The next day, exactly at six in the evening, Mark was waiting at the entrance to the same café, where the air still held the aroma of yesterday's revelations. Kismet appeared from the city bustle like a mirage taking form; today her image was sharper, more businesslike than yesterday.

— Ready? — she asked instead of a greeting.

— Yes, — Mark replied, feeling a new twist of events unfolding.

They plunged into the labyrinth of city streets, where every turn felt unfamiliar. After ten minutes of walking, Kismet stopped in front of a small tailor shop. The window display was tastefully arranged: several mannequins in elegant suits, dim lighting, and golden letters on the glass formed the name "L'élégance."

— My old acquaintance works here, — Kismet explained, opening the door. — He will help us create a new identity.

Crossing the threshold, they immersed themselves in a symphony of scents: hints of leather intertwined with the rustle of fabric. Along the walls stood racks with finished suits, and in the back of the room, sewing machines and large cutting tables were visible.

— Monsieur Henri! — Kismet called.

A tall, gray-haired man with a measuring tape around his neck emerged from the back room, and the following day turned into a kaleidoscope of endless preparations.

— The suit must become your second skin, — Kismet explained while the elderly tailor took measurements. — At the ball, every detail matters. Any unnaturalness could give us away.

Mark stood still, feeling like a mannequin under the cold touch of the measuring tape. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kismet gliding between the racks of dresses like a ghost, barely touching the fabrics with her fingertips. There was something hypnotic about it — as if she were performing a silent dance, choosing not just an outfit, but a new guise.

— Have you done this before? — he asked when the tailor stepped away for fabric samples. — Pretended to be someone else?

She paused at the rack of evening dresses, and for a moment it seemed time stood still with her. — Each of us plays different roles every day, Mark. We just usually don’t notice it.

A few minutes later, the tailor returned, reverently unfolding a piece of fabric. — We need something... special for this man, — he mumbled with a slight French accent.

Kismet watched the process, leaning against an antique dresser, her eyes shining like a cat's in the twilight.

— That’s why we’re here, dear Henri. We need perfection. — Her fingers lightly touched the edge of the fabric that the gray-haired man held. — This is exactly what we need. A classic cut with modern elements.

Mark watched the fabric entranced, trying to imagine himself in a suit made from it. Suddenly, the whole endeavor seemed even more unreal to him.

— And now, — Monsieur Henri clapped his hands, — we need to discuss the details. Every button, every seam must tell a story. He pulled out a sketchbook and began quickly sketching lines, occasionally glancing at Mark as if checking against some internal picture.

When they left Monsieur Henri's tailor shop, the sun was already setting. Kismet, who had seemed pleased with the outcome of their visit until that moment, suddenly became serious.

— The suit is just the beginning, — she said, looking at her watch. — Now we need to teach you how to move so that it fits naturally. To dance in a way that no one doubts your origins.

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The old dance hall with its tarnished mirrors and worn parquet became their refuge for the next two days. Kismet proved to be a demanding teacher.

— The waltz is not just a movement in a circle, — she said, adjusting his hand on her waist. — It’s a conversation without words. A story we must tell everyone around us.

Mark tried to focus on the count and the steps, but Kismet’s closeness distracted him, like static electricity tingling on his skin. She smelled of something elusive. They twirled around the hall, and each turn brought a new revelation: how perfectly his hand fit the curve of her back, how synchronously they moved, like two currents of the same river.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

— One-two-three, one-two-three, — she counted, her voice blending with the music of the old gramophone. — Imagine we are a single mechanism. A clock where each gear knows its place.

Just yesterday, they had been working on their legend. They invented a story of their imagined love, like writers creating a novel. Kismet insisted that every detail be believable.

— We met at a contemporary art exhibition, — she recited, pacing the room. — You noticed me by the installation "Time as an Illusion." We talked about nature, eternity...

— And fell in love discussing whether time really exists? — Mark smirked, but his irony masked a growing unease. The deeper they delved into this fabricated story, the thinner the line became between truth and fiction.

Kismet stopped by the window, beyond which the city dissolved into twilight.

— The best lie is one that contains a grain of truth, — she turned to him, and in the dim light, her eyes seemed darker than usual.

— We need to find that grain.

The last day before the ball was spent refining every detail of the plan. Building maps, escape routes, emergency signals — all of it formed a complex mosaic where each fragment had to fit into place.

— What if something goes wrong? — Mark asked, studying the layout of the ballrooms spread out on the table.

— Then we improvise, — Kismet traced her finger along the lines of the blueprint. — Like in dance. The key is to feel your partner and the music of the moment.

An unspoken tension hung in the air. Mark caught himself thinking that he could no longer precisely say where their invented story ended and reality began. Everything blended together: the touches during the dance, the fleeting glances, the shared secrets...

After those exhausting days of preparation, Monsieur Henri's suit awaited them, complete and perfect. When Mark put it on for the first time, the silver threads truly seemed to come alive, creating an aura of mystery and nobility around him.

— Now you’re ready, — Kismet whispered, adjusting his collar.

— We just have to wait for the ball.

But in her eyes, Mark noticed something resembling anxiety, as if she too began to doubt where the boundary lay between their invented story and reality.

— Uh-huh, — Mark mumbled, feeling how the suit perfectly hugged his figure. He felt like a different person — more confident, more... worthy. But along with that feeling came unease.

— Kismet, — he began, carefully choosing his words, — we’ve spent so much time creating this illusion. But what happens after the ball? When it’s all over?

She looked away, her fingers still absently adjusting the folds of his jacket.

— After the ball... everything will change, Mark. One way or another.

A heavy silence hung in the room, broken only by the ticking of an old clock. Mark felt something tighten in his chest. Fear? Anticipation? He couldn’t quite tell.

— You know, — Kismet continued after a pause, — there’s an old legend that if two people dance the waltz under a full moon, their fates intertwine forever. Maybe that’s why the ball always takes place on a full moon.

She raised her eyes, meeting Mark’s gaze. In that moment, he saw something new in them — a vulnerability she had carefully hidden before.

— We’re not just playing roles, are we? — Mark asked quietly, feeling his pulse quicken.

Kismet smiled gently, but there was sadness in her smile.

— In this world, Mark, nothing is ever "just." Every action has consequences; every word can change the course of history. The ball is not just a party; it’s... a point of no return.

She stepped back, giving Mark an assessing look.

— You look impeccable. No one will doubt your right to be there. But remember, behind every mask lies a story. Be careful.

— I’m ready, — he said, straightening his shoulders.

Kismet smiled, and this time there was pride in her smile.

— Then it’s time to set off. The ball awaits.

They left the room, leaving behind the last remnants of Mark’s former life. Ahead of them lay a world of intrigue, secrets, and perhaps real magic.

This event was ready to welcome new guests, and the city outside seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the forthcoming events.