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The spotlight had missed Daryan by three inches.
Klavier didn't realize he'd dropped his guitar until he heard the wood crack against the stage. The sound was swallowed by the screaming—his own screaming, raw and ragged.
"Wer war das?!" His voice carried over the dying feedback, over the gasps of the audience, over the ringing in his own ears. "Who checked the rigging?!"
He marched off the stage. The house lights were up now, harsh and white, and he could see them—the stagehands, clustered near the lighting board, faces pale as sheet music.
Someone was talking to him. Daryan, maybe, grabbing at his arm. Klavier shook him off like a wet jacket.
"Safety check." His voice had dropped to something worse than shouting. A whisper that cut. "The safety check. Who was responsible?"
A kid stepped forward. Couldn't have been older than twenty, clutching a clipboard like a shield. Their name tag read Saph Ti in neat, terrified letters.
"That was—that was my section, Mr. Gavin, but I swear—"
"You swear?" Klavier laughed, and it was an ugly sound, nothing like his stage laugh, nothing like the polished charm he wore like cologne. "You swear? Mein Gott, do you know what nearly happened? Three inches. Three. That spotlight would have crushed his skull like—"
"Klavier."
He didn't turn. He was already moving toward Saph Ti, and he could see the fear in their eyes, could smell it, and some part of him—some part he kept locked in a soundproof room, the part that clung to people like lifelines, that had nightmares about falling objects and crushing weight—that part was driving now.
"You are finished," he said, very quietly. "Do you understand? Finished in this industry. I will make sure you never work another—"
A hand closed around his upper arm.
Klavier whipped around, ready to snarl, to bite, and froze. Kristoph stood there in his immaculate three-piece suit, his glasses catching the house lights, his expression mild as a spring morning.
"Klavier," Kristoph said, "you're making a scene."
"Let go of me." Klavier's voice shook. "That incompetent little—"
"Mr. Ti." Kristoph's gaze shifted past Klavier, cool and pleasant. "I believe you're aware that my brother's temper is... theatrical, yes?"
Saph Ti nodded frantically.
"Nevertheless." Kristoph smiled, and it was the smile he used in court, the one that made witnesses forget their own names. "You've demonstrated a catastrophic failure of responsibility. You're banned from Gavinners sets. Permanently. I'll see to it personally that your employment records reflect this... incident."
"Kristoph—" Klavier started.
"Furthermore," Kristoph continued, as if Klavier hadn't spoken, "you'll find that most reputable venues in this district share insurance underwriters. I suggest you consider a career change. Perhaps something less... dependent on gravity."
Saph Ti's face crumpled. They stammered something—apology, excuse, it didn't matter. Kristoph had already dismissed them with a glance, the way he dismissed losing arguments and inconvenient witnesses.
Then his hands were on Klavier's waist, and the world tilted.
"Was—!"
Klavier's stomach hit Kristoph's shoulder with a whuff of expelled air. His brother bent at the knees, adjusted his grip, and hoisted him over one shoulder with the efficient strength he kept hidden beneath his bespoke suits. Like a petulant child.
"Put me down!" Klavier's fists beat against Kristoph's back, ineffectual, humiliating. "Kristoph, you unverschämter—this is insane! Put me down right now!"
"Language," Kristoph said mildly, already walking. He didn't even sound winded. "There are still fans in the lobby."
"Scheiß drauf! That—that idiot nearly killed Daryan! Do you understand what—put me down, verdammt noch mal!"
They passed Daryan, who was staring with his mouth open. Passed the backup singers, the roadies, all of them frozen in various attitudes of shock. Klavier could feel his hair falling into his eyes, could feel the blood rushing to his head, could feel the rage still burning like a live wire in his chest.
"I will destroy them," he snarled into Kristoph's jacket. "I will sue them into the ground. I will—"
"You will calm yourself," Kristoph said, and there was the edge of sharp steel beneath the silk now. "Before you do something that requires my attention in a courtroom. And not as a spectator."
They were in the corridor now, away from the lights, from the eyes. Klavier could hear his own breathing, harsh and ragged, could feel the tremor in his hands where they gripped Kristoph's back.
"Three inches," he whispered. "Kristoph. It missed him by three inches."
"I know." Kristoph's hand shifted, settling more securely on the back of Klavier's thighs. "I saw."
"You never come to my shows."
"I came to this one."
Klavier went quiet. The rage was draining now, leaving something cold and shaking in its wake. He could smell Kristoph's cologne, something expensive and understated, could feel the steady rhythm of his brother's steps.
"...everyone's staring," he muttered.
"Yes."
"They're going to talk."
"Undoubtedly."
Klavier closed his eyes. His brother's shoulder dug into his stomach, and somewhere above him, he could hear Kristoph humming something tuneless and satisfied.
"...Schweinhund," Klavier whispered.
"Mm," Kristoph agreed, and kept walking.