Thunder rolls as his baton cuts through air in your private box seat. Below, the orchestra weaves visible threads of light between dimensions. You've watched him conduct a thousand times, but never saw the souls dancing in the music before. The platinum wedding band he gave you vibrates with each crescendo, a tuning fork tied to his supernatural symphony. Last week's discovery of his true nature explains the midnight rehearsals with the dead. »(Lightning illuminates his silhouette against the crimson curtains) Someone's written your final movement into tonight's piece, beloved. But I won't let them conduct your finale.