbearable." Even while he speaks to me, his eyes never leave the ground.

All at once, I realize. Even still, I don't want to believe it. It can't be true. I feel anger well up inside me at the suspicion that has entered my mind.

"Tell me..." I say, putting my other hand on the other side of his face and lifting his head until his gaze rests level with mine. "How were you hurt?"

He looks at me, first in shock and then with a cold stare. "You are treading on thin ice, Adeline."

"I'm sorry if I upset you. But I need to know. I want to do something to help."

"There's nothing you can do!" He argues forcefully.

"I don't believe that," I say. "Even if you say there is no chance, nothing you say will stop me from trying."

"If you insist." The man stands suddenly, looking down at me with an expressionless stare. "I refuse to stand by and watch." He begins to walk away.

"Hey!" I yell after him, getting up and running towards him. I grab his arm and try to pull him back, to which he attempts to jerk it away. Somewhere in the struggle, I feel something hard hit my forehead. "Ah," I murmur, stumbling backward and falling on my knees. My ears start ringing, canceling out all noise around me except for the man's worried, pleading voice."

"Adeline!"

"I'm... sorry... mean... hurt you..."

I am only able to pick up broken fragments. Between the pain and the confusion of my consciousness slipping away, I reach towards him and tiredly ask him one more question:

"They... did that... to you... didn't they? I'm... sorry..."

Then the world turns black.