The sound of opera reverberates around the room; bouncing off of ornate, hand-carved facades and murals. There are plush, red velvet stalls; private boxes overlook the cheap seats below, a reminder not only of wealth, but of status. It’s in one of these that my prey lurks: a former Camarilla agent turned Anarch; a Toreador with a flair for the dramatic (what’s new?). My colleague – Thomas – sits by my side, arrogant, stoic, deriding. The opera – supposedly a leisurely activity – has taken on a new form. While I am the hunter, I am also the prey.
