A Life in Opera: Restarting the Future

The moment Xie Qing stepped onto the rotting opera stage, ghostly blue candle flames sprang to life. An old man in an opera robe emerged from behind a gold-painted screen, wearing a white porcelain mask with no features. His withered fingers brushed across the nine painted masks on the table. Eight of them were covered in cracks.

“Sheng, Dan, Jing, Mo, Chou; gods, immortals, tigers, and dogs.” The old man’s operatic voice grated like metal scraping against metal. “Of all the roles under heaven, which one do you think suits you best?”

Xie Qing stepped backward, bumping his lower back against a prop chest. Through the gap in its rattling lid, he saw countless versions of his own face smiling eerily in the mirrors. Each smile lagged three seconds behind reality. Most terrifying of all, the pupils in every reflection danced with the same black flames he had seen deep in his nightmares.