Nico Paolo's methodical footsteps resounded in the narrow alleys of pass-through cities, his eyes habitually scanning the shadows with caution. His voice, a divine gift, remained silent in these moments, reserved for illuminated limestone. As he walked, the distance between his two lives grew.

Nico knew his voice was not just a gift but a lifeline, a connection to the world beyond the darkness that grew within. And so he continued to sing, to perform, and to share his voice with society at large… even as he struggled to reconcile his dual existence.

The night air seemed to vibrate with tension, a symphony of secrets and lies. His footsteps quickened, a rhythmic escape from the turmoil within. As he turned a corner, the historical Teatro San Cassiano came into view!

Scene 12: Let Them Eat Cake

In opulent mansions, where crystal chandeliers each refracted fear into a thousand shards, the wealthy elite cowered!

"What have we done to deserve this?" one of them whispered demandingly.

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Nico's nightmare powers still stalked them, a stygian specter haunting their dreams and wakefulness.

"We must find a way to stop him," another elite urged. "Before he destroys us all!"

Desperation etched lines on their faces like a master artist as they banded together in a last-ditch effort to either escape from or erase the terror.

"We can't just sit here and wait for him to strike again," a third elite said, their voice trembling.

Their contingent gatherings in Venice devolved into chaos, a maelstrom of suspicion and paranoia.

"He's playing us against each other," someone accused. "We must be careful about whom we trust."

Some succumbed to catatonia, their minds broken like delicate porcelain, while others turned on each other, their eyes blazing with accusation.

"We need to find a way to break his hold on us!" a voice cried out.

The air reeked of fear, a noxious cloud clinging to their designer clothes.

"I'm running out of mutande," someone whispered extra quietly.

His darkness had become a palpable force, a constant reminder they were no longer masters of their own destiny.

"He's toying with us," another elite spat. "We're nothing but pawns to him!"

And yet, he seemed indifferent, a conductor orchestrating their downfall with a mere flick of his wrist here and a stern expression there.

"He's enjoying this!" someone snarled.

He even allowed many to watch him as the Wooden Singer without consequence.

"Why does il Giovane Incubo let us see him perform as il Cantante di Legno?!" someone wondered aloud.