In a certain spot in the hall, a man with a cold demeanor had a change of expression, his gaze fixed intently on the figure behind the curtain.
"Not even showing a face—are they too ugly to be seen? And they expect us to pay?" a portly middle-aged man complained loudly.
But as soon as the middle-aged man finished his sentence, a thin voice came from behind the curtain.
"Music is about the soul, not the face, sir. Please do not insult it."
Even though the girl's voice carried a hint of anger, it was still very pleasant to the ear.
However, her words enraged the middle-aged man, prompting him to stand up angrily and curse at the figure behind the curtain.
"Who do you think you're talking to? Just a pathetic violinist, acting all high and mighty!"
The man's vulgar words echoed in the hall, but Noah Drexler, seated calmly, had a look of severity flash across his ink-black eyes.
