Theatre Box

A cramped private box high above the stage, its velvet drapes faded with age, letting in only the dim glow of gaslights from the auditorium below. The air smells of old wood and damp upholstery, the red leather seats cracked with use. A small table holds a single flickering candelabra, its light barely piercing the shadows where Jago lurks, his polished shoes clicking against the worn floorboards. The space feels both grand and claustrophobic—designed for the elite to watch unseen, but here reduced to a hiding place where pretense and suspicion take center stage.