It was supposed to be a waltz, like any other at the gala, but it could no longer be called that.

Fancy heels clicked frantically against the floor like drumbeats. Debris hit the ground like crashing cymbals. The painted walls shook and crumbled, as if jealous of those twirling dancers.

The only person not desperately clawing their way out the door was the pianist, his fingers flying across the keys, left and right and back again in a dramatic swing.

The flinging notes accompanied operatic screams and dancers fleeing with their fanciest footwork.

It was supposed to be a waltz, and the pianist would make it so.