"Let's play a game... a game of murder."
A young blossoming composer, Markel didn't know what to do when he was cordially invited to the last concert of a retiring pianist. But when the concert's true motive is revealed, Markel is sucked into a vort...
Why are there only five sections when there are clearly six Rhapsodies?
Staring down at his programme in apparent disappointment, Markel clipped his hair away from his face, eyes glittering. He'd already input the piece into his portable player and played it back to himself to double check that he hadn't missed anything, but alas, he actually hadn't made any sort of mistake whatsoever. Just then, there came two sharp raps on his hotel door, and he hurriedly shoved the programme to the side of his bed before slipping his feet into slippers.
The door opened to a young jade-eyed lady with waves of tiger-orange hair flowing down her back. Despite her evident beauty, Markel still scowled slightly at her before asking, 'Name, business?'
'Miss Yang Guang asked me to pass these out to everyone who attended her concert today,' came the shy reply. 'Here.'
A thick, fat envelope was placed in Markel's hand before the lady went on, knocking on the room next to him.
Sighing, the mocha-haired American closed the door, and with the envelope in his hand, wondered whether or not it was truly worth his time to search for 'a secret to society no one had ever known'.
Markel left for home a week later, having seen no point in staying in a place that he was all but familiar with, or so he said. Truthfully, he just wanted to get away from Vienna as fast as possible- from what he learnt from the letter from Yang Guang, something big was going to go down in three days after his scheduled flight back.
She wasn't lying.
The Wednesday he came back, a number he wished he'd never seen popped up in his 'Missed Calls', a number that had attempted calling him 21 times already within a half hour span.
The very same number that he hadn't even bothered to glance at until the 22nd call.
'Mrs. Huffman, what do you need?'
'Mark, for Pete's sake, I'm your mother, stop calling me that.' Sobbing came from the other end of the line, and Markel, just for a tiny microsecond, felt a sliver of guilt.
Then it was roughly shoved away by a half-decade of loathing and suffering.
'I could call you Marlene Freida Huffman, if that's what you want.'
