The Church was like a second home, Sasha still felt most comfortable among the rock and debris of the undercity. It was his home, it had been his home since coming to Moscow. And before that in the ruins of the CEZ, he felt like he belonged in those worlds -- old and broken and lost to civilization.

Sasha was still reeling from the woman who had attacked him. The way his hand lit up with fire, and her clothes ignited under his touch. It was the power of the shard. The world was clear and bright but now as he sat in the corner of the safe haven clutching the grotesque glass in his hand breathing deeply the world faded to the ugliness that Sasha knew it to be.

His heart raced in his chest, beating like a drum keeping time in a parade marching to war. He felt tired and broken. But Sasha closed his eyes and focused on his breathe and his heart trying to slow it to a normal pace, the shard in his hand clutched to his chest muttering softly to himself. "I'm okay. I'm okay."

1 minute. 10 minutes. An hour later, Sasha's body came to rest. His pulse returned to normal and he was chilled from the sweat covering his body. The cold tile of the floor and the stone walls did not offer any heat. Sasha went in search of something to warm himself by -- a fire that would burn into his soul. Something to warm him and calm the rest of his anxieties. He was feeling better, but he desired the heat and burn of the fire.

He’d been in a kind of fog ever since the House Party. Not the harmless, dreamy sort of fog either, but the thick, clinging kind that makes you forget what day it is or why you even got out of bed.

The nights blurred together, slipping through his fingers like water. Entire evenings spent hunched over his desk, the glow of his screens the only light in the room. Voxel had never been so busy—chat rooms, dark-web auctions, forums he didn’t even remember signing into. He couldn’t recall much about those nights, only fragments: a Hello Kitty avatar, a snatch of distorted laughter, and a bid for something he didn’t understand. The Key.

When he finally emerged from his condo, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because his back had seized up from sitting too long, cramping hard enough to make him wince with every step. He thought about calling a masseuse—somebody to come and untangle the knots in his muscles—but the sites he found were full of yoga-speak and holistic garbage. He powered the screens off. No way was he letting some crystal-toting hippie touch him, at least unless it came with a happy ending.

Instead, he pulled on his leather jacket and left. It was cold on the streets of Moscow, but the chill woke him up, if only a little. The plan—if he could call it that—was to head to the parkour gym and sweat out whatever was twisting him up inside. But somewhere between the condo and the metro, his body stopped taking orders.

By the time he snapped out of it, he was standing on the docks, staring at a stretch of chain-link fence like it had dragged him there itself.

The docks smelled like rust, oil, and something sour that made Jaxen’s stomach churn. The Moskva River whispered to itself in the dark, slapping lazily against the pylons as if it didn’t care one bit about him or his problems. Overhead, the sky hung like a damp wool blanket, heavy and suffocating. It should have been quiet here—this was the kind of place where quiet ruled—but the air was alive with sounds: groaning metal, the faint hum of machinery, the occasional bark of voices muffled by distance. 

He didn’t know why he was here.

He pulled out his Wallet to figure out where he was when he discovered a message glowing faintly. 

Find the one who knows.

The words felt more like a whisper than a command. Like they’d crawled into his head through the cracks that had been forming ever since the party. Ever since the Emissary. Ever since he’d let—something—inside.

Jaxen shivered and tightened his scarf around his throat. He told himself it was because of the wind, but that was a lie. The cold out here was nothing compared to the icy knot twisting in his gut. He tried to focus, to think, but his thoughts slipped through his fingers like oil. It wasn’t just the gaps in his memory now—it was something else. Something bigger. Something inside.

A sound cut through the hum of the docks: footsteps, steady and deliberate, crunching against gravel. Jaxen turned, ready to seize the Ancient Power if needed.

The man who stepped out of the shadows was broad-shouldered, with a heavy coat that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. The hood hung low over his face, casting it in darkness, but the mechanical arm glinted in the dim light. It wasn’t sleek or smooth; this was no cutting-edge prosthetic. It was jagged, brutal, all exposed pistons and scarred metal. The kind of thing that belonged in nightmares or bad war stories.

The man stopped a few paces away, close enough for Jaxen to see the faint puff of his breath in the cold air. 
“Voxel,” the man said, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding underfoot. 

Jaxen blinked, his mind stuttering. That name. That arm. He’d heard stories in the kind of places where rumors grew like weeds, places where people got drunk enough to start talking too loud. Stories about The Hook.

Except The Hook was suppose to be bullshit.

“You’re shitting me,” Jaxen said, his voice thin. His pulse thumped loud in his ears. 

The man chuckled, the sound sharp and bitter. 
“Heard of me, huh? Good. Saves us time.”

“You can’t be for real?” Jaxen shook his head, trying to shake off the fog, the disorientation.

“Depends on who you ask,” the man said. He took a step closer, and the mechanical arm hissed faintly as it moved. Jaxen flinched before he could stop himself. 

“You wipe your ass with that thing? Or did you learn to do it left-handed?”

The Hook tilted his head, his hood shifting just enough for Jaxen to catch the glint of sharp eyes beneath it. 
“You want to find out?”

The joke had run its course by then. Jaxen shook his head.

The Hook snorted, and for a moment, Jaxen thought he might actually try to show him. But then the man’s face—or what Jaxen could see of it—hardened. 
“You’ve been making noise, Voxel. Poking around where you shouldn’t. Bidding on things you don’t understand. Now you’re here, and I want to know why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaxen said quickly. Too quickly. 

The Hook didn’t answer. He just stared, and Jaxen felt like that stare was peeling him apart layer by layer, looking for the truth buried somewhere inside him. 
“What do you want then? I doubt you’re my guardian angel.” Jaxen said, the words snapping out like a rubber band stretched too tight.

The Hook moved closer, and the dim light caught on the jagged lines of his arm, on the grease stains and scratches that told a story Jaxen didn’t want to know. 
“It’s about what you need. And right now, I’d bet what you need is a way out of this mess you’ve wandered into.”

A sudden thought stirred then, a faint hum in the back of Jaxen’s skull. It wasn’t a voice—never a voice—but it was something else. A nudge. A shove. An instinct that was his, but wasn’t his. 

“I’m looking for someone,” Jaxen said, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. 

The Hook’s eyes narrowed. “Someone like who?”

Jaxen hesitated, but the thought pushed again. “Bode.” 

The Hook didn’t move, didn’t blink. For a long moment, he just stared at Jaxen, and Jaxen wondered if he’d made a mistake saying the name. Then The Hook smiled, slow and sharp, like a knife dragging across skin. 

“Bode,” he said, tasting the name like it was some exotic dish.

Jaxen’s chest tightened. “Do you know where they are?” 

“No,” The Hook said. His smile didn’t falter. “But I know someone who will.”

“Who?” 

The Hook’s grin widened, and the mechanical arm hissed faintly as he raised it. “Someone who doesn’t work for free.”

“What’s the price?” Jaxen asked, though he wasn’t sure if the question was his or not. He never really cared about money.

The Hook leaned in, his voice gritty with a rasp. “The kind you pay in blood, Voxel. You still interested?”

Jaxen didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. But somewhere deep inside, his thoughts stirred again, and the decision was already made. 

To be continued...

[[The docks location is near a known entrance to the Undercity]]

Age: 21

Origin: Born near the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone

Occupation: Drug Dealer for Zeke

Physical Description: He has a sharp, angular face with dark piercing eyes, framed by dark, tousled hair. He has a pale complexion from his dire lack of sunlight.

Powers: Channeler
Reborn God: Chernobog (Black God) - Slavic
Skill: New
Current: 26
Max: 37
Block: Must have a piece of melted-glass in his hand if he wants to channel.  He took the glass from an excursion into the CEZ when he was teenager and believes it is the source of his powers.

Biography:

Sasha was born in a small, isolated village near the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, surrounded by superstition and fear of radiation.  His parents barely made ends meet doing odd jobs. As Sasha grew up with the fear and superstition he was curious and explored the CEZ. During one of his excursions he found a shared of glass melded with metal. Shortly after finding it a group of scavengers attacked him but some how he survived. That is when he began to believe that the shared was powerful.

Sasha was always an outcast even his parents hadn't fully understood his desires. Fire was just a means of feeling something. Everything was always dull and felt broken if he didn't feel the heat of the fire. 

When Sasha was 10 he started a fire in his bathroom that quickly got out of control. It set the whole building ablaze and many people, including his parents died in the fire.

After his parents died in a fire the other villagers chased him out of town with fire and stones. Sasha had never trusted people before, but now that distrust grew to untold heights.

Sasha fled into the CEZ to try to find a place to stay, but after he soon left and wandered the country side taking odd jobs here and there like his parents and moving on when people began to look at him differently. 

Sasha made his way to Moscow eventually and there he found a home in the tunnels of the Great City. He worked whatever jobs he could get.

At first it started out as running errands, and then as he got a feel for the city itself he started peddling whatever anyone was willing to let him sell.  Sasha didn't run with any one crowd  in the beginning.  It wasn't until he found The Angel of the Undercity on the advice of one of the older kids he'd met. Raffe was a friend, but they weren't extremely close. Sasha never really got close to anyone, his distrust of people from his childhood still never really overcome.

Sasha started working for Zeke exclusively peddling whatever was hottest on the market at the time. His numbers had always been good, and he never sampled the goods. His own proclivities relying on the flame within rather than numbing or stimming his senses.

Sasha's clientele wasn't the high end or even the less fortunate, he sold to middle class moms and dads who thought they were better than he was but never had any problem buying from him -- some kid who their kids didn't know. He was good at the job and made enough money to stay off the street, but he preferred the comforts of the tunnels -- the anonymity of it all.

Sasha was there the day strange dark creatures tore through their camp ripping through tents and people alike. He watched from a crevice where he liked to hide as a group of people came flooding in. They killed the creatures and the people who had been ravaged and then cleansed the place with fire. He knew one face -- everyone knew that face, but his was not the face that stuck with him as he fled the underground city with the rest.

Sasha ran with the others afraid of the people and the fire. He stayed in the church with the others for a while but sought to comfort of the tunnels again. But before he could find an entrance he was way laid by a group of thugs wearing track suits. He didn't have anything of importance on him just the shared. And when they tried to take it from him a burst of violent energy emanated from his hands. The blast leveled the warehouses around them.

Sasha ran.

Weeks later he was on death's door.  A fever so high he could barely think. He'd found a safe place in an abandoned warehouse where he could curl up and die, but after a week of hell Sasha felt fine, like nothing had happened.

Weeks later a man came after him in his hidey-hole. The man had followed him there and when he came at him with a gun pointed Sasha panicked grabbing on to the shard and asking for its protection once again.  Flames engulfed the man and he screamed.

Sasha ran again and again a few weeks later Sasha was on death's door.  And once again he recovered, though he felt like he was sick longer.

A month later, a woman approached him looking to score. He sold her a small quantity before she had him backed into an alley and a knife at his throat.  Sasha fumbled the shard in his hand and it fell to the ground.  He heard a tiny crack and he reached into the madness and anger and pushed the woman away with a fiery hand and roared in fury. 

Sasha bent down and picked up the fragile shard and scurried away before the woman could recover.

Sasha ran again, this time he ran to the church to find safe haven. Why were these people chasing him, trying to kill him.  What had he done to them?

Born Kōta Matsumoto (松本康太), an Atharim hunter in self-imposed exile due to his sister’s discovery that she is a channeler. After six years travelling the Custody, he insisted they journey to Moscow seeking the Ascendancy’s promised asylum.

Age: 34
Origin: Kyoto, Japan
Height: 6’2”
Occupation: Atharim

• A B O U T •

Kōta is tall and strong. He wears his hair long, and maintains a neat beard cut close to his face. Unlike his sister, he does not care to fit in. He dresses well, and has an amenable disposition with strangers. Most find him easy and compelling company.

Although he has a strict internal moral code, which foreigners might find strange, Kōta has long since diverged from the teachings of his youth. He bears no great guilt for this, for he places his love and loyalty for his sister above all other duty. The inherent contradictions in protecting a channeler his oaths have sworn him to purge for the good of humanity do not seem to bother him. He does not hunt channelers unless he has a reason, but does not baulk at killing a human if he believes it is the right thing to do.

Kōta loves animals, and has a fascination in particular with those most dangerous and exotic. He dabbles in trade, and liberates those he considers ill treated, which on occasion causes he and Chihiro trouble. One of his greatest regrets is the necessity to leave his goshawk Yua behind when he and Chihiro fled Japan.

• A T H A R I M •

Kōta’s strict childhood always chafed. He was a diligent student, but also something of a miscreant. When Chihiro was born when Kōta was nine years old, he loved her instantly.

2040s revelation that those of god descent might be found within the remnant itself shook him badly. Though the strict tenures of honour were ingrained into his soul, he began to doubt. He did not fear taking his own life, should such be necessary, but the idea of losing kin to such an indiscriminate disease filled him with fear.

Though he already dabbled in the illegal animal trade, particularly of exotics, he began to foster connections amongst the Yakuza in Osaka. Even then, perhaps, he was starting to search for ways he might extricate himself from his life.

Chihiro’s spark on Mount Atago was the catalyst that pushed him, with no regret, towards action. He did not question the pull of his own heart. She was not evil, and he could not see her die.

When he returned home to relay news to family and clan of Chihiro’s death at the hands of the onmoraki, he sought permission to leave Japan. It was not granted, and thus he fled.

• T A T T O O S • & • S C A R S •

Kōta’s tattoo is fairly simple, featuring two entwined snakes, one of them a skeleton. He has not had it recovered, and its easily enough hidden. He has no other tattoos

He has an array of various scars, both from hunting and from his work with birds of prey (and other animals).

It’s not uncommon for him to be sporting some fresh injury.

• S K I L L S •

Kōta is skilled with the traditional katana and wakizashi, and trained in various martial arts. He is competent with the yumi also, favouring the larger daikyū. His size and strength make him a formidable opponent. Though he employs modern tech for defence and armour, when he can get his hands on it at least, he prefers not to use firearms.

He is also confidant with handling animals of all kinds, but particularly knowledgeable about birds of prey. Kōta facilitates trade, and also consults on training and care, this being the main source of their legitimate income. Unknown to Chihiro this has included the procurement of supernatural trophies for collectors, and sometimes ingredients for supposed arcana. He refuses to provide live specimens.

• E D U C A T I O N •

His training afforded him an extensive and rigorous education, and he is a well learned man. He tends to rely on Chihiro’s encyclopedic knowledge when they encounter unfamiliar creatures of the supernatural variety. Growing up, he always favoured the practical, for he is something of a thrill-seeker, preferring to learn through experience rather than through books.

• C O N N E C T I O N S •

Kōta still fosters some Atharim connections, despite Chihiro’s shunning of the life, though her deal with Zephyr means both their names have been purged from the lists. He has links with the Yakuza. Though Kōta is unaware, he has also had contact with members of the network.

Continued from here

The ride ended and Rhi was in his lap. He had pulled her there moments after she had begun to guide his hand outside of her thigh. Her eyes pulled him in until he was intoxicated by her, her allure stronger than the scotch he had drunk at the Manifesto.  Still, despite the scandalous display in the back of a cab, they moved slowly, exchanging kisses until they arrived at his place.  He was certain neither one of them wanted this to end in the cab.  Eddie didn't think about how this was the first time he had reacted this quickly to a woman's charms.  The woman had enthralled him, pulling him in slowly, but surely. At first, he had waited, almost asking permission to continue, but as time kept going, everything had begun to open like a floodgate.

Reluctantly, the pair had to calm down just long enough to get into the apartment. He paid the cabbie, certain that he had gotten a wink from the man as he did, wrapped his arm around her waist and led her inside.  When the door shut behind them, they returned to their passions as Eddie gently guided Rhi slowly and carefully to the bedroom. With the bedroom door shut behind them, he pinned her to the door, kisses trailing down her jawline to her neck. Eddie's hand traveled up from her waist, up her back, finding the zipper, he began to pull it down.

Nora was born in 2022. Her mother had hoped for a home birth in the Saint-Clair family’s ancestral chateau near Saint-Clair-sur-Epte in Normandy, but the estate was too far removed from the comforts of modern medical technology. When the labor took a sudden and dangerous turn, an emergency helicopter rushed her to a private hospital in Paris. Both mother and baby survived the ordeal, and Nora was born healthy and strong. However, the scare left the family shaken, and their protective instincts shaped Nora’s carefully contained childhood.

That protectiveness backfired spectacularly. Nora’s adventurous nature thrived despite their restrictions, or perhaps because of them. She shirked her lessons whenever possible, escaping to the outdoors where she climbed trees, splashed in creeks, and caught all manner of insects and critters. Her aristocratic family, aghast at her wild streak, tried in vain to curb her tomboyish tendencies, but Nora was utterly undeterred.

She had one younger sibling and little interest in her cousins, who were too polished and reserved for her liking. Instead, Nora bonded with Tanis Peregrym, a member of a family who had loyally served the Saint-Clairs for centuries. With Nora’s knack for recklessness, Tanis—older by nearly two decades—was assigned to act as her minder. Somewhere between nanny, older sister, tutor, and bodyguard, Tanis became an unshakable presence in Nora’s life. Despite her strict, no-nonsense demeanor, which earned her the nickname "Grym," Nora adored her.

Nora’s 13th birthday was supposed to be a Parisian party with friends, or so she thought. Instead, the family arranged a celebration at their ancestral home in Saint-Clair-sur-Epte. Extended relatives arrived from Switzerland and Scotland, turning the day into something closer to a grand family reunion than a child’s birthday. Even the family’s priest attended. Nora was disappointed at first, but curiosity overtook her frustration.

It was on this day that Nora was brought into the Saint-Clair family’s confidence. They shared the secrets of their heritage: the family’s ties to the Knights Templar, the legend of Jean de Saint-Clair and the demon in the woods, and their sacred alliance with the Atharim. Surrounded by her family, Nora was shown the dagger of Benedictus, the silver blade her ancestor used to slay the Loup Garou. The gravity of their revelations, coupled with the solemnity of the occasion, left no room for doubt in her mind. This was no elaborate prank. It was her legacy.

From that moment, her training began under Grym’s guidance. Tanis was an Atharim Hunter, descended from a knight who had been saved by Jean de Saint-Clair and the mysterious monk Benedictus centuries ago. That knight, along with his descendants, had sworn eternal loyalty to the Saint-Clairs. Grym now took it upon herself to prepare Nora for the family’s sacred mission.

At 16, after years of relentless training, Nora convinced her family to allow her on a hunt. It was meant to prove her bravery, but the experience went horribly wrong. Nora was wounded, though she suffered no lasting damage. Grym, however, was held responsible and banished from service. The loss devastated Nora. Grym obeyed her dismissal without question, disappearing into eastern Europe, leaving behind an empty void in Nora’s life.

For Nora, hunting was forbidden from then on. She was confined to studying Atharim lore, a task she found tedious and suffocating. Still, she begrudgingly complied, though she secretly kept up with her combat skills. Over time, she threw herself into exercise, weightlifting, and running, becoming disciplined in her physical health. She vowed to return to hunting someday, even if it had to wait until she came of age.

When Nora finished her formal schooling, she spent her evenings studying Atharim lore and restoring and digitizing the family’s collection of artifacts. Their ancestral basement was piled high with ancient books, relics, and oddities in need of care. In 2040, when she was 18, one particular discovery changed everything.

She found a wooden box whose boards were near to crumbling with age and moisture. She easily pried the old nails out, careful to avoid cutting herself on rust easily 100 years old. On the lid was carved the word levante. She simply shrugged and tossed the lid aside.

She immediately recoiled as a foul stench hit her—a mix of rotted hay and moldy paper. Grimacing, she dug out the upper layer until she spied something solid. It was a thin piece of ivory carved into the shape of a human tongue, etched with intricate foreign script. The anatomical detail was disturbingly lifelike, and Nora couldn’t suppress a shiver as she snapped a picture for analysis. Using an AI translator, she uncovered the meaning of the first inscription:

[[ coming from Setting up, Round and Round we Go, and They Found me ]]

Sage's Pizza place wasn't exactly around the corner, it was across the Potomac River in DC proper. It literally was the best place to be for what was about to go down. Walking distance from the spots we knew our assassins were about to take their shots. Or at least where Sage and the other intel pointed them to. It was perfect for it. And the timing was down right near impossible.

Sage sat in a booth in the far corner with an entire plain pie on a stand and the empty baby carrier for Lily when Nox dropped her off. Hopefully it wasn't in the middle of his conversation with Connor but you never know. Connor and his wife weren't exactly privy to his schedule, though they were here to kill him for some reason, he just wasn't sure why.  There was no other reason for out of the blue for Connor to contact him. Sage had been digging deep all night, though he suspected he had his own things on his mind too.

Ryker was at another table, while Nox sat in a window booth with his back to the window, and Lily propped in his lap while his legs feet were on the seat by the aisle holding the child firmly in the light coming through the window.  He wove a four inch thick wall of air as hard as steel and hopefully strong enough to stop whatever caliber bullet she might use to take him out.  A secondary weave of shattered glass floated invisibly through the air by the window to eliminate the use of a laser sight.  Probably not enough to deter a power augmented sniper, but enough for her to not use that pesky laser that would get a clean shot.

Sage had several stealthy drones flying through the air around the buildings in question and Nox had the feeds on the hud on the warrior lens he now wore. He hated contact lenses, but Sage insisted that it was better for this mission and for the future augmentation of his new arm.  Whatever he had planned Nox wasn't sure but having a functioning hand would be nice.  But it was still days or even weeks away if he had to wait on his body to heal naturally.

Nox ordered a couple of slices of pizza heavily loaded with meat and vegetables, probably more than the people wanted but pizza was so not a thing he wanted to eat, but a good pie was hard to come by and he did enjoy one now and then.  He also just a plain slice of cheese, a simple slice but the one he'd actually indulge in.  He had a glass of water with lemon and waited for Connor to show up. He imagined Ayden was about to set up her rifle on the building adjacent them and he'd be in shortly there after.

The suite was a hive of activity through which Lore wove her way without looking, eyes on the wallet’s holoscreens containing all her notes for the evening. Jessika was proudly grassroots, but this was also a big night, so Lore had arranged for everything to be taken care of – hair, makeup, jewellery and accessories, dresses, childcare, transport, predrinks (for nerves), nibbles (to counteract the alcohol, obviously). The list went on. Though what she was actually going through right now as she dodged the bustle was what she knew of the expected guestlist – names, connections, cues for the smalltalk. Especially the latter.

In all honesty Lore would have much rather preferred coordinating entirely from the shadows, but neither was it appropriate for Jessika to attend alone. By now she’d given up correcting on her own connection to Damien every time someone introduced her as his sister. Privately she wondered if Jessika didn’t actually prefer it that way, considering what Lore assumed of their own relations. So, accompaniment by the new Patron’s “sister” it was. It felt a strange prestige given her actual earned acumen, but it seemed to eclipse it here. And honestly Lore let it. She preferred not talking about Damien. Or thinking about him.

So far as she knew, Damien himself remained behind in Mexico, apparently uninterested in accepting his new crown in person, though she had a whole section dedicated to contingency in case he just showed up. He was as insouciant as a lion, and just as majestically dangerous, which meant his whims weren’t the sort of thing she had any fun predicting. He’d better not just show up. Not only would it make the most awkward third wheel of her, but it would also mean she could have spent the evening doing something a little more aligned to her taste. Which generally involved far fewer people.

“You’re going to be late,” someone said, to which Lore affected half a smile. Actually she still had six minutes before she needed to sit down for hair, which gave her plenty of time to have a quick chat with the chauffeur about their entrance.

[[written by ai]]

Scandal Beneath the Spotlight: Eliot Lagueux and Helena Asquith Ignite Opera Night with Passionate Embrace

The elite of Moscow were left clutching their pearls—and their opera glasses—at last night's sold-out performance of La Traviata at the Bolshoi Theatre, as whispers of scandal erupted from the private balcony box occupied by none other than Eliot Lagueux and Helena Asquith.

Eliot, the youngest son of the billionaire family behind Baccarat Glass and current Moscow Facility Manager, has been a regular feature in Moscow's social circuit. Known for his meticulous charm and sharp business acumen, Eliot has also been the subject of frequent speculation regarding his personal life. But few could have anticipated his latest romantic entanglement with the enigmatic 'Black Widow' of London society.

Helena Asquith, the aristocratic heiress whose name has long been associated with both wealth and controversy, made her Moscow debut just a few short months ago following her sensational trial and subsequent acquittal in the mysterious death of her husband, Cillian Finnegren. Now the owner of the infamous underground fight club, the Almaz, Helena has cultivated a reputation for chilling composure and ruthless efficiency.

Yet it appears the Ice Queen may have finally thawed.

Witnesses reported that the couple arrived separately, but it wasn’t long before they were spotted sharing drinks during intermission, their conversation laced with hushed laughter and undeniable intimacy. The crescendo came in the final act when, as the heroine sang her final aria, Helena and Eliot were seen locked in a passionate embrace, silhouetted against the velvet drapes of their balcony.

“It was like something out of a romance holo-drama,” one opera-goer gushed. “Helena looked like she might devour him right there. And Eliot didn’t seem to mind!”

The pairing raises eyebrows not only for its passion but for the combustible mix of power and legacy Eliot, has struggled to shed the shadow cast by his family’s tragic losses and his own mysterious past health issues. Helena, meanwhile, has never truly escaped the scandal of her husband’s death—or the rumors of dark experiments whispered to occur beneath the Almaz’s glitzy façade.

While neither party has issued a statement, their public display has ignited speculation about what this union might mean for Moscow’s elite.

What’s next for this power couple? Are wedding bells in their future, or will their fiery affair burn out as quickly as it ignited? Only time will tell, but for now, all eyes are on the Bolshoi’s most talked-about pair.