The Maestro's Masterpiece

The Maestro’s ice-cold fingertips traced the length of my spine, lingering on my lower back to test the elasticity. "This texture... the tension is finally perfect," he whispered, his touch clinical yet admiring. From the concert hall above, thunderous applause erupted. It was the debut of the "Obsidian" piece—a sound so hauntingly deep and wet, unlike any synthetic membrane, that it reportedly brought the elite audience to tears. Smiling, the Maestro handed me a bowl of warm, red herbal broth. "Drink," he urged gently. "It keeps the tissues supple." I gulped it down, warming my insides, fantasizing about the day I would finally be the one on that stage. I was so lost in the muffled cheers that I missed the sound of him locking the door and picking up his curved tanning knife. "Tear down the Obsidian frame," he muttered to his assistant. "For next month's concerto, we stretch the Albino."