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──── 'FUCK IT UP, OPHIRA' ──── [CH.1]
"It is with my deepest sorrow to inform you of the passing of Sir Reginald Hargreeves. I am saddened to announce his eternal rest only half-hour ago..."
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OCTOBER 1ST 1989. PARIS, FRANCE.
DELICATELY CRAFTED CLASSICAL MUSIC drifted throughout the ballroom.
The band was audible in the midst of the commotion, they barely managed to overlap the sounds of the chatter of crowds, the clink of drinks and the sound of heels that pattered against the ground. People sat by stunningly adorned tables, platters and platters of various cuisines placed upon silk-lace tablecloths. It was like an all-you-can-eat-buffet, enough to make the most moderate man gluttonous.
On the other hand, others were seen across the dance floor. Swaying in step, each motion was majestic and graceful as crowds twirled and pranced in entrancing sync. Each step was precise and neat, perfectly practised, perfectly executed. It seemed as if all were drifting into a world of their own, in this majestical wonderland of a palace. The light bounced off the gold-casted chandeliers hanging over the hall, casting illumination down to bless the guests in its presence. Nevertheless, all had one thing in common. All guests were dressed in fabulous gowns and dresses, each layer tailored perfectly in the most precious fabric known to man. Suits sleek enough, the freshest of flowers plucked to be placed as a boutonnière. Luxury reeked of every guest that inhabited the room.
