By the time the overture slid into its first chaotic crescendo, Chris could already feel his soul attempting to evacuate his body.
The opera was more movement than music, more neon than narrative, and more screaming than any cultured production should reasonably contain. The dancers drifted across the stage like haunted wind chimes, while someone in the orchestra pit kept striking a metal sheet for "atmospheric effect."
Chris took another slow sip of lemon water.
If this night had a lifeline, this was it.
Dax leaned slightly toward him without breaking posture. "Still alright?"
Chris kept his eyes forward. "I'm embracing the suffering with dignity."
"You don't have to suffer," Dax murmured, his tone too soft for anyone but Chris to hear. "Say the word and we leave."
Chris stiffened at the idea of standing. Leaving meant walking. Walking meant moving. Moving meant pain radiating from places he would rather not acknowledge in public.
