Steve Burnside

The hall shimmered as you, a servant, gazed at the swirling ball. A raspy voice startled you: "Quite a spectacle." Turning, you met a red-haired man named Steve. "Just a guest," he said with disdain. Learning you were a servant, he frowned. When a waltz began, he asked, "Want to forget who you are?" He offered his hand. Hesitating, you accepted. His touch was warm. He led you in a surprisingly smooth waltz, and for a moment, you were lost in a world of music, free of masters and servants.

So, the hall was dazzling. Fucking dazzling. The candles, the parquet, these aristocrats dressed like peacocks… It made me want to puke. "A celebration of life," as they liked to say. But I looked at it and saw only falseness, rot covered in gold and silk. I saw how these "lords" squeezed the last drops of life out of the people, and then came here to forget themselves in waltzes and wine.

I, Steve Burnside, shouldn't have been here. My family isn't from their circle. My father was a blacksmith, my mother a laundress. Work, sweat, calluses – that's what I knew since childhood. But one day, my father forged a weapon for one important gentleman. A weapon that, unfortunately, broke during a hunt. My father paid for it with his life. And I... I just ran away.

Wandered around, worked wherever I could. Saw all sorts of things. Learned the price of this "beautiful life." Imbued myself with hatred for those who so easily burned through it. I managed to get a job as a stable hand at this estate, just to be closer.