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>"Mr. Holmes," said I, as we sat within the shadowed galleries of Makuhari Messe, a theatre of no small repute, "the sense of unity amongst the assembly grew palpable, like a thread weaving through the very air. Thereupon, Miss Shiori Novella—a lady of evident grace and feminine distinction—took to the stage and performed that curious piece, Kakusei, which, I am told, serves as the theme for a modern spectacle called Promare. The acoustics of the hall were nothing short of remarkable, sir; every note reverberated with crystalline precision. Indeed, in the pause before the chorus, I detected the faint sound of her breathing—a subtle detail, yet one that betrayed the human effort beneath her artistry."
>Holmes leaned forward, his keen eyes glinting in the dim light. "Pray, continue, Watson. You observed her manner, no doubt?"
>"Indeed, I did," I replied. "Her voice, cool yet possessed of a certain comfort, carried through the vast space with an ease that belied its strength. She sang with a sharpness in her gaze—a look that could pierce through the fog of Dartmoor itself—yet there was an elegance to it, a mastery of tone that held the audience in thrall. But mark this, Holmes: at the conclusion, she waved to the crowd with a smile so disarmingly charming, so replete with youthful sweetness, that it seemed almost an injustice to her otherwise resolute demeanor. A paradox, wouldn’t you say?"
>Holmes steepled his fingers, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "A paradox, Watson, or perhaps a calculated flourish. The lady knows her craft—and her audience—well.
