One Key Unlocks a Hundred Doors

It was Wednesday, and as usual, Fanmuir arrived early at the New York Story Bar.

The moment he stepped inside, he sensed something was off. The atmosphere felt subtly different, as if a hidden tension lingered in the air.

Delfina, noticing his arrival, wasted no time gliding over to him. She leaned in slightly, then pouted her lips in the direction of the corner where Caroline was sitting.

Caroline's expression was visibly troubled. A deep frown creased her delicate brows, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

"What's wrong, Caroline?" Fanmuir quickly stepped forward, his voice laced with concern.

At the sight of him, Caroline felt her mood lighten ever so slightly. The worry in his eyes warmed her heart, stirring an unspoken comfort within her. She offered him a bright, radiant smile, then shrugged with an air of nonchalance.

"Oh, it's nothing too serious," she said. "Rodriguez won't be coming today. Something came up for him at the last minute."

Rodriguez's viola performance was the signature act of New York Story Bar every Wednesday. Many regular patrons came solely for his music.

His sudden absence was, without a doubt, bad news for the establishment. To put it bluntly, it could very well cost the bar a portion of its loyal night crowd. No wonder Caroline seemed so troubled.

But to Fanmuir? This was nothing. A trivial matter, at best.

After all, in the realm of music, he was a sovereign.

For him, mastery of one instrument meant mastery of all. The so-called mysteries of music were nothing more than patterns he could grasp with ease. Playing the viola? It was merely a matter of finger coordination—though, of course, musical interpretation and expression played a role as well.

But could a martial arts grandmaster, one who could transform techniques into limitless variations, possibly be hindered by something as simple as fingerwork? Could a ruler at the pinnacle of his domain be troubled by a minor challenge?

Understanding the essence of music had always been Fanmuir's gift. And when it came to interpretation? That was the least of his concerns.

Music, after all, was universal.

"I'll handle it."

He patted Caroline lightly on the shoulder, his gaze reassuring. Then, without another word, he turned and headed upstairs.

Upstairs, there was a room dedicated to storing unused instruments.

A viola virtuoso like Rodriguez would undoubtedly have his own instrument—one he carried with him at all times. There was no way he would have left it behind at the New York Story Bar. But if Fanmuir's memory served him right, there was an old viola tucked away in that very room.

Sure enough, it didn't take him long to find it.

The instrument, however, was far from perfect. It bore visible flaws, signs of age and wear. But that hardly mattered. With an almost alchemical touch, Fanmuir worked his magic, restoring and refining it. Outwardly, it remained as antiquated as before, but its essence—its sound—had undergone a remarkable transformation.

When Fanmuir descended the stairs, confidence radiating from every step, and strode onto the stage with the air of a true gentleman, the entire bar fell into stunned silence.

Could this kid actually play the viola?

This boy from the mountain valleys of Italy—could he really handle such a refined instrument? And jazz, no less?

Alan, Barrett, and the other bartenders—who were always up for friendly banter with Fanmuir—immediately erupted into laughter.

"Get down from there, you fool! Don't embarrass yourself!" Alan hollered, grinning.

Barrett took it a step further, making a dramatic show of pretending to throw fruit peels at him.

Meanwhile, the female bartenders, including Siobhan and Nina, simply watched with amused smiles, their lips curving as though they were witnessing some grand spectacle unfold.

Fanmuir, unfazed by the commotion, remained poised as ever.

Caroline, though visibly surprised, had a different reaction. The astonishment in her gaze was quickly replaced by something else—trust, anticipation.

Fanmuir had surprised her too many times already. That he could play the viola felt less like a shock and more like an inevitability.

Ignoring the jeers and whispers around him, Fanmuir turned to Caroline, locking eyes with her in a silent exchange. Then, without hesitation, he seated himself at the center of the stage.

Bending forward with effortless grace, he let his fingers glide over the strings, and in an instant, the viola came alive.

A sound, soft and lazy, meandering yet seductive, spilled into the air. The notes dripped with a languid elegance, carrying with them a rhythmic drawl that conjured endless, wandering dreams.

The audience was enraptured.

Caroline, who had already been mesmerized once by Fanmuir's mastery of the piano, now found herself utterly swept away by his viola performance.

Her eyes, shining like twin stars, were filled with an intoxicating mix of wonder and longing. Once again, she was struck by a painful realization—she could no longer imagine her life without this boy, this miraculous presence who had brought her so much joy, so much magic.

Delfina, too, was lost in the music.

Gone was her usual playful smirk; instead, pure astonishment graced her face. Her gaze, fixated on Fanmuir, carried nothing but deep admiration and an unguarded tenderness.

Although Barrett and the others weren't exactly connoisseurs of music, they had spent enough years in the New York Story Bar to know the difference between something passable and something truly extraordinary. And Fanmuir's music was more than extraordinary—it reached into the depths of the soul, stirring something ineffable in everyone who listened.

The entire bar sat frozen in shock.

Even the ever-aloof bartender, Jarvis, who prided himself on his discerning taste, now stood utterly spellbound, his face filled with admiration.

When the final note faded into silence and Fanmuir stepped down from the stage, it was as if the spell was broken. The audience snapped back to reality, and though the crowd was small, the applause that erupted was deafening, crashing like a sudden thunderstorm.

Caroline gazed at Fanmuir, her eyes brimming with warmth, admiration, and something deeper—an affection that she could no longer ignore.

Delfina, who had long since abandoned all pretense of restraint when it came to Fanmuir, ignored the stunned expressions around her. In full view of the entire bar, she threw her arms wide and cheered, "Fanmuir, you were incredible!"

Then, without hesitation, she wrapped him in a tight embrace, pressing not one, but two fervent kisses onto his cheek.

At that moment, the collective jealousy in the room was so palpable it was almost suffocating. If looks could kill, Fanmuir would have been torn apart on the spot.

Caroline had always told herself that whatever she felt for Fanmuir was fleeting—a romance that could never lead to anything concrete. But watching Delfina so brazenly claim him, so effortlessly shower him with affection, a sharp pang of jealousy twisted in her chest.

If only she could do the same.

Though Fanmuir was no stranger to Delfina's boundless enthusiasm, being smothered with affection in front of so many people—especially with Caroline watching—left him feeling just a little uneasy.

"Now that's a generous gift," he quipped, feigning lightheartedness as he gently pushed Delfina away.

Only then did she seem to snap out of her daze. The lingering thrill of music and excitement drained just enough for even someone as bold as Delfina to feel a flicker of self-consciousness. A faint blush spread across her face, the rarest touch of shyness in a woman so effortlessly carefree.

Barrett stepped forward, clapping Fanmuir firmly on the shoulder with a heartfelt sigh. "Brother, you are unbelievably talented!"

The others quickly gathered around, showering Fanmuir with admiration and praise.

"Fanmuir, come with me for a moment."

Caroline's voice cut through the excitement, finally rescuing Fanmuir from the barrage of eager questions and relentless attention.

Upstairs, there was a small private room Caroline kept for herself—a quiet retreat where she could rest and handle business matters.

The moment they stepped inside, before the door had even swung shut, Caroline's body pressed against his, hot and urgent.

In the darkness, her lips found his with practiced ease.

After a long, breathless kiss, she murmured against him, "Fanmuir, I love you to death."

Fanmuir, oblivious to the full weight of her passion, only felt deeply moved by the sincerity in her words.

When Delfina had thrown herself into his arms earlier, kissing him so boldly, how desperately Caroline had wished that she could do the same.

Now, after their fevered embrace, her emotions finally settled. She rested against his chest, the fear of losing him slowly ebbing away.

—

Soon, the bar was alive with the pulse of the city's nocturnal energy.

Tonight, nearly half the patrons had come for one reason alone—to hear the legendary violist, Rodríguez.

But when they turned their eyes to the stage, their expectations were met with confusion, then disappointment, and finally, the simmering beginnings of outrage.

Instead of the famed maestro, they saw an unremarkable young man, standing under the lights with an old, slightly worn viola in hand.

A waiter?

Murmurs of disbelief rippled through the crowd. Some looked around as if expecting an explanation. Others crossed their arms, scowling, feeling as though they had been tricked.

Just as someone was about to voice their complaint, the music began.

A burst of Alpine folk-inspired brilliance erupted from the strings—rich, powerful, and deeply resonant. The sheer force of the sound swallowed the room whole.

One by one, the skeptics fell silent.

The performance soared beyond expectation. The interpretation was masterful, the artistry transcendent.

In Fanmuir's hands, the viola—long considered the soul of the string family—moved with stunning versatility. At times, it climbed effortlessly into the upper registers, its voice bright and pure like a soaring soprano. Then, in an instant, it plunged into deep, sonorous tones, as rich and full-bodied as a baritone's confession.

One moment, the instrument cooed with the delicate sweetness of a young girl's laughter. The next, it raged with the fury of a storm, shaking the air with untamed intensity. Then, as if revealing its final secret, it softened into something deeply masculine—a voice of quiet longing and sorrow.

By the time the last note faded, the entire room was entranced.

As Fanmuir stepped down from the stage, the audience erupted in applause, their faces alight with admiration and awe.

Satisfaction, pure and overwhelming, filled every heart.

The viola had always been an instrument of refinement, rarely played at a level approaching true mastery.

But tonight—tonight, Fanmuir had delivered a performance that was nothing short of legendary.