In a shadowed London study, a dartboard is mounted between bookcases and oil paintings, with a newspaper clipping pinned over its bull’s-eye. A silver-handled knife repeatedly strikes the board, slicing through the clipping and shredding it further with each throw.

The clipping is a glowing theatrical review from the London Times, praising producer Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre. Rather than savoring the acclaim, Chandresh targets the sentence that names him because of one word: almost. He drinks brandy as he throws, determined to destroy that implication of being close to transcendence but not reaching it.

Chandresh’s anger turns into resolve. If his shows are only “almost transcendent,” he concludes there must be something more to do—some way to reach the “true transcendence” he believes is possible.

The narrative explains that Chandresh has long been obsessed with authentic audience reactions, having watched crowds more than performances since childhood. Because he cannot personally observe every viewer at every show, he depends on reviews to measure impact, and this single qualifying word needles him more than any criticism.

After another throw pierces a different word, Chandresh studies the nearly illegible, torn article and then bellows for Marco, calling him into whatever Chandresh intends to do next.