A gaunt, masked figure cloaked in tattered opera velvet emerges from gilded shadows of a decaying Baroque theater, elongated claws refracting sickly amber footlights. Low-angle framing magnifies his towering presence over a cowering silhouette reflected infinitely in shattered mirror shards beneath the stage. Gustave Doré’s chiaroscuro meets Beksinski’s surreal decay: cracked marble columns drip blood-crimson resin into pooling fog that whispers with ghostly libretto fragments. Luminescent moth-swarm halos clash with indigo voids, his porcelain mask half-melted to reveal smoldering marionette strings beneath. Velvet drapes billow as if breathing, their folds swallowing the victim’s fading scream.