Beneath the Moonless Sky

by Nazza

Summary:

Drawn into the dazzling world of the Paris Opera House, a young soprano (y/n) finds herself suddenly thrust into the spotlight. But with fame comes a shadowy cost—an unexplained death haunts the company, and an unknown benefactor begins leaving gifts that grow more unnerving with each delivery. Whispers of "The Phantom of the Opera" fill the opera's darkened halls, and the line between myth and reality blurs as her dreams are invaded by his haunting presence.

When the influential Vicomte de Chagny takes an interest in her, she is caught between the warmth of his attentions and the chilling allure of her unseen admirer. Navigating the maze of danger, desire, and deception that lurks beneath the stage, she soon realizes she’s entangled in a game where love and terror dance hand in hand. In the Opera House's depths, is she being guided… or ensnared?

First person with (y/n) used for female protagonist.

Chapter 1: The Audition

Summary:

Auditions are underway. Will the girl in her handmade dress make it?

Notes:

So, I am utterly obsessed with POTO. This with be based off many versions, including the 1986 and 2004 movies, the broadway versions, etc.
Will mostly be canon. We'll see how I go with that.

Beneath a Moonless Sky
Chapter 1
It took everything in me not to turn and run. The stage lights were hot, and so bright I wanted to shield my face from them. My skin rippled with anxiety, each hair standing on edge as I raised my eyes out across the sea of seats. It was so quiet; time almost seemed to stand still. My heart pounded like a drum, threatening to burst free from my chest. A small tremor had begun it’s incessant movement in my hands. My legs shook. I felt a few moments from collapsing, or perhaps ceasing to exist all together.

“You can begin when you are ready,” A strong male voice called out from the front row of the seating.

Andre. That was his name. Messieurs Andre and Firmin had put out flyers around the streets of Paris – an audition. A chance to be amongst the few who performed in the The Palais Garnier. For me, it was more than just an opportunity to sing in front of the masses. It was the chance to have a stable roof over my head, to sleep safely at night, to have at least one good meal a day.

Things had been hard since coming to Paris. Money had been slim to begin with, and busking in the streets had barely made enough to afford lodgings at whatever inn had the cheapest rate for the night. Many a time, I had been asked to lift my skirts for the men of Paris. Many and more had offered a pretty franc in return for a night of pleasure. I had always turned them down, though. Not that the women of the night were lesser, but a quick… encounter… was not my style. A young boy in Marseille had stolen my heart, briefly, a long time ago. But that was no more than a kiss through the window on a cloudy night. I had since been all around France, singing and entertaining what small audiences I could. It was 1884 now. 22 years since beginning my life in Chamonix. 22 years of singing, dancing, entertaining. 15 long years since my mother perished in childbirth, along with my brother. And ten even longer years since my father took his own life. And 6 gruelling months of scouring the streets of Paris, looking for an opportunity that might elevate me beyond my simple life. Yes… things had been extremely difficult since coming to Paris.

“Mademoiselle?” The voice rang out again, breaking the silence I had not proceeded to fill.

“Sorry, Monsieur.”

“It is quite alright, dear, we know how daunting this can be,” The second manger, Monsieur Firmin, spoke.

I cleared my throat and changed my stance, trying not to let the shaking in my hands and legs influence my voice. I looked over at the maestro, who sat at his piano waiting for my cue. I nodded, and he begun to play the opening notes.

“I'm a young girl, and have just come over,
Over from the country where they do things big,
And amongst the boys I've got a lover,
And since I've got a lover, why I don't care a fig.”

My voice was strong, cheery, to the tune of the song. It was a modest song, but I hadn’t dared sing something that was out of my comfort zone. I begun to move my feet in time with the music, tapping my right foot on every second beat, and spinning to make the skirts of my dress billow. 

"The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me!"

I looked up towards the top of the auditorium, emphasising my point. There were a few people walking amongst beams and pathways, controlling lights, doing whatever else stagehands do. Some were watching me, others had not a care in the world for what was going on underneath them. I wondered how many auditions they had watched before mine. 

"There he is! Can’t you see, waving his handkerchief
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree..!"

I waved my handkerchief around – a simple white piece of cloth cut from the spare fabric of the dress I had made myself for today. It was a basic dress, but nicer than any I had made previously. I had visited some fabric shop on the outskirts of town – Madame Montmorency’s Magasin de Vêtements. I have saved every franc I could, even choosing to sleep on the ground in some dark alleyway a few nights a week in favour of saving the money. Even then, Madame Montmorency had still asked for my shoes. Having no other choice, I obliged, going shoeless for the rest of the week until I stole a pair left on the doorstep of Le Fourcy. Those same shoes I wore on my feet today, and thankfully, they matched. Not that you could see them under my long, light blue gown.

As I finished waving around my handkerchief, I thought I glimpsed someone near the edge of the overhang basked in shadow, waving back. The vision of some stagehand, likely bored out of his brain waving at me and my silly handkerchief dance filled me with some energy, and the pep in my step increased. As I twirled to begin the next verse, my eyes lowered to the managers. 

To my horror, they weren’t even looking at me, instead chuckling with one another about something I could not hear. The brief spark that had begun to invade my performance abruptly went out as I realised - Gods, I was boring them. I stopped singing, and let my arms drop. All sounds ceased and died, my hopes and dreams with them.

Firmin glanced over at me.

“Very well sung, mademoiselle. Thank you for coming. Next!” He returned to his conversation with Andre, and the two continued chortling, Firmin picking up a quill and making a quick movement across his parchment. Tears stung my eyes as a hot flush crept up my neck. How utterly embarrassing. I had sung, starved, begged, stolen, and slept on the streets of Paris to try and make a home for myself here. All for naught.

I stared, unmoving at the managers, as if their words had never been said. Andre looked to me, a little annoyed.

“Thank you, again, mademoiselle. Next!”

“My name is (y/n).” I blurted out. How would they know to find me if they didn't know my name?

The two managers shared a look between each other.

“Yes, well thank you (y/n). It was… lovely. But auditions must go on. We’ll have someone reach out to you if your audition was successful.”

'Lovely.' My audition was 'lovely.' Perhaps as lovely - and thereby meaningless - as a brief encounter with a lady of the night. Good enough for the moment, but never for the long run. You don't make a wife out of a whore, and you don't make a lead soprano out of a 'lovely' performance. What do I do now?!

My head swum with endless thoughts and feelings - anger, humiliation, grief. I wanted to scream at them. Don't you know what I did to be here? I sold my life for this! 

I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes for a brief moment, the reality of the situation sinking deep into the pit of my stomach. Back to the streets of Paris, back to the cold, dank ground, back to begging, and pleading, and crying. The life I had constructed on the success of this audition had come crumbling down around me, and I stood in the wake of its ruins, trying to make peace with the ashes and the dust. There would be no comfort in the stagelights, no bowing to applause, no singing, no dancing, just... living. Or trying to. But was that a life worth living - just existing? Perhaps these were the same thoughts my father was plagued with after my mother passed - endlessly struggling to bring home a loaf of bread after slaving away to men more powerful than he could ever hope to be. Is that what I was to become now? An absolute no-one in the city of bones? Would it be easier to just go down to the catacombs and join them? I looked to the ground and wished for it to swallow me whole. It's not fair. 

However, ever the lady my parents taught me to be, I held my head high, trying not to further humiliate myself by causing a scene. It was a foolish notion to think I could sing my way to a better life, and an even more foolish one to try and enact my fantasies by coming here. I could have used the money to buy a month's worth of lodgings. I could've bought a new guitar. Or a pair of shoes that fit better. I could've bought more fabric, made more dresses, found a simple husband to settle down and raise children with. Instead, I bought a one-way ticket to no-where. Maybe I could try and sleep on the steps of the Opera House tonight instead of in an alleyway. And what should I do tomorrow? What future is there to look forward to? The thought made me want to collapse. 

“You can do better than that.” A deep, dark, male voice spoke. A chill crept up my spine, stealing my breath and making my body freeze. The voice was not my own, nor one I had ever heard before. It sounded like maturity, smooth like porcelain, yet as sharp as the thorns on a rose. I opened my eyes and looked around me, expecting to see some angry stagehand ushering me away. And yet, I was still alone amongst the stagelights, my shadow the only cast onto the wooden floor. Andre and Firmin were still chattering amongst themselves, not aware that I had stayed on the stage like a fool, or perhaps a lunatique, hearing voices in my head. And yet, the voice had been so close - I could’ve sworn someone was standing next to me, breathing down my back. Goosebumps prickled up my arms and I shivered. I felt so cold despite the heat of the stage lights.

“Try again. Sing for me,” the velvety voice continued, in almost a whisper. A flash of white, the smell of parchment, and a dark shadow crossed my mind. What was that?! Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling exposed. Am I going mad? Why am I hearing voices? Perhaps there will be no tomorrow. Perhaps I will be shipped off to some asylum where I am to rot amongst Paris' finest. 

I turned to walk off the stage, desperate to escape whatever phenomenon was possessing my mind.

“Sing!” The male voice yelled in my head, making me instantly freeze and stare back at the managers. As if I had no control over my body, I turned, taking a few steps back to centre stage. I took a deep breath and begun to sing in a high, melodic tune.

“Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade
They have their seasons, so do we
But please promise me that sometimes,
You will think…”

And having completely and utterly lost control of myself, my voice began to rise like a bird finding the highest tree wherein to nest. I threw my arms into the air and became lost in my own voice, the empty theatre suddenly filled with thousands upon thousands of adoring patrons, all watching, all staring at me. I twirled, my voice echoing off the walls of the opera house like many a great performer had before mine. The visions were colourful, the applause astounding. My heart swirled, and my voice soared. 

“Of… me!”

As I concluded, I lowered my arms. My chest heaved, and all the warmth returned to me at once, making me feel faint and oddly... alone? My fantasies of singing before adoring fans faded, and I was back in the empty theatre, save for the two awe-struck managers who now had their full attention tuned on me. The silence of the theatre also returned, deafening and crushing. Not even the stagehands made a sound. Fool. They told you to leave.

“(y/n), was it?” Andre said. I nodded, the flush creeping back up my cheeks and making my face burn. “Well, that was quite brilliant, would you consider –,” the leaner man was cut off by Firmin, as he stood so fast his chair fell back and landed against the ground with a loud crash.

“When can you start?!” The shorter, plumper man all but yelled. Start? He wants me to start... performing? Start in the Opera? A large smile burst across my face, the most genuine I had smiled in the six long months I had spent in Paris.

“Today. I can start today, if you’ll have me," I quickly said. 

“Absolutely. It hardly seems appropriate to let you go wander back out on the streets. Gods Forbid, Andre, we let another soprano slip through our fingers..." his voice trailed off, before he looked up to me again. "Please, once you exit the stage, find Madame Giry – she will show you where to go.”

“Thank you, Messieurs. I won’t let you down.” I spun on my heels, and begun my brisk pace across the stage, each step feeling lighter and lighter. I was completely tunnel-visioned, envisioning my life performing for the Populaire of Paris. The lights, the audience, the singing. It all seemed too wonderous, too much for someone from such simple means.

I all but ran into Madame Giry as I left the stage and its brightness behind me. I looked up, and stared into her cold, blue eyes.

“Well done, mademoiselle,” she spoke in a low, even tone that suggested to me she had spent many years instructing and teaching. She was dressed in a dark gown, so green it was almost black, with a cane she hardly leaned on. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it lifted the edges of her eyes. She was the perfect image of retired ballerina.

“Thank you. Madame Giry, I presume?”

“You presume correct. (y/n), I heard?”

“Yes, Madame.” She nodded and hummed in response to my words, her fingers drumming on the top of her cane as she regarded me cooly.

“Well, young (y/n), rehearsals for Hannibal begin tomorrow. I expect you there as the sun rises. I will show you to the common dressing room. This will be your home now. Did you need to collect your belongings?”

In truth, all I had to my name was the gown I had worn in, the stolen, too-small shoes on my feet, and the necklace my father had gifted my mother when they were newlywed. All other earthly possessions had been sold and pawned to afford the dress and the audition ticket. I didn’t even own a hairbrush, instead opting to braid my long hair in an attempt to hide its current unruly nature. I had chosen to crushing stones and roses to craft rudimentary make up and perfumes. I must have looked a poor mess.

“No, Madame. I did not come to the Palais Garnier with much to my name, I must confess.”

A sparkle twinkled in her eye as she formed the smallest of smiles.

“Not many do, my dear, not many do.” With that, she turned, and began her march off towards the common room, the low tapping of her cane a quiet command – follow me.

And so, I did.

Chapter 2: In Sleep He Sang To Me, In Dreams He Came

Summary:

The soprano begin to settle in to the Opera House. That night, she is plagued by terrible dreams.

Notes:

Let me know what you think! I appreciate all feedback :)

The common room of the Opera House was a world unto itself, an enchanting chaos of bustling activity and subdued glamour. As I followed Madame Giry through its grandiose doors, the scent of makeup, bandoline, and old velvet enveloped me. The room was filled with a flurry of voices, the clinking of mirrors being adjusted, and the occasional burst of laughter. Dancers in their practice attire moved with an effortless grace, their faces a mix of determination and joy. Madame Giry led me to a small, well-worn bench against the wall.

“This will be your space,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of finality as she gestured to a modest mirror and a neatly folded pile of garments. “As you are new, you will have to wear one of the older costumes until we can properly measure you. However, I do not expect that to impact your voice, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, no, of course not Madame. Thank you, I appreciate all of this,” I gestured around to my small area.

I took in the surroundings with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It was a far cry from the cold alleyways I’d called home, yet it felt distant and surreal, like a dream I might awaken from at any moment. The sight of a few other women in varying stages of preparation, some applying makeup with precise strokes, others adjusting their costumes, reminded me that I was one of many now, but perhaps not yet one among them.

“Mademoiselle, I will be overseeing your transition into our company.” Madame Giry’s voice was steady and commanding yet softened by a flicker of warmth. “Should you encounter any… difficulties… please do not hesitant to come to me.” Her gaze swept over me, taking in my nervous demeanor as I looked around at the other dancers and chorus members. The room, though bustling with activity, seemed to fade into the background under her scrutiny. Her eyes, those piercing blue eyes, held a depth that spoke of countless performances and clandestine dramas.

“You have talent, my dear, but this world is not just about raw ability,” she continued, her tone firm but not unkind. “You will find your place here soon enough. Just remember, it takes more than a beautiful voice to make it in this house. It requires resilience, discipline, and the ability to adapt. Perhaps even the guidance of an experienced teacher.”

Experienced teacher? Did she mean the maestro?

I nodded, absorbing her words with a mixture of anxiety and determination. Madame Giry’s gaze remained steady as she assessed me with the practiced eye of someone who had seen many come and go, each with their own dreams and challenges.

“Good,” she said finally, her voice carrying an edge of approval. “It’s best to keep your head focused and your heart steady. Rehearsals begin at dawn. The Palais Garnier does not wait for those who are late.”

Her words were punctuated by the soft, rhythmic tapping of her cane against the wooden floor, each tap underscoring the seriousness of her directive. The atmosphere around us seemed to still, as if the entire room was holding its breath, waiting for her next command. She made it clear that time here was not to be squandered, and punctuality was a mark of respect for the craft and the company.

“Take tonight to settle in and prepare yourself,” the older woman continued, her gaze lingering for a moment longer. “You are stepping into a legacy of excellence. Embrace it with all you have.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her presence commanding respect even in her departure. The other performers resumed their activities, casting curious glances in my direction. As I stood there, the weight of her words began to sink in. The Palais Garnier was a place of grandeur and tradition, and I was now a part of its intricate tapestry.

As I begun to look around my modest space, a young woman approached me. She was a vision of haunting elegance, her eyes as deep as sloes, deep and reflective, holding a mysterious allure that captivated anyone who met her gaze. Her hair, black as ink, tumbled in glossy waves down her back, creating a striking contrast against her pale complexion. The soft pallor of her skin spoke of long hours spent in shadowy rehearsal rooms rather than the sunlit world outside. Yet, despite the delicate beauty of her features, her appearance was marked by an unsettling fragility. Her skin clung tightly to her slender, almost skeletal frame, as though it were struggling to cover the fragile bones beneath. This ethereal and somewhat sombre presence made her seem both otherworldly and heartbreakingly human, embodying the grace and suffering that often define the life of a ballerina. She studied me with girlish eyes.

 “Good evening, mademoiselle. I’m Meg – Madame Giry’s daughter. You must be the new girl, right?” Her voice was sweet and high, a stark contrast to her mother’s deep, calm voice.

I smiled, grateful for the friendly gesture. “Yes, I’m (y/n). Nice to meet you, Meg.”

Meg’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I saw your audition. You were amazing! It’s not often we get someone new who can hold their own like that. I thought for sure you were just going to walk off the stage when they sent you away, low and behold,” she gestured to me, “here you are!”

“And here I am. And here, I hope to stay,” I replied, trying to keep the tremor of anxiety out of my voice. “This is a dream come true, Meg, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified.” I wonder if I should tell her about the voice…

Meg nodded sympathetically. “Oh, I understand. It’s a lot to take in at once. But don’t worry, we all had our first days here, and it gets easier. You’ll have friends here soon enough, and I’ll be one of them.”

Her kindness was a small beacon of hope. I was grateful for the companionship, however fleeting it might turn out to be. Meg's warm smile and kind words provided a comforting balm to my jittery nerves.

“Thank you, Meg. It means a lot to hear that from someone who’s been here for a while.”

She beamed. “Of course! If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m usually around, and I know how overwhelming it can be at first.” She gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before glancing around the room. “But it looks like you’ve got a lot to get sorted. I should let you get settled. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

With that, Meg moved off to join a group of dancers who were huddled around a mirror, discussing the upcoming rehearsals with animated gestures. I watched her go, feeling a flicker of relief that I’d made a connection so quickly.

I returned my focus to my small space, taking a deep breath to ground myself. The modest mirror, though cracked at the edges, was a small comfort. I glanced at the neatly folded garments—a simple costume that seemed a world away from the glamorous dresses of my dreams, but it was a start. The smell of old velvet and faint traces of makeup lingered in the air, a reminder of the lives and stories that had passed through this very room.

As I organized my few belongings, the excitement of the day began to wane, replaced by the creeping fatigue of exhaustion. The reality of my situation settled in—this was my new home, for now. I had to find a way to make peace with the cramped space and the meagre belongings that had become my new world.

With a final glance around the common room, where the hum of activity continued unabated, I made my way down a dimly lit corridor, following the directions Madame Giry had given me. A small candle, the only warmth and comfort to follow me into the Opera House. The hallway was quiet, with only the occasional distant murmur of voices and the soft echo of my footsteps against the stone walls.

Eventually, I arrived at a small, spare dressing room tucked away from the bustling common areas. The room was small and unadorned, with a narrow cot pushed against one wall and a single, small window that let in just enough light to cast faint shadows. It was a far cry from the vibrant energy of the main areas, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the Palais Garnier’s public spaces. I placed my simple candle down on the dresser, retired my blue dress, and slipped into a simple nightgown.

I sat on the edge of the cot, the worn mattress creaking under the weight. The room was stark, but it had a quiet solitude that was oddly comforting. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to savour the silence. The sound of distant laughter and the occasional clink of a wine glass seemed like a world away from this small, private sanctuary. The stillness was a relief, a chance to gather my thoughts and breathe in the safety of my own company.

I lay back on the cot, pulling the musty, thin, rough blanket up to my chest. The exhaustion of the day finally caught up with me, and despite the discomfort, I felt a deep sense of peace wash over me. I closed my eyes, eager to sleep in a place of relative safely, for the first time in a long time.

However, sleep did not want me as desperately as I wanted it. Sleep had seemingly become a distant stranger, as if every attempt to embrace it only stirred up the quiet tumult within me, keeping slumber frustratingly out of reach. I tossed and turned, ears pricking at every ambient noise, still so unfamiliar. It felt as if every time I managed to drift off, I was quickly jolted awake by an unknown threat watching me in the shadows.

Eventually, I managed to fall into a deep slumber. But gods, the dreams…

I am staring into a large mirror, ornate and exquisite, its gilded frame intricately carved with swirling patterns that seem to whisper secrets of forgotten worlds. The mirror feels like a portal, its glassy surface a veil between the tangible and the unknown, drawing me with an almost magnetic pull.

As I step closer, my movements are deliberate and hesitant, as if I fear that any sudden motion might cause this fragile boundary to dissolve. My reflection gazes back at me, its eyes just as wide with curiosity, creating a disconcerting sense of symmetry that blurs the line between dream and reality. The familiar contours of my face seem both alien and intimate, as though I am seeing myself for the first time through the lens of a stranger.

I reach out a trembling hand, my fingers inching toward the mirror's surface, half expecting it to shatter under the pressure of my touch or for my hand to pass through as if it were a mere illusion. Instead, the glass remains unyielding, its chill seeping into my skin as I press my palm against it. The coldness is a stark contrast to the warmth of my breath, sending a shiver racing up my arm and settling deep within me.

I scrutinize my reflection, searching for any irregularities or distortions. My face, though unchanged, seems to vibrate with an unspoken energy, each line and shadow echoing with silent significance. The mirror’s surface remains smooth and flawless, betraying no sign of the mysteries that lie beyond. It feels as if I am on the precipice of something profound, a threshold between two worlds, but the answer remains tantalizingly out of reach.

As I continue to peer into the mirror, a sudden flash of white darts across my field of vision. It is fleeting, like a glimmer of light caught in the corner of my eye, and it vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared. I blink and refocus, but the flash seems to linger, a ghostly reminder of something just beyond my grasp.

With the flash comes a cascade of sensory impressions, each one vivid and disorienting. The air grows thick with the scent of burning candles, their waxy aroma mingling with the faint, acrid tang of parchment consumed by flame. The underlying fragrance of roses weaves through these scents, adding a delicate, floral note that somehow makes the atmosphere both enchanting and unsettling.

The combination of these scents evokes a scene from another time – a circus, a boy, chains, the anger, the hurt, retaliation. They warped, and the boy, now a man grown, sat with pen and quill in hand agonising over a piece of parchment. The image of flickering candlelight dances across the mirror’s surface, casting ephemeral reflections that waver like phantoms. The scent of wax and parchment clings to the air, creating a rich tapestry of smell that seems almost to reach out from the mirror itself.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to reconcile these sensory experiences with the reality of my reflection. When I open them again, the visions are gone. Yet, the mirror seems to pulsate gently, the flickering light and scents intensifying as if beckoning me to cross the threshold. The line between the mirror and the world it reflects becomes increasingly blurred, and I feel an almost irresistible urge to reach through, to uncover whatever lies beyond this captivating, sensory veil. The flickering reflections grow more vivid, casting eerie shadows that stretch and warp across the walls of the room. Amidst this cacophony of chaos, a deep, resonant male voice begins to emerge from the void.

The voice is both hauntingly familiar and entirely unknown, echoing through the air with an unsettling clarity. Its timbre is rich and velvety, imbued with an ancient, almost primal quality that sends a shiver down my spine. The voice carries a warmth that feels intimately close, yet it remains shrouded in a disquieting sense of distance. Each word seems to resonate with hidden meaning, as if speaking directly to some part of me I do not fully understand.

The voice weaves through the air like a whisper caught in the wind, its cadence mesmerizing and laden with an emotional depth that both comforts and disturbs. It speaks in a language that is just beyond my comprehension, a melody of words that dances on the edge of recognition. The intonations are familiar, stirring memories and feelings that I cannot quite place, yet there is something inherently foreign about its presence.

I strain to decipher the message, my heart pounding with anticipation and anxiety. The voice seems to be calling me, its tones both inviting and commanding, urging me to listen more closely. It feels as if it is reaching out through the mirror, beckoning me to cross the boundary and discover what lies beyond. The sense of familiarity mingles with an inexplicable sense of dread, creating a disorienting tension that keeps me rooted in place, caught between the allure of the unknown and the safety of the tangible world.

As the voice continues its haunting serenade, I find myself drawn irresistibly closer to the mirror. The glass seems to ripple slightly, as if reacting to the resonance of the voice, and the reflection within begins to shimmer and distort. My own image wavers, merging with the shifting shadows and light, as if the mirror itself is a gateway to another realm where the voice resides.

The deep, male voice persists, its echoes growing more insistent, and I feel a profound urge to respond, to step through the mirror and into the enigmatic world it promises. The sense of crossing into something both profoundly familiar and disturbingly alien is overwhelming, pulling me toward a destiny that remains tantalizingly out of reach.

As the haunting male voice trails off, its deep resonance fading into the background, a few distinct words begin to emerge from the shifting echoes. They come through fragmented and disjointed, yet they carry a clarity that cuts through the haze.

“Brava, brava, bravissima…”

Chapter 3: Magical Lasso

Summary:

Joseph Buquet has a terrible influence on the ballerinas.

Notes:

I hope this isn't *too different* from the plot. I'll get back on track soon!

I awoke with a start, my heart racing and my breaths coming in shallow bursts. That voice – the one in my dreams – had it been the same I had heard on stage?

Perhaps I truly am going mad.

Rubbing my eyes, I tried to piece together the fragments of the dream that lingered at the edge of my mind. I remembered a mirror, ornate and shimmering, and that deep, haunting voice. What had it said? “Brava, brava, bravissima…”—a hauntingly affirming praise that seemed to reverberate in my thoughts. Was it praising me for my performance at the auditions?

I shook my head, willing away the visions of the night. It is just anxiety about your first day.

The cracks of barely visible dawn light filtered through the narrow window, casting a soft glow over the small, spare dressing room. The room smelt like wax, my recently-extinguished candle stood unmoving, hardened by time. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, the sleep I had managed being restless and fragmented. I sighed, remembering Madame Giry’s words.

“Rehearsals begin at dawn. The Palais Garnier does not wait for those who are late.”

I quickly dressed in a simple gown set aside for me, my movements sluggish as I prepared for rehearsal. Each motion felt heavier than the last, but the dream’s echo of praise spurred me on. I double checked the candle was no longer lit, and splashed water on my face, trying to shake off the grogginess. I sighed, again, and made my way to the common room for breakfast.

The common room was already bustling with activity. I spotted Meg, sitting at a table with a small, simple breakfast spread before her. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she waved me over with an inviting smile.

“Good morning, mademoiselle!” Meg greeted cheerfully as I joined her at the table. “How did you sleep?”

I managed a tired smile in return. “Good morning, Meg.” Should I tell her about the dream? “Not very well, I’m afraid. I had a dream, or rather, a series of fragmented dreams. I woke up feeling like I’d been pulled through a storm.”

Meg’s expression softened with sympathy, though a glimmer of something sparkled in her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. First days here can be a whirlwind, and it’s never easy to get a good night’s sleep with such a big change.” She studied me with curiosity, looking back towards her breakfast and pulling at a strand of her black hair. “What was your dream about, if you don’t mind sharing?”

I took a sip of the hot tea in front of me, the warmth comforting as I gathered my thoughts. “There was this mirror, ornate and beautiful. A voice spoke to me, saying ‘brava, brava, bravissima.’” And it had been the same voice I heard in my head when I was on stage. “It felt so real, but now I can’t quite figure out what it meant.”

Meg paused, before nodded thoughtfully, her eyes reflecting some kind of understanding. “Dreams can be so strange... I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Sometimes, dreams are just dreams and nothing more. But the praise you heard? Why, (y/n), that sounds like a good omen, if you ask me. Maybe it’s a sign that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.” She smiled, warmly.

I nodded, appreciating her reassuring words. “You’re right, Meg. Dreams are just dreams.” But what about the boy? The man? The candles and the paper and the flash of white and-

Meg’s voice cut through my stumbling thoughts. “You’ll get the hang of it, I promise. Just remember, we’ve all been through it. Take one step at a time, and don’t be afraid to ask for help. We’re a family here, and we look out for one another.” I tried not to let my hesitation show, flashing her a quick smile before occupying myself with the cooling tea.

“Thank you, Meg, I really appreciated it.” My expression must have betrayed my determination, because the pale girl turned to me, placing her soft, bony hands upon my own.

“Don’t be frightened,” she all but sung in her sweet voice. I went to respond, but unbeknownst to me, Madame Giry was watching.

“Ladies,” she said, cooly.

“Mother,” Meg jumped. “We were just finishing breakfast.” Madame Giry slammed her cane down on the floor, and Meg and I flinched.

“Are you two somehow exempt from rehearsals?” The older woman questioned. Neither of us answered, with me staring wide-eyed into my tea, wishing to drown in it. Madame Giry continued, “then come and practise!”

With another cane slam, Meg, myself, and a few scatterings of other ballerinas, promptly rose to our feet and rushed for the common dressing room, readying ourselves for the rehearsal. I tucked myself away into my humble corner, perching on the worn wooden bench as I attempted to do my make-up in the mirror. There were not many options – a pinch of some pink powder on my cheeks, a splash of oil on the eyelashes – still far more than I had ever used while on the streets of Paris, yet I couldn’t help but feel underdressed in comparison to the extravagance the other chorus members used on their faces.

The other girls, comfortable with one another’s presence, quickly changed into their costumes and helped one another with bows and ribbons, tightening and loosening as required. Not entirely comfortable with that prospect, I looked around the room for a small place I might be able to have some privacy. I stopped a small door and made my way over to it.

“Where are you going?” one of the other chorus members questioned. The flickering of a blush begun its creep up my neck.

“I just wanted to get changed… away from… here,” I stammered, not trying to seem rude or prudish. The girl eyed me curiously as she pulled up the laces on her bodice.

“Oh, I understand.” She stood to her full height; a good half-foot taller than me. “But there’s a reason we don’t go in there, (y/n).”

I raised my eyebrows, both surprised she knew my name and by the statement. “Why is that?” I asked.

“Haven’t you ever heard of the Opera Ghost?”

I froze, unable to fully process her words. Opera Ghost? 

“Mademoiselle, I don’t quite understand-,” she cut me off before I could continue.

“It’s Elise,” she smirked, a slightly cruel tone underpinning her words. She watched my reaction with a smirk, as if she had expected it. Her eyes, lined with thick kohl, seemed to glint with a mix of amusement and something else—something almost like a warning. “You have heard of him, haven’t you?” she asked, slow and calculating.

I shook my slowly, eyes will wide with curiosity and confusion. Elise glanced around the room, as if to make sure no one else was listening, before leaning in closer to me. “Some say he’s a ghost,” she whispered, “but others say he’s a man—a man who has been here since the Paris Ganier was built, that he lives beneath the Opera House. They say, sometimes at night, you can hear him calling you to the depths…” Her words echoed through my skull. You can hear him calling to you?

She continued, “They say he’s disfigured, that he wears a mask to hide his grotesque, deformed face. Some say he was burnt in a horrible accident. Others say he carved it himself, or that he was simply born that way; a monster from the moment he entered the world. And some say, mademoiselle, if he choses you, you may only count down the remainder of your days before he comes into your bed while you sleep and strangles you with his magical lasso!”

Suddenly, I felt the coarse rope of a noose being slipped around my neck. My breath hitched in my throat as the rope tightened just enough to feel it, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a bolt of panic through my body. I froze, too shocked to move, my hands instinctively reaching for the unwanted necklace, as if I could undo their cruel joke.

“Just a little fun, mademoiselle,” a girl whispered in my ear, her breath warm against my skin. “After all, the Opera Ghost might be watching. He likes to see who’s brave and who’s not.”

The room erupted in laughter, the sound sharp and mocking. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel the blood rushing to my head, making my vision swim. The noose, though not tightened enough to cause real harm, felt like a vice around my neck, each breath shallow and ragged.

“Come now, don’t cry,” Elise said, her voice dripping with annoyance.

I could barely focus on her words, my mind a whirl of fear and embarrassment. The other girls’ laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls, making it feel as though the very opera house itself was laughing at me. I wanted to cry out, to pull the rope from my neck, but my body felt paralysed, rooted to the spot by a mix of terror and humiliation.

But just as suddenly as the noose had appeared, it was gone. The girl who had placed it around my neck loosened it with a flick of her wrist, letting the rope fall to the floor in a heap. I gasped, my hands flying to my throat as if to reassure myself that I could still breathe.

Elise’s laughter faded, and she watched me with a calculating gaze, as if measuring just how much fear she had managed to instil. “There, you see?” she said, her tone now almost patronizing. “It’s all just a bit of fun. No harm done. But be careful, (y/n), the Phantom doesn’t take kindly to those who don’t show the proper respect.”

“Why?” I choked out.

Elise shrugged, her expression a mix of intrigue and nonchalance. “Who knows? Maybe he’s mad. Maybe he’s obsessed with the music, the performances. They say he’s a genius, you know. A musician, a composer, a killer…”

The room was still filled with quiet giggles and murmurs, but I could sense that the other girls had grown slightly uneasy, perhaps realizing that their joke had gone too far. I forced myself to stand tall, to brush off the tears that had threatened to spill over, and give them a small, tight smile.

“I’ll remember that,” I managed to say, though my voice trembled slightly. “Thank you for the… lesson.”

Elise nodded, apparently satisfied, and the other girls began to drift away, their interest in me already waning as they returned to their preparations. I stood there for a moment longer, my hands still trembling slightly, before I finally turned away and pushed into the forbidden room. It too, had a small rudimentary bench, and a long, standing mirror.

As I sat down, pulling on my shoes and trying to steady my breath. Elise’s words echoed in my mind, mingling with the fear that still lingered from the noose around my neck. Was it just a cruel joke, or was there something more to the story of the Opera Ghost? And if he was real, had he seen what just happened?

As I slipped into my costume, I couldn’t help but think of the dream I had the night before—the mirror, the voice. Was it just a coincidence? Or was there something more to it? The thought nagged at me as I finished getting ready, but I pushed it aside. I had more immediate concerns to deal with.

I shivered, feeling as if I was being watched from the shadows. Nonsense. You are just worked up from the cruel jape. I stared around the small room, eyes straining to make out any shape in the darkness. Of course, there was nothing. Nothing visible, anyway. I sighed, for the third time that morning, before exiting the room.

I joined the other chorus girls as we made our way to the rehearsal stage. The grandeur of the opera house was even more overwhelming in the bright light of day, every inch of the space dripping with opulence and history. The stage was a world unto itself, a place where magic was created, where the ordinary could transform into the extraordinary.

As we took our places and began our warm-ups, I tried to focus on the task at hand, to drown out the thoughts of ghosts and phantoms. But no matter how hard I tried, the feeling of being watched, of not being alone, lingered in the back of my mind.

Chapter 4: Whose Is That Face In The Mirror?

Summary:

More, terrible, somewhat prophetic dreams continue to haunt the young soprano. What is she to make of these visions?

That night, I returned to my small, sparse dressing room with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. The weight of the day’s rehearsal, the lingering stares of the other dancers, and the unsettling presence that had seemed to follow me all day had taken their toll. The narrow bed in the corner of the room, with its thin, threadbare blanket, looked far more inviting than it had the night before. I barely had the energy to undress, my limbs heavy with fatigue as I slipped out of my practice clothes and into the plain nightgown I’d left on the bed this morning. Just as last night, I set the candle down on the dresser.

Just as I begun to climb into my humble cot, a knock rapped on the dressing room door. Startled, I leapt to my feet and wrapped a robe around my shoulders.

“Come in!” I called.

Meg, in all her pale and small beauty, entered the room, clutching at a long candlestick supported in a small plate. Her deep eyes shone like dark stars. I stared at her, and the weight of the day burbled up my throat, escaping in the form of a wretched sob. “Oh, Meg,” I collapsed down to the seat in front of my dresser, my head in my hands. She came to me, quickly, placing her candle down next to mine. Without a word, she knelt beside me, her hands resting lightly on my arms, grounding me in the moment.

“I heard what happened. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Her kindness only made the tears flow faster. I had been holding everything in all day—the lasso, Elise and the other dancers, the strange occurrences that had left me feeling like I was caught in some terrible dream. But now, in the presence of Meg's quiet understanding, it all came pouring out.

"I don't know what's happening," I choked out between sobs. "Elise, she-,” my eyes grew wide remembering the feel of the noose around my throat. My fingers rose to the tender flesh wherein the noose had briefly been.

“Shh, I know. I spoke to mother about it, and she is furious. I don’t know what is going to happen, but it won’t happen again. I promise, and mother promises too. She said she’s sorry she wasn’t there to stop it. (y/n), you should’ve seen the fury behind her eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Meg’s eyes almost looked frightened as she recalled the conversation. She continued, “that story Elise told, it’s something Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, tells the girls to scare them. He made the noose for her – he says he finds them all around the place and claims the Opera Ghost made them. It’s all just nonsense,” she spoke, but her voice hinted that perhaps it was not entirely unbelievable. “Elise - she just took it too far,” Meg’s voice trailed off. I nodded, the tears beginning to slow their ascent down my cheeks. Meg grasped my face in her hands to make me look at her. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

I nodded again. “Thank you, Meg,” I sniffled.

“Rest now, dear (y/n), you will need your strength for tomorrow.”

As she rose to leave, I reached out, catching her hand. "Meg," I murmured, my voice small and hesitant, "do you think there’s really someone... watching?"

She paused, her dark eyes meeting mine in the dim light. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in their depths—fear, perhaps, or a secret she wasn’t ready to share. But then she smiled, a gentle, almost sad smile.

"I think," she said slowly, "that the Opera House is full of mysteries, and some of them are better left undiscovered. But I also think that you are safe, here with us. Sleep now and let the music of your dreams carry you through the night."

She smiled at me, and left, taking her candle with her. I listened to her soft footsteps as she left the room, the door closing quietly behind her.

The room was cold, a draft seeping in through the old wooden window frames. I wiped my face on the back of my robe, completely and utterly spent. I climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket up to my chin, curling into myself as I lay in the near darkness, the only light coming from the dim glow of the moon through the frosted glass, and my small flickering candle. I closed my eyes, hoping for the comforting embrace of sleep, but the events of the day still played on my mind, refusing to let go.

Elise’s words echoed in my head, the story of the Opera Ghost gnawing at my thoughts. A man, a monster, living beneath the Opera House, waiting to claim his next victim. It was just a story, a cruel joke meant to frighten me. But as I lay there in the stillness, every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of the wind outside seemed to take on a sinister edge.

I turned over, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the unease wouldn’t leave me. The room felt too quiet, too empty, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was not alone. The memory of that unsettling sensation of being watched during rehearsal crept back into my mind, and I found myself staring into the darkness, my eyes searching for shadows that shouldn't be cast. Of course, there was nothing but ambience, moonlight, and the soft glow of my candle. 

Just as I was beginning to drift off, I heard it—a faint noise, like a breath, soft and barely audible. My eyes snapped open, my heart racing as I strained to listen. The sound came again, a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, as though someone was standing just inside the edges of the shadows.

I sat up in bed, my pulse pounding in my ears as I listened, every muscle in my body tense. The room was silent now, the sound gone as quickly as it had come. I glanced towards the door, half expecting it to swing open, but it remained firmly shut. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of my mind. The contents of my stomach threatened to make their rapid spill from my mouth, and that all too familiar pit seeded itself back in the depths of my core. 

Refusing to tolerate the hunted sensation any longer, I pushed aside the blanket and swung my feet to the floor, the cold wood sending a shiver up my spine. I stood slowly, every creak of the floorboards beneath me magnified in the silence. I crept to the door, my heart thudding in my chest, and pressed my ear against the wood, listening. One second, two, three... several minutes passed. My head ached from the awkward angle, but I was determined to ensure the mysterious breathing noise was not simply holding it's breath. And yet there was nothing—just the quiet hum of the night. I let out a shaky breath, attempting to convince myself it was just my imagination, the result of too many ghost stories and too little sleep.

But as I turned back towards the bed, I saw it.

Unconsciously, I held my breath, staring at the rose as if it were something otherworldly, a piece of a dream that had crossed into reality. The pristine petals glowed softly in the dim light, their edges curled delicately, as though the flower had been placed there with the utmost care.

But I hadn’t placed it there. I hadn’t even seen it before. My mind raced, trying to piece together the moments leading up to this discovery. Had someone come into my room while I slept? But I had barely been asleep, my mind still restless from the day’s events. I tried to remember if I had locked the door behind Meg when she left, but the memory was hazy, clouded by exhaustion and unease. Did I lock it? I couldn’t remember.

A wave of cold fear swept over me, and I exhaled hard, a desperate sob escaping with the rush of air too long held. The sound seemed to echo in the small room, amplifying the silence that followed. My pulse quickened, the steady thrum of my heartbeat loud in my ears, and I felt a chill crawl down my spine.

I reached out with trembling fingers, hesitating just inches from the flower. The thought of touching it seemed both terrifying and inevitable. I needed to know if it was real, if it had truly manifested in my room or if it was some figment of a waking nightmare.

When my fingers finally brushed against the soft petals, I recoiled slightly at the coolness of the flower. It was real, its texture unmistakable, and its scent—delicate and fresh—wafted toward me, filling the room with an almost sickly sweetness. I examined the stem with trembling hands, noticing that the thorns had been carefully carved down, leaving it smooth and almost elegant. Someone had gone to great lengths to make the rose perfect, to ensure it wouldn’t harm the one who held it. But who? And why?

To my further dismay, a small card was tucked neatly behind the stem by a small, black ribbon, its edges slightly frayed as though it had been handled many times before finding its way to me. My breath caught in my throat as I noticed it, a tiny, almost insignificant detail in the grand scheme of the night’s strangeness, yet it felt like the final piece of a puzzle I didn’t want to solve.

My hands shook as I picked it up, the paper soft and worn against my fingertips. The weight of the rose suddenly felt heavier in my other hand, as if the bloom itself were laden with meaning, a symbol of something far beyond my understanding. I turned the card over with trepidation, half-expecting it to disappear, as though the very act of touching it might make it vanish into thin air.

But it didn’t disappear. Instead, scrawled in elegant, looping handwriting were three words that seemed to leap off the card, searing themselves into my memory:

“Brava, brava, bravissima.”

The words echoed in my mind, reverberating like the distant toll of a bell, each syllable ringing with a haunting familiarity. I stared at the card, unable to tear my eyes away, as if by looking at it long enough I might decipher some hidden meaning, some clue as to who had left it and how they possibly could have known the phrase carved out of my nightmares and dreams. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I had never known before, as if my very essence had been laid bare to an unseen observer. The walls of my room seemed to close in around me, the shadows growing darker, more menacing, as if they were alive with secrets and hidden dangers.

The handwriting was flawless, each letter perfectly formed, exuding a sense of grace and precision that sent a shiver down my spine. Whoever had written this had taken their time, crafting each curve and flourish with an artistry that was almost unnatural. It was a compliment, an acknowledgment of my performance—yet it felt like so much more than that. It felt like a claim, a marking of territory. Who could have done this? Who had the power to move through the opera house so silently, so unseen? 

Opera Ghost.

I dropped the card as if it had burned me, backing away from the table. The room seemed to close in around me, the shadows deepening, the walls whispering secrets I didn’t want to hear. My breath came in short, panicked gasps as I stumbled back towards the bed, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. I grabbed the blanket, pulling it tight around myself as I sank down onto the mattress, my eyes darting around the room, searching for any sign of the intruder.

But there was nothing. Just the quiet darkness, and the echo of those haunting words ringing in my ears, and the flickering of my lonesome candle.

Time seemed to stretch, each minute an eternity as I lay there, tense and alert, straining to hear even the faintest sound. But all I could hear was the silence, thick and suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight. The darkness that had felt so menacing now felt less oppressive, but it offered no solace, only an empty void in which my fears could fester and grow. Hours seemed to pass, the night dragging on with cruel slowness, as if time itself had conspired to prolong my torment. The exhaustion that had been kept at bay by my fear finally began to take hold, pulling me down into its heavy embrace. My eyelids grew heavy, my body sinking deeper into the mattress as the adrenaline that had kept me awake and alert began to fade.

Sleep, when it finally came, was not a release, but a surrender, a reluctant descent into darkness. I clung to the blanket, the only comfort I had in a night filled with terror and uncertainty, as my consciousness slowly slipped away. 

I am standing on the Opera House’s grand stage, surrounded by towering set pieces, their shadows stretching long and ominous under the dim, flickering gaslights.

The theatre is empty, the vastness of the space pressing in on me. The seats, rows upon rows of them, are shrouded in darkness, their emptiness eerie and suffocating. The silence is thick. I turn in slow circles, my breath quickening as I search the shadows for something, someone.

A soft rustling sound comes from behind me. I spin around, and there it is—the mirror. The same ornate, gilded frame from before, but larger now, impossibly large, stretching from floor to ceiling. Its surface is no longer smooth and reflective; instead, it ripples like disturbed water, shimmering with an otherworldly light. The mirror feels alive, pulsing with a strange energy that both draws me in and repels me.

I take a hesitant step forward, then another, my feet moving of their own accord. As I near the mirror, the rippling intensifies, and the surface begins to change. My reflection appears. She wears a costume, a grand, elaborate dress of deep crimson, adorned with black lace and pearls.

Suddenly, there is a flash of white—blinding, all-encompassing. I gasp, the world around me dissolving into a haze of light. The scent of burning candles fills the air, mixed with the rich, heady aroma of wax, parchment, and roses. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, pulling me deeper into the dream.

The light fades, and I find myself standing in a grand, candlelit chamber. The walls are lined with heavy velvet drapes, deep red and black, adorned with golden embroidery. The scent of roses is stronger here, cloying and thick, almost suffocating.

Then, from the shadows, I hear it—a voice. Deep, resonant, and hauntingly familiar, yet entirely unknown. It echoes through the chamber, a rich baritone that sends shivers down my spine.

“Sing…”

The voice trails off, the words lingering in the air like smoke. I strain to hear more, but the chamber is silent again. I feel a presence, something unseen yet unmistakable, watching me, waiting. My heart pounds in my chest, fear and curiosity warring within me.

I try to move, to turn and flee, but my feet won’t obey. The presence grows stronger, more insistent, as if it’s closing in on me. The shadows around me seem to shift and breathe, alive with something unseen.

“Who are you?” I try to call out, but my voice is lost in the vastness of the chamber, swallowed by the heavy silence.

The mirror from before reappears before me, its surface smooth and reflective once more. But this time, there is no reflection—only darkness. I stare into the void, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Sing for me…” the voice whispers, closer now, as if it’s right behind me.

I spin around, but there’s nothing there—only shadows and silence. I’m alone, or at least, I appear to be. But the voice—its presence is undeniable, suffocating, consuming.

I feel it – the itch at my throat forcing my voice out in a hum at first. And just like when I was on the stage, a puppet dancing on helpless strings commanded by a cruel master, my voice begins to soar. The song flows from my lips as if it had always been there, buried deep within me, waiting for this moment to be unleashed.

I can feel its approval, a cold, almost tangible satisfaction that seeps into my very bones. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing through the vast chamber, but the song does not stop. I can’t stop it. But I also cannot possibly continue.

As if all the air in the room had suddenly rushed back in, the oppressive force ceases. I collapse to my knees, feeling watched, hunted.

From the depths of the void, a hand emerges—gloved in black, reaching out toward me. I try to step back, but I’m frozen in place, unable to move, to breathe. The hand reaches for me, and just as it’s about to touch my skin, I scream—

I awoke, panting once again. The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains.  I sat up in bed, clutching the sheets, trying to steady my breathing.

It was a dream—a horrible, terrifying dream. But the voice, the presence—it felt so real. I rub my eyes, trying to banish the lingering images from my mind. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was there with me. And as I lie back down, pulling the covers tightly around me, the voice echoes in my mind, a haunting whisper that refuses to fade.

“Come to me, angel of music…”

Notes:

Sorry, sorry, another dream sequence!

Chapter 5: A Disaster Beyond Imagination

Summary:

Rehearsals are difficult. It's a good thing Meg Giry is such a great friend. Where did Elise go?

Notes:

Slightly longer chapter. Enjoy! Hope it's not too much.

The next morning, the air inside the Palais Garnier was thick with anticipation. Dawn had barely broken when I slipped through the grand doors, the soft golden light of the rising sun filtering through the stained-glass windows and casting eerie patterns on the marble floors. The chill of the early hour clung to my skin, but it was the memory of the previous day that sent a shiver down my spine.

I made my way down the long, dimly lit corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly, the silence broken only by the faint echoes of my footsteps. Despite the early hour, the Opera House was already beginning to stir, with the occasional sound of distant voices and the creak of wooden stage sets being moved into place. The grandeur of the building, with its towering ceilings and intricate carvings, felt oppressive in the half-light, as though it held secrets that would rather remain hidden.

As I approached the rehearsal hall, my stomach twisted in knots. The memory of Elise and the other chorus girls mocking me with that noose was still fresh, and I dreaded the thought of facing them again. But as I reached the door, I squared my shoulders and pushed it open, determined not to let fear control me.

Inside, the hall was a flurry of activity. Dancers stretched and warmed up, their lithe bodies bending and twisting in ways that seemed almost inhuman. The air was filled with the rustle of costumes and the soft hum of the piano as the maestro played a few tentative notes, testing the keys. The scent of rosin and sweat mingled with the lingering traces of perfume, creating an intoxicating blend that filled the room.

Madame Giry was already there, her sharp eyes observing every movement, every misstep. She stood by the piano, her posture as rigid as ever, tapping her cane lightly against the floor as she called out corrections to the dancers. Her presence was commanding, and I felt a flutter of nerves as her gaze briefly flicked to me, softening ever so slightly, before returning to the dancers in front of her.

I found my place at the back of the room, trying to stay unnoticed as I began to stretch. The other girls were already deep in conversation, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the sombre mood I couldn’t seem to shake. Elise was not among them. How strange. I wondered if Madame Giry had sent her off somewhere as punishment, perhaps down to the kitchens to scrub dishes, or clean clothes for a while. Regardless, I was happy I wouldn’t have to face her.

Rehearsal began with a flurry of movement as Madame Giry clapped her hands sharply, bringing everyone to attention. We moved through the steps, our bodies forming lines and patterns, the music guiding our every move. I threw myself into the dance, trying to push away the memories of the previous night, focusing instead on the rhythm, the precision, the discipline.

And yet… that feeling. The invisible eyes on the back of my neck…I glanced around the room, but the only eyes I met were those of my fellow dancers, all focused on their own reflections in the mirror or on Madame Giry’s instructions.

Still, the feeling persisted, gnawing at the edges of my concentration. My movements became less fluid, more forced, and I stumbled over a step that I should have known by now. Madame Giry’s cane struck the floor with a sharp crack, and her stern voice cut through the music.

“(Y/N),” she called out, her tone leaving no room for excuses. “You are out of sync. Again!”

“I’m sorry, Madame,” I murmured, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as the other dancers turned to look at me.

“Sorry will not suffice,” Madame Giry replied, her gaze piercing. “Focus, mademoiselle, or you will find yourself without!”

She did not need to finish the threat – I understood. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as I forced myself to concentrate. The music started again, and I moved with renewed determination, though the unease still lingered at the edges of my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching, waiting in the shadows. And as the rehearsal wore on, the sensation only grew stronger, as if the very walls of the Palais Garnier were alive, whispering secrets that I was not yet ready to hear.

But the secret came to the light soon enough.

Meg caught up to me after rehearsals, her footsteps quick as she fell into step beside me. “I’m sorry about my mother earlier,” she began, her voice tinged with concern. “She can be quite… abrupt.”

I shook my head, offering her a small smile. “Don’t be daft, Meg. She’s simply doing her job. I understand.”

We continued down the corridor leading from the shared dressing room, our conversation light and easy, punctuated by laughter that echoed off the walls. The day had been long, but in Meg’s company, the weight of it seemed to lift just a little. The camaraderie among us, despite the strangeness of the day, felt comforting.

But then, just as we were rounding a corner, a piercing scream shattered the air. It reverberated through the halls, sending a chill down my spine. Meg and I froze, the laughter dying on our lips as we exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“It came from the main stage,” Meg whispered, her voice trembling with fear and uncertainty.

My heart began it’s familiar panic-stricken thud. My breath quickened, and Meg and I simultaneously turned and began our quick ascent to the main stage. I couldn’t help but run just a touch faster than Meg, a deep, dark pit forming in my stomach and making bile rise up my throat.

I burst out onto the stage, quickly scanning the scene. Another young chorus member – Edith – had collapsed in the middle of the stage, her mouth agape, eyes wide, as white as a sheet. I raced to her, falling beside her and cradling her head in my lap.

“Mademoiselle, what is wrong?!” I yelled, shaking her slightly. I feared she had been overcome with some dreaded sickness, or perhaps been crushed by some prop, Gods! Anything was possible She closed her mouth, but her eyes stayed wide. I felt her hand raise next to me, but I was too busy searching her body for signs of injury, calling her name and urging her to answer me.

I heard the rush of Meg’s footsteps as she too, reached the stage. She gasped.

“(y/n), look,” her voice trembled.

“I can see, Meg, please can you get someone to help.”

The smaller girl in my arms also spoke up. “Mademoiselle, (y/n), look,” she uttered. I followed her hand up to where she was pointing, directly behind us near the backdrop of the stage. A shadow, cast dark as night by the warm stage lights, hanging… I looked further, my breath hitching in my throat.

High above us, swaying ominously from the beam where the stagehands worked, was Elise. Her body hung limply, suspended by a rope, her pale face ghostly white against the darkened backdrop. Unbeknownst to me, many of the other ballerinas and chorus members had made their way onto the stage. The ballerinas scattered across the stage screamed in unison, their voices merging into a cacophony of terror. Some clutched at one another, while others stood rooted in place, their eyes wide with shock and horror.

“He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera!" Meg shrieked.

Madame Giry appeared almost instantly, her presence commanding as she strode onto the stage. “Everyone, away from here! Now!” she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos with a sharp authority. The dancers never hesitated, crying and leaning on one another before scurrying off the stage, their fear palpable in the way they flew past us. The girl, Edith, who had been in my lap, had since disappeared. I stood, to follow the other dancers, my eyes locked on Meg and she ran from the stage.

But Madame Giry’s gaze fixed on me, her eyes narrowing. “Not you,” she said firmly, almost venomous, pointing a finger in my direction. I couldn’t help but pause. The sternness in her voice left no room for argument. I nodded, my stomach churning with dread as the others disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with Madame Giry.

Moments later, the managers burst into the room, their faces pale with worry and annoyance. “What in God’s name is going on here?” Monsieur Firmin demanded, his voice unsteady. His eyes darted up to where Elise’s body hung, and he stopped in his spot, his face paling even further.

Monsieur André could only shake his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Who would do such a thing?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Someone get Buquet!” Firmin shouted, his voice frantic. “Chief of the flies—he’ll know what happened!”

A stagehand rushed off to fetch Buquet, leaving the rest of us to stand in stunned silence. I could hear Madame Giry’s breathing, steady and controlled, even as the tension in the air thickened.

“Andre…” Firmin breathed.

“Someone cut that damn body down!” Andre whirled to face Firmin, his face stricken with an anxiety that all in the room could relate to. “This is an accident, Firmin, simply a terrible accident.” I glanced to Madame Giry, not quite sure I believed the smaller manager. Her gaze flickered over to me, only for a brief moment. I went to speak, but was abruptly cut off by Joseph Buquet’s curses and growls.

The older, broad-shouldered man looked gruff. His face had been worn down by years of darkness and hard work. He did not have much hair, but his face sprouted a short, bushy beard that looked like he had taken a blunt knife to shorten it. Although he sported a large gut, it was clear Buquet was a strong man, likely from his years of lugging props to and fro, and heaving the various ropes up and down. He looked from the managers to Madame Giry, and then up to Elise, his brow furrowing deeply. “I don’t understand,” he muttered, shaking his head. “The ropes were fine earlier—there was nothing wrong with them. I checked them myself.” He whirled to face Madame Giry, an accusatory look on his face. “Why was she even up there?! Isn’t she one of your little ballet girls?”

Madame Giry’s face darkened under her already grim expression. “Miss Allard had been sent to the washrooms as punishment for…” her eyes flickered over to me for a moment. “For obscene, cruel, and wicked behaviours, of which she claimed to have learnt from you, sir.”

Buquet looked stunned. “Me?! What could I have possibly taught her?”

“The magical lasso,” my voice seemed to erupt from my throat before I could stop it. I clamped a hand down over my mouth, a feeble attempt to stop any more unbidden words from tumbling out. Madame Giry scowled at me, and Buquet seemed to only just notice my existence, turning wide-eyed and slack jawed.

“The magical lasso,” he echoed, a rage settling over his face. “Little miss, what exactly does that mean?! Are you implying I did this?!”

“No, Buquet, the girl is not,” Madame Giry interjected, her tone icy cold, emphasising each word.

“Then what?!” Both Firmin and Andre spoke at once.

“I simply only meant-,” I started.

“You little brat!” He yelled.

The scene erupted into a cacophony of chaos, everyone arguing and speaking over one another. Andre and Firmin yelled at one another, at Buquet, at me and Madame Giry, demanding explanations. Madame Giry and myself yelled back, and Buquet stormed around exasperated, flinging insults between myself and the older woman.

Madame Giry slammed her cane on the ground, and all froze.

“Messieurs, please. Let us sort this out amiably.”

The managers exchanged worried glances, their unease growing by the second. Madame Giry stilled, her gaze returning to Elise’s lifeless form, her expression unreadable. Andre approached me quietly, a gentle tone underpinning his soft question. “Mademoiselle. What happened with the uh- magical lasso, as you so put it.”

Buquet began his protests again, but Andre raised a firm hand, and the older man was silenced.

“Elise – I don’t think she truly meant harm, Monsieur. I think it was only a cruel jape gone too far.”

Andre donned a kind smile, his teeth yellowy and aged, and his breath stunk of mint and tobacco. “And what was this jape? What did she do, child?”

“She was telling me a story, Monsieur. And then someone – one of the other girls - wrapped a noose around my throat. Not tight! Just enough to scare me. It was just a… foolish thing to do.”

Madame Giry chimed in, maintaining her flat tone. “I can attest to that, many of the other girls thought it uncomely of an esteemed member of our ballet troupe. I’m sure you’d agree Messieurs.”

They both mumbled in agreeance, nodding their heads and listening intently, frowns plastered across their faces.

“And so, she was removed from her role for this week, sent down to the washroom to atone,” Madame Giry finished.

Firmin hummed, twirling his long moustache as he paced the stage in slow, rhythmic steps. “And yet this doesn’t explain why Miss Allard is hanging from the ceiling, Madame.”

“I cannot help but put this down to a strange accident,” Andre sighed. 

“I concur, this is an accident. Simply a terrible accident.” Firmin replied.

“I would have to agree, messieurs. Do not look at me for the blame,” Buquet grumbled, as if anyone had truly considered him responsible for this.

But as I stood there, my eyes locked on Elise’s swinging body, a cold dread seeped into my bones. The stories Elise and Meg had told me earlier, about the Opera Ghost, whispered through my mind. Could it be possible? Had the ghost somehow gotten to Elise? Was it because of what she said about him? Or something else?

As if reading my mind, Andre turned to me, his hazelnut eyes boring into my own. “You mentioned Miss Allard had been telling a story. What was this story, child?” My eyes flickered to Buquet, and he locked eyes with me, knowing all too well what Elise had been echoing his own stories. He silently shook his head, out-of-sight from all others in the room. I felt Madame Giry’s hard glare burning a hole in the side of my head, ‘Don’t say it, don’t say it.’

“Elise - she had been telling stories of the Opera Ghost.”

Firmin rolled his eyes and Andre sighed again, mumbling. “Not you too. Gods, has everyone around here gone mad?” Firmin mumbled something about everyone being childish and immature, and turned to face Madame Giry with a quizzical, expectant look in his eyes.

Madame Giry’s cane clacked loudly on the hard floor as she approached me.

“Go to your quarters,” she ordered, her voice leaving no room for protest. “This is no place for you.”

“But Madame –.”

“No ‘buts,’ return to your room at once,” she hissed. I nodded quickly, my legs shaky as I turned and hurried away. But even as I left the stage behind, the image of Elise’s hanging body burned itself into my mind, and a deep sense of foreboding settled in my chest. Something dark was at work here, something far beyond my understanding, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

Chapter 6: Hannibal

Summary:

With the distant memory of Elise fading to a muted tone, Hannibal rehearsals continue.

Notes:

Almost double the chapter length of the other chapters!

Rehearsals continued with a tense undercurrent, the shadow of Elise's tragic end lingering in every corner of the Opera House. It was Joseph Buquet who had the grim task of cutting her down. He worked in silence, out of sight of the cast and crew, his rough hands steady despite the horror of the scene. Elise's lifeless form had been bundled into a plain, brown blanket, her once graceful limbs now still and cold, as Buquet carried her away from the stage that had been her world.

Elise had been buried in Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, one of Paris's newer cemeteries, a place as grand as it was sombre. Opened in 1804 by Napoleon Bonaparte, the cemetery was designed to be a final resting place for Parisians of all walks of life. Named after Père François de la Chaise, the confessor to Louis XIV, the cemetery quickly became a sought-after burial ground, with its winding paths and towering monuments. It was a place where the great and the ordinary were laid to rest side by side, their stories etched into the stone and marble that marked their graves.

Elise's parents had been informed of her tragic end with as much care as the cold reality of death would allow. She was one of the few in the cast who still had parents, a fact that made her passing all the more heart-wrenching. When they arrived in Paris, the grief on her mother’s face was as raw as an open wound. The woman’s wails echoed through the narrow streets as she approached the Opera House, her cries a haunting lament that seemed to rise from the very depths of her soul. Her pain was a palpable thing, clinging to the air like a heavy mist as she stumbled behind her husband.

Elise’s father, however, was a man of few words and even fewer outward emotions. He had carried his daughter’s body to the cemetery himself, wrapped in that ineloquent, brown blanket that Buquet had used. His face remained a mask of stoic determination, his grief buried deep beneath a firm, emotionless stare. He did not weep, nor did his voice tremble when he spoke, but there was an unbearable weight in his silence, a sorrow too vast to be expressed in tears.

The decision had been made to bury Elise in Père-Lachaise, far from the world of the opera that had both given her life and, in some cruel twist of fate, taken it away. Her parents had forbidden anyone from the Opera House to attend the burial, their suspicion and anger directed toward the very people who had been her second family. They feared, perhaps, that the one who had done this terrible thing might try to attend, to offer some twisted tribute or to mock them in their grief.

And so, Elise was laid to rest in the quiet of the cemetery, with only her parents to mourn her. The earth closed over her, and the city moved on, but the Opera House could not escape the shadow of her death. It lingered in every rehearsal, every whispered conversation, a reminder that the darkness lurking in the depths of the Palais Garnier was more than just superstition. It was real, and it had claimed one of their own.

Despite the unease that clung to the Opera House like a shroud, the show had to go on. The tragedy of Elise's death, though not forgotten, was pushed aside by the relentless march of time and the demands of the upcoming production. Gradually, the cast grew, as more of the principal actors joined the chorus. Their presence filled the rehearsal space with a strange mix of grandeur and anxiety, as if the weight of their experience and expectations pressed down on everyone else.

The looming production of Hannibal by Chalumeau dominated everyone's thoughts. A story centred on the return of Carthaginian troops from their battles against the Roman legions—a tale of victory tinged with the bitterness of loss, of a hero’s return shadowed by the spectre of war. The scale of the production was immense, with scenes of grand battles, elaborate processions, and haunting arias that seemed to echo the very emotions gripping the company.

As the days rolled by, the production began to take shape, piece by piece. What had once been a scattered collection of scenes and half-learned lines slowly started to form a cohesive whole. The chorus worked tirelessly to perfect their harmonies, our voices blending into a powerful wave of sound that filled the grand hall. The principal actors, too, honed their performances, their portrayals of Hannibal’s soldiers and the people they left behind growing more complex with each rehearsal. The set pieces, towering and intricate, were assembled and disassembled with military precision, as the stagehands worked to bring the world of ancient Carthage to life.

Yet, despite the progress, there was a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. The memory of Elise’s death lingered at the edges of everyone’s consciousness, a reminder of the fragility of life and the thin line between triumph and tragedy. The days were gruelling, filled with endless rehearsals that stretched long into the evening. The dancers’ feet ached, their muscles screamed in protest, and the actors’ voices grew hoarse from repeated takes of the same lines and songs. But no one dared to complain; the show must go on.

For me, the days were a blur of exhaustion and performance, each one bleeding into the next without respite. The nights offered little comfort, as my sleep was often broken by waking nightmares and strange dreams. I would wake in a cold sweat, the remnants of some shadowy figure or haunting melody lingering in my mind, only to find myself back on the stage a few hours later, trying to shake off the unease that clung to me like a second skin. The memory of the rose on my bedside table, and the card that had accompanied it, haunted my every step, even as I tried to push it from my mind.

The Opera House itself seemed to take on a life of its own during these days, the walls whispering secrets, the shadows playing tricks on tired eyes. There were moments when I thought I caught glimpses of something—or someone—just out of the corner of my eye, only for it to vanish when I turned to look. The corridors, once so familiar, now seemed to twist and turn in ways I couldn’t quite explain, leading me to dead ends or places I hadn’t meant to go.

And yet, despite all of this, the production of Hannibal pressed forward, gaining momentum with each passing day. But beneath it all, there was a tension that everyone felt, though no one spoke of it aloud. The Opera House was a place of beauty and art, but it was also a place of secrets, and it seemed those secrets were beginning to stir.

It’s during one of these rehearsals that I first encountered Carlotta. The prima donna of the Opera House, she is more than just a singer—she is a force of nature. Her very presence commands attention, and as she sweeps onto the stage, it’s as if the entire room collectively holds its breath. Carlotta's voice, rich and resonant, fills the vast space with a power that seems almost supernatural, leaving no doubt as to why she holds her coveted position. She is the undisputed queen of the stage, and she knew it.

Carlotta’s appearance was as striking as her voice. Her elaborate costume, adorned with gold and crimson, glittered under the stage lights, each movement sending ripples of light cascading across the fabric. The heavy, ornate gown was a masterpiece of the costumer’s art, accentuating her every curve while proclaiming her status as the star. Her dirty blonde hair was swept up into an intricate coiffure, adorned with jewels that sparkle with every toss of her head. Her makeup is flawless, with dark eyes framed by thick lashes and lips painted a deep, commanding red. Everything about her exudes an aura of untouchable superiority, as though she existed on a different plane from the rest of us.

As Carlotta took her place centre stage, Piangi was never far behind, doting on her every whim with an almost comical devotion. Piangi, the leading tenor, is a large man, his frame almost as grand as his voice. His broad shoulders and ample girth make him an imposing figure, but beside Carlotta, he seems almost insignificant, a mere accessory to her brilliance. Still, his admiration for her is palpable, and he acted as if no other woman in the world exists. He followed her every movement, ready to adjust her gown, fetch her water, or offer a handkerchief should she so much as sniffle. His deference to her is complete, and he appeared to relish the role of her adoring servant.

Despite Piangi’s size and somewhat ungainly appearance, his voice is a perfect complement to Carlotta’s. Together, their voices intertwined beautifully, creating a sound that was both powerful and moving. When they sung, it’s easy to forget the tension and exhaustion that hangs over the rehearsal hall; their voices transport everyone to a world of romance and drama, far removed from the mundane struggles of daily life. But even so, Piangi has his struggles.

“Sad to return to find the land we love

Threatened once’s more by Roma’s far-reaching grasp.”

“No, no, no, no! Signor, if you please: ‘Rome.’ We same Rome, not Roma,” the short, thin frame of the maestro called out, cutting the performance off abruptly.

“Rome,” Piangi practised, “Rome, it’s very hard for me!” He bristled. “Sad to return…” he tried to begin.

“Well, once again, if you please, signor.”

“It’s very, very hard. I am from Italy!” As if that would truly work as a justification in the eyes of the Opera House’s demands for perfection.

“Just get it right, please. Rome. Signor…”

Piangi, once again, begun in his beautiful, rich, tenor tone.

“Sad to return to the land we love,

Threatened once more by Rome’s far-reaching grasp

Tomorrow, we shall break the chains of Rome

Tonight, rejoice

Your army ha-ha-“

His high notes, in particular, often eluded him, causing him to strain and stumble in a way that Carlotta never does. She is quick to notice these falters, her gaze turning sharp, but she offers no criticism; her mere presence is enough to make it clear that perfection is expected.

                “Ha-has come home!”

He lowered his raised arms, coughing lightly and adjusting his costume. Navigating the ornate set pieces was another challenge for Piangi, and one that provides endless amusement for the chorus girls. The grand, elaborate scenery of Hannibal—with its towering columns, intricate carvings, and sweeping staircases—poses little difficulty for the lithe dancers and slim actors, but for Piangi, it was a minefield. His large frame seemed perpetually at odds with the delicate props, and more than once, he nearly sent an ancient vase or a marble pillar toppling to the ground. The chorus girls, who adore any opportunity for a laugh, often stifle giggles behind their hands as they watched him navigate the set, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Carlotta, of course, is completely oblivious to this amusement. To her, the rehearsal was serious business, and she tolerated no distractions. She glided through the set pieces with the grace of a queen, her gown trailing behind her like a royal train, her every step calculated to draw the eye and awe the audience. She hardly seemed to notice Piangi’s struggles or the giggles of the chorus girls; all that mattered to her is the perfection of the performance. When she sings, the world falls away, leaving only her voice and the story she tells through it. It’s a level of commitment that is both inspiring and intimidating, and as I watched her, I can’t help but feel a mixture of awe and trepidation.

My first interaction with Carlotta was brief. As I stood amongst the chorus, trying to blend in and not draw attention to myself, she suddenly turned her gaze in my direction. Her eyes, sharp and penetrating, seemed to assess me in an instant, and for a moment, I felt as though she saw right through me, as if she could sense my every thought and insecurity.

"And who," she begun, her tone dripping with disdain, "is this little sparrow among the nightingales?"

The words are a challenge, thinly veiled, but unmistakable. My heart skipped a beat, and I could feel the blood drain from my face. Before I could think to respond, Madame Giry stepped forward, her expression unyielding.

"She is a new member of the chorus, Carlotta," Madame Giry said, her voice cold as ice. "And like everyone else here, she is under my direction."

Carlotta’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. “Is that so? I do hope she can keep up. It would be a shame if someone… less capable were to ruin Hannibal for the rest of us.”

The threat was clear, and a few of the other chorus members exchange uneasy glances. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet Carlotta’s gaze. There’s a silence that stretches between us, thick and heavy, before she finally turns away with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Very well, continue,” she said, as if I am nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The tension eases slightly as she resumed her place at the front of the stage, her voice rising once again in song.

I released a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, feeling a cold sweat break out across my skin. Just as quickly, her attention shifts away, and she dismissed me with a slight flick of her wrist, as though I am of no consequence. It’s a small gesture, but one that speaks volumes. In Carlotta’s world, you are either a star, or you are invisible. And I, it seems, am the latter.

Rehearsals continued, the days growing longer as the production of Hannibal neared its opening. The tension in the Opera House remained, an undercurrent of unease that no amount of music or performance can fully dispel. But Carlotta’s presence, dominating and undeniable, ensured that the show will go on, no matter what shadows linger in the wings. As rehearsals continued, I focussed on my performance with renewed determination, knowing that every step, every note, is a chance to prove myself—to Madame Giry, to Carlotta, and to anyone else who might be watching.

***

The day of the opening production arrived, and the air within the Opera House is electric with anticipation. Every member of the cast and crew is on edge, the memory of Elise’s tragic end fading into the shadows like a candle snuffed out.

In the last set of warm-ups in the afternoon, Monsieur André approached Carlotta. His expression is tense, his brow furrowed with concern, but he manages a smile as he spoke to the prima donna.

“Carlotta, my dear,” André begins, his voice smooth and placating, “I think it would be most fitting if you were to perform Elissa’s aria from Act III of Hannibal before we begin the final rehearsal. Just to… set the mood for tonight’s performance.”

Carlotta’s dark eyes flash with pride and confidence. She needs no convincing. “Of course,” she replied, her voice dripping with the certainty of her own talent. “It will be magnificent.”

With a nod, André stepped back, giving Carlotta the stage. The cast members fall into a hushed silence. The lights dimmed slightly, casting a warm glow over the grand set of Hannibal. Carlotta, resplendent in her elaborate costume, stepped into the spotlight, and as the first notes of the aria fill the air, she begun to sing.

Her voice was nothing short of perfection. Each note was rich, full, and resonant, soaring effortlessly through the grand auditorium. The aria, a beautiful and haunting piece, tells of love and loss, and Carlotta infused every word with deep emotion, her voice rising and falling with the music like a well-practiced instrument. Her mastery of the aria was evident; she would hold the audience in the palm of her hand, every note captivating, every phrase flawless.

As she sung the familiar words, the room was transfixed. Carlotta’s voice, powerful and controlled, filled the space, and for a moment, it seemed as if nothing could possibly go wrong. She was the star; the shining jewel of the Opera House, and her performance was nothing short of extraordinary. The aria flowed from her lips as naturally as breath, each note a testament to her skill and her status as the leading lady of the opera.

                “Think of me,

                Think of me warmly-.”

As she reached a particularly poignant phrase, the unthinkable happens. Without warning, there was a sharp, creaking sound above her, followed by a loud crash. In an instant, the grand backdrop—an immense, painted curtain depicting the vast landscapes of Carthage—came crashing down from the rafters. It slammed into the stage with a deafening thud, cutting off Carlotta’s aria mid-note.

For a moment, no one moves, no one breathes. Then, the Opera House erupts into chaos. The chorus girls screamed, stagehands rushed forward, and André, his face drained of colour, pushes through the crowd to reach Carlotta. The prima donna was sprawled on the stage, half-buried under the heavy fabric of the backdrop. Her elaborate costume was tangled in the folds of the curtain, her arms flailing as she tried to free herself.

Meg’s sing-song voice echoed out around the stage of stunned performers. “He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera!”

“Show a little curtesy,” Firmin growled.

Piangi, who had been standing just offstage, was the first to reach her. He dropped to his knees beside her, his large hands fumbling to pull the curtain away from her. “Carlotta! Are you alright?” he cried, his voice thick with panic.

Carlotta, however, was more furious than frightened. “Get this off me!” she shrieked, her voice losing all its former grace. She struggled against the heavy fabric, her face twisted in a mixture of anger and disbelief. “How dare this happen to me! To me!”

“Buquet, get Buquet! Chief of the flies, he’s responsible for this,” Andre shouted to the various stagehands, who stood slack jacked in the wings of the stage.

Buquet entered quickly, clearly having not been up on top of the stage. “Please, messieurs, don’t look at me. As God’s my witness I was not at my post.” The fat, bearded man spun around the stage, eyeballing everyone. His eyes locked on me, a vicious smile drawing over his face. “Please messieurs, there’s no-one there, and if there is, well it must be a ghost.”

Screams echoed out around the stage again, the distant memory of Elise replaying like a slap to the face.

“He’s there! The Phantom of the Opera!” Meg called again. I thought you did not believe in such things, mademoiselle. I would have to question her on these matters later. Her fear was positively palpable.

“Lord Heavens, I have never known such insolence!” Firmin yelled, as much to Meg and he did to Buquet, who had since slunk into the shadows of the side stage himself. Wicked man.

“Señora, please! These things do happen,” Andre said to the red-faced soprano. Carlotta whirled on him, her expression and ferocity making the slimmer man shrink under her fury.

“You are right, Monsieur. These things do happen, all the time!” Her voice was thick with venom, but a touch of fear could be heard, too. “For the past three years these things do happen. And did you stop them happening? No! And you!” She spun to direct her attention at Firmin now, “Well, you’re as bad as him! These things do happen,” she taunted, her voice sarcastic and cruel. “Well, until you stop these things,” she gestured to the overhang, and for a moment Elise’s body, swinging ever so slowly flashed across my mind, “this thing does not happen!” she motioned to herself.

And with that, she spun on her heel, and stormed off the stage, Piangi beginning to follow after her. He stopped and turned slowly. “Amateurs.”

Andre scoffed, and Firmin looked incredulous.

“La Carlotta will be back,” Andre spoke, breaking the silence that had followed the dramatic exit.

“You think so, Monsieur?” Madame Giry’s voice piped up from the side of the stage, cutting deep into everyone’s bones and making all the dancers fix their positions. She continued, “I have a message Sir, from the Opera Ghost.”

“Not another one Andre,” Firmin murmured. I stared between the managers, and then to Madame Giry. They knew. The Opera Ghost – they all knew and instead taunted me with it, lied about it, hid it. 

“He commands that you continue to leave box five empty for his use, and reminds you that is salary is due. At least 25,000 francs, Messieurs,” Madame Giry finished.

“At least?!” Firmin cried, his eyes wide with shock and anger, “was the 20,000 not enough?!”

“Perhaps he thought you could afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your new patron,” she muttered.

“Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement myself.” Andre replied, slightly annoyed. Scattered mutterings echoed around the stage, most of the girls looking excitedly at each other, asking questions, giggling.

Andre, trying to distract from the unexpected announcement called to Madame Giry, “Madame, who is the understudy for this role?”

The maestro, his baton clutched tightly in one hand, broke into the conversation with a sharp, cutting voice. “There is no understudy, Monsieur, the production is new!”

Firmin’s frustration boiled over. He threw his hands up in exasperation, his eyes narrowing as he looked around the stage, searching for some way out of this disaster. “Can you believe it? A full house tonight, and we have to cancel!” His words dripped with anger, his face a mask of barely contained fury. The prospect of a cancelled performance on opening night was nothing short of a catastrophe.

In the midst of the pandemonium, I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me. I stood frozen, my heart racing, barely able to comprehend the scene unfolding before me. My eyes sought out Meg in the crowd, her small figure like a beacon of calm amidst the storm. But when she turned to look at me, I saw something in her eyes that made my stomach drop.

I knew what she was going to do before she even opened her mouth. My mind screamed for her to stop, but my voice wouldn’t come. I shook my head desperately, trying to convey my plea, but it was too late. Meg broke from our group of chorus girls, stepping forward with a confidence that seemed so out of place in that moment.

“(y/n) (l/n) could sing it, sir!” Meg’s voice rang out, clear and loud, cutting through the noise.

The entire room seemed to freeze. Every eye turned toward me; the chaos of the moment suspended in that single, horrifying instant. My heart slammed against my ribs as I stood rooted to the spot, the colour draining from my face. I felt a hundred gazes boring into me, the weight of their expectations crushing.

Firmin and Andre considered me, recognition flickering across their expressions.

“Yes,” Firmin considered, “Andre, she was the soprano who recited this very aria in her audition. Don’t you remember?

“I remember perfectly well, Firmin,” Andre’s eyes were locked on me. “(l/n), do you think you are up to the task? Do you know the song to utmost perfection?”

I nodded, feebly.

“Very well, mademoiselle. Do you need to go over any songs?” No, messieurs, I hear these songs in my dreams and know them perfectly.

“No, I know all the words from hearing Carlotta,” I lied, easily. Andre nodded; a big, toothy grin plastered across his face.

“There we are then, Firmin, the night is saved thanks to Miss (l/n)’s voice and diligent attention during rehearsals.” Firmin considered me, eventually nodding his head in agreeance.

“Well, it is not as if we are left with any other choice,” he grumbled below his breath. “Go, I’ll have Madame Giry send you a costume appropriate for tonight.”

“Thank you, Messieurs,” I squeaked. With that, they waved a dismissive hand to the cast, and all returned to their respective places to get ready for the night.

Notes:

Now we are at a place where I can follow along with the plot of the movie, expect the chapters to get a big longer :)

Chapter 7: Hannibal Continued/Angel of Music

Summary:

Tonight is the night of Hannibal's opening show. And it seems there are more than one pair of eyes on the new, leading soprano...

Notes:

Another long one!

I returned to my dressing room, heart still pounding from the whirlwind of the last few hours. The dimly lit space felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the stage, and I was grateful for the moment of solitude. As I closed the door behind me, the reality of what I was about to do settled in. The nerves I had pushed down during rehearsal bubbled back up, and I tried to focus on the task at hand—getting ready for that night’s performance.

On the small vanity, a few pots of makeup awaited me. The soft powders and creams were a far cry from the rough charcoal and rouge I’d used in the past, and I marvelled at the delicate shades of pinks and reds, wondering how I could possibly look the part of a leading lady. I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I began to apply the makeup. The process was slow and careful, each stroke of the brush bringing me closer to the woman I needed to become that night.

As I turned to check my reflection in the mirror, my eyes fell on something unexpected. Hanging on the wardrobe, gleaming in the low light, was a dress. It was as ornate and exquisite as the one Carlotta had worn earlier—a rich burgundy fabric adorned with gold embroidery, shimmering in the candlelight. My breath caught in my throat as I stepped closer, running my fingers over the fine material. It was stunning, the kind of dress I had never imagined wearing, let alone performing in.

“Magnifique,” I breathed.

I tilted my head, puzzled. How had this gotten here? I hadn’t seen it before, and there was no note, no indication of where it came from. But it looked like it would fit me perfectly, as though it was made for me. Perhaps Madame Giry or Meg had left it here for me before I had come down. Maybe the Opera House had once had a soprano of my size, and this dress was waiting for someone like me to bring it back to life. It must have been decades old – Carlotta has been singing here for 19 seasons!

With newfound determination, I began to pull on the dress. The fabric slid over my skin like water, cool and smooth, and I marvelled at the craftsmanship—the tiny stitches, the way the bodice cinched in just right. I struggled a bit with the back, twisting awkwardly as I tried to do it up myself, but the fabric refused to cooperate.

A sudden knock at the door startled me, and I nearly lost my balance. I hastily grabbed a shawl to cover myself, calling out, “Come in!”

The door creaked open, and Meg stepped inside, her small frame nearly dwarfed by the large dress she was carrying in her arms. She looked up, her eyes widening as she saw me in the dress. “(Y/N)!” she exclaimed; her voice filled with surprise. “Where did you get that?”

I glanced down at the dress, then back at her, confused by her reaction. “I thought you or your mother left it for me,” I said, my voice uncertain. “It was already here when I came in.”

Meg’s brow furrowed, and she shook her head slowly. “No… I’ve never seen that dress before.” She stepped closer, her eyes scanning the fabric, the intricate details. “This isn’t from our costume department. And I know every dress we have. Gods, it’s beautiful!”

A shiver ran down my spine at her words, but I quickly brushed it off, forcing a smile. “It fits perfectly,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Maybe it’s from an old production? Or someone left it by mistake.”

Meg didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she set the dress she had brought down on the chair and stepped behind me, her fingers deftly working on the laces of the dress I was wearing. “Let me help you with that,” she said quietly.

As she tightened the corset and smoothed out the fabric, I caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were focused, her expression thoughtful. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, but I pushed the thought away. The night was too important to dwell on mysteries.

Once the dress was fully secured, Meg stepped back, her hands resting on my shoulders. “There,” she said softly, her voice filled with a mix of pride and worry. “You look beautiful, (y/n). You’ll be wonderful tonight.”

I turned to face her, my heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank you, Meg,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, the weight of her words settling over me like a heavy blanket. “I will,” I promised, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was promising. She left quickly, closing the door behind her.

I looked at myself in the mirror, almost stunned by the woman who looked back; a far cry from the girl who had entered the Paris Garnier not that long ago. I placed my hand up to the glass, wanting to feel grounded momentarily.

That all-too familiar feeling of being watched returned. I was growing tired of feeling eyes that had no name, no voice, no face.

“If you mean to watch me until I die, at least give me the curtesy of your name,” I spoke into the silence of my room. Of course, there was no response, but the feeling persisted. I sighed, took a deep breath, and exited the room, trying to brush the feeling from my mind.

I made my way toward the stage, the sounds of the orchestra warming up growing louder with each step. The curtains were still drawn, but I could feel the energy of the audience on the other side, a collective anticipation that seemed to buzz through the walls. I shook as I took up my position and remembered a time not too long ago where I had stood on this same stage, trembling. I had made it through then, now it was time to prove myself.

The overture began, its powerful, sweeping notes filling the auditorium and setting the tone for the evening. The stage, transformed into ancient Carthage, was a sight to behold—towering columns and lush tapestries created a backdrop of grandeur and opulence. The chorus and dancers moved into their places, and I joined them, taking my position at the front of the stage, just before the grand entrance of Hannibal himself.

Piangi’s powerful voice joined mine in a duet, his deep tones blending perfectly with my own. Though he struggled with some of the higher notes, his performance was strong, and the chemistry between our characters was palpable. Despite his size, which made navigating the ornate set pieces somewhat challenging, Piangi moved with surprising agility, his presence adding to the grandiosity of the production.

The performance continued seamlessly, each scene unfolding with a precision that spoke to the countless hours of rehearsal. The chorus moved as one, the dancers leaping and twirling with practiced grace, and the main actors delivered their lines with a conviction that drew the audience deeper into the world of Hannibal.

The first notes of my aria, "Think of Me," echoed through the hall, delicate yet powerful. As I began to sing, my voice felt stronger and more assured than ever before, carrying the emotions of Elissa across the space. The music flowed effortlessly, the melody weaving through the air like a spell. I could feel the audience leaning in, their attention fixed on every note, every word.

                “Think of me, think of me fondly,

                When we’ve said goodbye

                Remember me, every so often,

                Promise me you’ll try”

As I continued, the character of Elissa seemed to merge with my own, her story of love, loss, and longing becoming my own. The orchestra swelled behind me, supporting my voice as it soared through the high notes, each one clear and true. The stage lights bathed me in a soft glow, making the moment feel almost surreal, as if I had stepped out of time and into a world entirely of music and emotion.

                “On that day, that not so distant day

                When you are far away and free

                If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me.”

The music swells, and I feel myself bubbling with raw emotion. I continued the next few verses, mentally preparing myself to reach the peak of the aria.

                “Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade,

                They have their seasons, so do we

                But please promise me that sometimes

                You will think…”

When the aria reached its peak, I could sense the tension in the air, the audience holding their breath as they waited for the final, soaring note. I delivered it with all the emotion I could muster, letting the sound carry every ounce of Elissa’s sorrow and strength. The note hung in the air for what felt like an eternity before slowly fading, leaving a moment of profound silence.

                “Of… me!”

I raised my arms in the air, trying to control my breath so I did not pant, a large smile worming its way into my cheeks. And then, the sudden noise bursting into into a thunderous ovation that filled the Opera House with sound. I stood there, slightly breathless, my heart racing as the realization of what I had just accomplished began to sink in. The audience was on their feet, their applause a roar that echoed through the hall. I flickered my eyes around the audience, taking it all in. The managers up high in one of the first boxes.

Box 5…

I looked to the box, plagued in shadow. Nothing seemed amiss. I was feeling watched, but then again, there were thousands of eyes on me.

Behind me, the chorus and dancers smiled, their faces a mixture of relief and joy. The maestro, standing at the front of the orchestra, gave me a small, approving nod, his stern features softened with a hint of pride.

The night continued to unfold without a hitch, each scene more impressive than the last. The story of Hannibal—the return of the Carthaginian troops, the tension between love and duty, the looming threat of the Roman legions—played out before the enraptured audience. The final act was a crescendo of music and emotion, the tragic end of Elissa and the fall of Carthage leaving the audience in stunned silence before the final curtain fell. The applause rose again, louder and more sustained than before. The cast took their bows, one by one, each of us basking in the moment, the culmination of all our hard work. When I stepped forward, the applause swelled even more, the audience’s appreciation washing over me like a wave.

After the performance, the atmosphere in the Opera House buzzed with excitement and admiration. Unbeknownst to me during the performance, the Vicomte de Chagny, Raoul, had been present in the audience. Though he had come expecting to see the famed Carlotta, he had instead witnessed something that left a deep impression on him—a new star, unassuming yet luminous.

As the applause died down and the audience slowly filtered out, the backstage area came alive with a flurry of congratulations. Cast members, stagehands, and even the maestro himself offered words of praise, their faces alight with genuine admiration.

"Magnifique!" someone called out as I made my way through the throng of people. A few of the chorus girls, whom I had once feared would judge me harshly, now offered warm smiles and compliments, their earlier hesitance gone.

"You were incredible, (y/n)!" Meg exclaimed as she reached me, pulling me into a tight embrace. She released me and continued. "Where in the world have you been hiding? Really, you were, perfect! I only wish I knew your secrets, who is new tutor?”

Her rapid-fire questions seized me, and I considered her words, reflecting on the voice, the strange dreams, the rose, the note… the dress. I started to pull her towards my dressing room, not wanting anyone to overhear us.

                “Meg, you once spoke of an angel.

                “I started to dream he’d appear.

                Now that I sing, I can sense him.

                And I know he’s here!”

Meg looked around us wildly, but I continued pulling on her hand. I pushed the door open, and we hurried inside. I continued:

                “Here in this room, he calls me softly.

                Somewhere inside, hiding.

                Somehow, I know he’s always with me

                He’s the unseen genius.”

Meg stared at me, concerned plastered across her face. I sat down on the bed, and her on the dresser chair, her back to the mirror.

                “I watched your face from the shadows

                Distant through all the applause

                I hear your voice in the darkness

                Yet the words aren’t yours.”

I thought I glimpsed a shadow move in the mirror, and stood up abruptly.

                “Angel of music, guide and guardian

                Grant to me your glory!”

Meg began, over the top of me, “Who is this angel, this-?”

                “Angel of music, hide no longer

                Secret and strange angel!”

She stood up now, too, grabbing my hands and holding them as if she believed I would fly away. I stared into her eyes, that familiar feeling of being watched now combined with the sensation like I was being puppetted.

                “He’s with me even now,” I murmured.

                “Your hands are cold,” she replied, squeezing my hands in hers.

                “All around me,” I continued, as if in a daze.

                “Your face, (y/n), it’s white!” she spoke, grabbing my face with her hands, and I seemed to wake from the spell I had begun falling into.

                “It frightens me,” I stared into her eyes.

                “Don’t be frightened,” she cooed, brushing a stray hair out of my eyes.

The sharp, single tap of Madame Giry’s cane broke Meg and I away from one another in a startle.

“Meg Giry, are you a dancer?” Meg did not reply to her harsh mother’s words. “Then go and practise!” Meg shot me a final look, her eyes silently speaking conveying to me that we would be discussing our little moment later, and darted past her mother. I looked to Madame Giry, half expecting to my scolded too.

“Well done,” she started, “he will be very pleased. I was asked to give you this.”

I almost didn’t process her words as I stared at the note, incredulous. ‘He?’

She placed the note down on the dressing table, and with not another word, exited as if she was never there. My breath hitched, heart pounding, the ever-familiar anxiety bubbling in my chest again. With shaking fingers, I opened the note.

‘To the enchanting voice that has captured my heart,

Please accept my deepest admiration for your performance this evening. I am eager to make your acquaintance.

Yours sincerely,

Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny’

I stared at the note, hardly believing that the words were meant for me. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny… The name itself carried a weight; a gravity that felt almost too grand for someone like me. A chorus girl who stammered her way onto stage and accidentally wound up in the spotlight, almost by sheer chance. Yet, here I was, holding a note from a man whose name was whispered with reverence throughout Parisian society.

The elegant handwriting on the parchment seemed to pulse with life, as if the words themselves carried a hidden meaning. He wants to make my acquaintance, I repeated in my mind, over and over, trying to make sense of it.

Relief washed over me, a balm to the nerves that had been jangling ever since the performance ended. At least this note was straightforward, its intention clear and without the haunting ambiguity that had surrounded other notes I had received. This was a gesture of admiration, perhaps even of kindness, and for that, I was grateful. But beneath the relief, another emotion stirred—one I hadn’t anticipated. A mix of excitement and fear, of curiosity and trepidation. What did the Vicomte see in me?

I read the note again, letting each word sink in. Enchanting voice… eager to make your acquaintance… The phrases danced in my mind, each one more surreal than the last. It wasn’t just the compliment that struck me—it was the sincerity I felt behind it. This wasn’t a casual note tossed off to a passing interest; it felt deliberate, carefully chosen, as if the Vicomte had truly been moved by what he saw and heard tonight.

The idea of meeting him filled me with a strange blend of anticipation and dread. What would I say? How would I act? Could I possibly live up to whatever image he had constructed of me based on that one performance? And yet, even as these questions flooded my mind, a small, undeniable thrill curled in the pit of my stomach.

Another knock on the dressing room door pulled me from my thoughts. My heart, already pounding from the note, skipped a beat as I looked up, a mix of anticipation and nerves coursing through me. The door creaked open, revealing the tall, distinguished figure of Raoul de Chagny. His presence seemed to fill the room, the air charged with the weight of his arrival.

“May I come in?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of formality but also genuine warmth.

“Of course, Vicomte,” I replied, setting the note down and rising from my seat.

The Vicomte stood in the doorway, a figure of effortless elegance and quiet authority. He was tall, with a commanding presence that seemed to fill the room even before he fully entered. His light brown hair was neatly styled, and his eyes, a deep and expressive blue, held a combination of intensity and warmth that immediately drew one's attention.

His features were refined, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline that gave him an air of distinguished nobility. He wore a tailored evening suit, the rich fabric and intricate details of his attire speaking to his high status without being ostentatious. The subtle sheen of his silk cravat and the gleam of his polished shoes reflected the light in the room, adding to his aura of sophistication.

Raoul entered, closing the door behind him, and took a moment to glance around the dressing room before focusing his attention on me. His eyes, filled with admiration, seemed to take in every detail of the room, lingering briefly on the costume still hanging nearby. Raoul's demeanour was one of thoughtful curiosity, and as he moved closer, his gaze softened with genuine interest. There was an almost palpable sense of sincerity in the way he looked at me, a contrast to the typical airs of aristocracy. He had an air of someone who, despite his privileged position, took genuine interest in the people and things around him.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the muffled sounds of the Opera House settling down for the night. Then Raoul spoke, his voice gentle but tinged with genuine curiosity. "You were extraordinary tonight. Your voice... it was unlike anything I’ve ever heard. How did you come to sing like that?"

His words, so sincere, so direct, caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure of how to respond, but then the truth slipped out before I could think to stop it. "The Angel of Music," I said softly, my voice almost a whisper. "He sings songs in my head."

Raoul's brows furrowed slightly, not in disbelief, but in wonder. "The Angel of Music?" he echoed, as if testing the words himself. "You mean... a muse? Or something more?"

I shook my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I don't know exactly. It feels real, though, as if someone—something—is guiding me, teaching me. I hear it when I'm alone, in the quiet moments. And when I sleep at night, Monsieur, he’s almost always there… and it's as if... as if the music isn’t just mine."

Raoul listened intently, his expression growing more thoughtful. "And this Angel... does he have a name? Have you seen him?"

I hesitated again, unsure how much to reveal. What about the flashes of white? The rose? The notes? The shadows with eyes? "No, I haven’t seen him,” I swallowed. “But he’s always there, in the music, in the silence. I’d like to believe it was a gift, something beyond me."

Raoul nodded slowly, as if piecing together a puzzle in his mind. "It’s extraordinary. To think that such talent, such beauty in your voice, could come from something so... mysterious." He paused, his gaze softening. "You must have a remarkable spirit to carry such a gift."

His words, so kind and genuine, made my heart swell with a warmth I hadn’t expected. "Thank you, Vicomte," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He took another step closer, his demeanour gentle, as if he was afraid I would run away. Raoul smiled then, a gentle, almost boyish smile that lit up his face. "Please, call me Raoul," he said, stepping closer and taking my hands in his. "Now, we must go to supper.” Now? Supper?

Excitement and girlish wonder flooded through me at his words. I wanted to smile, to graciously accept the Vicomte’s generous offer. And yet, I felt it – that pang of anxiety that oft came with the voice when I heard it in my dreams.

I looked down, feeling a flutter of nervousness. The invitation, spoken with such sincerity, sent a thrill through me. I gently withdrew my hand from his, my heart pounding with a mix of regret and apprehension. “No, Raoul. I can’t, the Angel of Music is very strict.”

He scoffed, brushing off my palpable fear as if it were dust falling from the ceiling above our heads.

“Well, I shan’t keep you up late!” He turned, making his way towards the door. Unthinking, I reached for his arm to stop him.

“No!” Please, sir, you don’t understand. My eyes pleaded with his, but in his own excitement, he seemed to pay no mind.

“You must change, I must get my hat. Two minutes!” His eyes met mine quickly, and he smiled a big, wide, perfect smile, before promptly closing the door with an accidental slam. And just as before, I was alone.

As Raoul’s footsteps faded down the corridor, I remained rooted to the spot, my hand still outstretched as if to pull him back. A wave of conflicting emotions crashed over me—excitement, fear, and a growing sense of dread that I couldn’t shake. The Vicomte’s offer was everything a girl could dream of: a charming nobleman offering to take me to supper after a triumphant performance.

Yet my desire to join Raoul was quickly overshadowed by a familiar, creeping unease. The Angel of Music… the Opera Ghost… are they one and the same? That force, that voice had always felt oppressive as if it were not just guiding me but watching over me, judging my every move. The thought of angering him, of breaking some unspoken rule, filled me with an irrational fear that tightened like a vice around my heart.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breath. The room suddenly felt too small, too enclosed, as if the walls themselves were closing in on me. The flickering candlelight cast long, shifting shadows that danced ominously across the walls, and the silence that had followed Raoul’s departure was thick, almost tangible.

I could feel it—the weight of unseen eyes upon me, more intense than ever before. It was as though the very air in the room had changed, growing heavier and colder, filled with a presence that I couldn’t see but could unmistakably feel. My skin prickled, and I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Why had I felt so compelled to stop Raoul? Was it a desperate need for companionship in that moment, or was it something deeper—a subconscious cry for help against the invisible force that seemed to be tightening its grip on me? My mind raced, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions that had overtaken me.

I turned my gaze toward the mirror, half-expecting to see something—or someone—standing behind me. But the reflection showed only myself, pale and wide-eyed, looking as though I had just seen a ghost. My breath hitched, and I took a step back, unable to shake the feeling that I was not alone.

I bit my lip, torn between the allure of Raoul’s invitation and the oppressive sense of duty that bound me to the Angel. A part of me longed to be free, to step into the world outside this opera house and experience life as any young woman might. But the other part, the one shaped by such beautiful haunting melodies, was terrified of what might happen if I defied the voice.

As I stood there, torn between two worlds, the sensation of being watched grew stronger, more insistent, until it was almost unbearable. I could feel that gaze, heavy and cold, boring into me from the shadows. Every instinct screamed at me to move, to do something, but I was paralysed, trapped in the web of my own fears. Tonight, the eyes felt like something more than a watcher; they felt like a presence that demanded loyalty and submission.

And then, I heard him—no longer content to remain just a voice in my head, but something more, something closer.

Chapter 8: The Phantom Of The Opera

Summary:

That feeling of being watched grows every stronger. Will (y/n) be able to overcome the Phantom's alluring charms, or follow him down below?

The candles flickered violently, their flames sputtering as if caught in a sudden gust of wind. One by one, they were snuffed out, the light retreating into the shadows that seemed to swell and grow, plunging the room into darkness. The temperature plummeted, the warmth of the evening vanishing as a biting chill swept over me. It was as if the very life had been sucked out of the air, leaving behind a cold, oppressive stillness. My breath fogged in the sudden cold, each exhale a visible reminder of the creeping dread that now held me in its grip.

"Insolent boy," it sneered, the words slithering through the air like poison, "this slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

The voice was unmistakable, deep and resonant, filled with a dangerous mix of fury and possessiveness. It echoed through the room, reverberating in my bones, pulling me into a cold, unyielding embrace. My pulse quickened, my heart pounding as the realization dawned on me—it was the voice from my dreams.

"Angel, I hear you," I whispered, my voice trembling, barely audible over the thunderous beat of my heart. "Speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me."

I could feel his presence now, a heavy weight pressing down on my soul. The air around me grew colder, the shadows lengthening as if to swallow me whole. My knees threatened to buckle under the weight of his presence, yet I remained rooted in place, trapped in this moment of fear and reverence.

"Angel, my soul was weak," I confessed, my voice breaking as the tears welled in my eyes. "Forgive me. Enter at last, master."

A dark, velvety chuckle filled the room, sending a shiver down my spine. The voice was closer now, its tone dripping with amusement and something far more sinister.

"Flattering child," he crooned, his voice wrapping around me like a vice. "You shall know me, see why in shadow I hide."

The room seemed to darken further, the shadows swirling like a living thing. My breath caught in my throat as the mirror before me began to shift, the glass rippling as though it were liquid. The distant recollections of my dreams tickled the edges of my memory. Many a night, I had stared before this very mirror and watched as it gave way, revealing either nothing, or that gloved hand that reached for me before I woke. I stared, wide-eyed, as my reflection was joined by another. Where once there had been only my pale, frightened face, another emerged—one shrouded in darkness, barely visible.

"Look at your face in the mirror," the voice commanded, the words laced with an undeniable authority. "I am there inside."

My heart nearly stopped as I saw him—truly saw him—for the first time. He stood in the shadows, an imposing figure draped in darkness, yet the details of his appearance emerged with terrifying clarity. His face was partially concealed by a white half-mask, sculpted from porcelain, smooth and cold, hiding all but the left side of his face. The mask’s stark whiteness contrasted sharply against the dimness of the room, drawing my gaze to his piercing blue eyes, which burned with an intensity that both terrified and enthralled me. Those eyes held a depth of emotion that seemed to reach into the very core of my being, as if he could see every fear, every doubt, every secret I harboured.

A black, wide-brimmed hat cast a further shadow over his face, adding to the enigma of his presence. Beneath the hat, his dark hair peeked out, framing the upper portion of the mask. He was dressed in a formal Victorian evening suit, the epitome of elegance and refinement. The suit was immaculate, tailored to perfection, and over it, he wore a magnificent cloak made of black jacquard fabric, its rich texture catching the faint light. The inside of the cloak was lined with silvery-gray silk that shimmered faintly as he moved, creating an ethereal effect, as if he were a spectre moving through the night.

His black-gloved hands, stark and commanding, reached out towards me with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver down my spine. They were hands that had known both the caress of music and the grip of power, and now they reached for me, pulling me deeper into the mystery that was this man—this Phantom. Every movement he made was calculated, graceful, yet filled with an underlying menace that warned me of the danger I was stepping into.

"Angel of music," I breathed, my voice quivering as I reached out, my hand trembling. "Guide and guardian, grant to me your glory. Angel of music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange angel."

The shadows seemed to pulse with his presence, the air thick with his power. The mirror rippled again, and suddenly, I felt him—his breath, his touch, his presence—closer than ever before.

"I am your angel of music," he whispered, his voice now a low, seductive murmur that sent chills down my spine. "Come to me, angel of music."

The darkness around me grew even thicker, the cold biting into my skin as I felt myself draw nearer, his presence overwhelming, inescapable.

"I am your angel of music," he repeated, his voice now almost a command, irresistible and absolute. "Come to me, angel of music."

His voice, deep and resonant, filled the room with a commanding presence that seemed to envelop me completely. Each word he spoke resonated through my very being, a mesmerizing cadence that lulled me into a trance-like state. It was as if his voice had a power beyond the natural, a hypnotic quality that dulled my senses and bent my will to his. I could feel myself succumbing to its pull, my thoughts becoming foggy and distant, as if the world around me had faded away, leaving only the sound of his voice, rich and irresistible, guiding me into the unknown.

The sound of Raoul pounding on the door reverberated through the room, but it felt strangely distant, as though it were coming from another world.

“Whose is that voice?! Who is that in there? (y/n)!” Raoul shouted. The heavy thuds seemed to echo from far away, muffled and insignificant against the overwhelming presence that filled the space. Each strike against the wood should have been loud and jarring, but instead, it barely registered in my mind, a faint whisper drowned out by the commanding voice that held me in its thrall. The door, which had seemingly locked itself, stood as an impenetrable barrier between us, separating me from the reality beyond it. Raoul’s desperate attempts to reach me faded into the background, overshadowed by the darkness that now consumed the room.

"I am your angel of music," he whispered one final time, the words wrapping around my soul like a noose. "Come to me, angel of music."

And then, the mirror gave way, the shadows pulling me into the abyss where my angel awaited. With a trembling breath, I made my choice. I stepped forward, taking his gloved hand, and leaving the light behind.

As we descended deep into the abyss of the Opera House, the world around me began to blur into an almost dream-like state. The narrow, winding corridors seemed to dissolve, replaced by endless shadows and the flicker of dim candlelight. The air grew colder, pressing in on me with a weight that should have frightened me—but all I could feel was the hypnotic pull of the Phantom by my side. His gloved hand, firm and guiding, led me through the darkness, and though fear coiled within me, it was overwhelmed by the strange, magnetic draw of his presence.

The Phantom’s voice, rich and commanding, filled the air, reverberating through the cavernous space and wrapping around my mind like a silken thread. I could feel its power over me growing stronger, pulling me deeper into a trance from which I could not escape. That familiar feeling of being puppeteered coursed through my veins, worming its way around my throat.

“In sleep, he sang to me, in dreams he came,” I sung, my reverberating off the walls around us, low and sweet. He turned back to look at me and I continued. “That voice which calls to me and speaks my name. And do I dream again? For now, I find The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind.”

He turned away from me again, the oil lantern he held up to guide our way causing shadows to dance and move in the grooves and edges of his masked face. I couldn’t help but look behind me, half-expecting to see the world I knew fading away, but there was nothing—only the inky blackness that stretched on endlessly, as if the opera house above had never existed. I could make out the edges of jagged, paved cobblestone that our feet echoed off. In front of the masked figure, I could not see much save for the dim glow emitted by the oil lamp, forcing me to place my trust in his sure-footedness. How far down does this maze go?

“Sing once again with me, our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet!" The Phantom's voice was unlike anything I had ever heard. It was deep and resonant, carrying with it a commanding authority that seemed to fill every corner of the cavern. Each note was rich and velvety, a dark, smooth timbre that sent shivers down my spine. There was a haunting quality to it, as though it held within it the weight of countless sorrows and untold secrets, yet it was also intoxicatingly beautiful, like a forbidden melody that lured me in despite the fear it invoked. “And though you turn from me to glance behind, the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind.”

He’s right, he is the one who has been here inside my mind; in my dreams, the auditions, the notes, the rose -.

His voice was like a siren’s call, and despite my growing unease, I found myself entranced, unable to resist the pull of his words.

As we reached the edge of a mist-shrouded lake, the cold, still waters reflected the faint light of the candles that lined the cavern walls. A small, ornate boat awaited us at the water’s edge, its wood polished and gleaming in the dim light. The Phantom stepped into it with a grace that belied his imposing presence, turning to offer his hand to me once more.

I hesitated for only a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, and I felt the last remnants of resistance melt away. I placed my trembling hand in his, and he guided me into the boat, his touch sending a shiver through me as I settled into the seat.

“Those who have seen your face draw back in fear,” I murmured, half-expecting him to get angry in response to my words. “I am the mask you wear -.”

The Phantom cut me off abruptly as he turned and met my eyes again. “It’s me they hear.”

“Your spirit and my voice in one combined…” I sang as I stared at his cloak billowing in the gentle breeze created by us moving through the water.

“My spirit and your voice in one combined…” He sang with me.

“The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind,” I continued.

The little boat glided silently across the murky lake. The darkness around us seemed almost tangible, pressing in from all sides, the oppressive weight of it blending seamlessly with the gloom of the subterranean world.

Ahead, a massive gate loomed out of the shadows, its iron bars intricately wrought with swirling designs that seemed to twist and writhe in the dim light. As we approached, the gate slowly began to creak open with a groan that reverberated through the still air, revealing a cavernous entrance. The gate's movement was accompanied by a slow, eerie illumination from hidden torches that flickered with a ghostly light, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls.

The space beyond the gate was vast, stretching out into the depths of the cavern like a hidden realm untouched by the outside world. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadows, with stalactites hanging down like ancient, jagged teeth. The walls were lined with velvet drapes in deep shades of crimson and black, adding a touch of opulence to the otherwise stark and foreboding environment. The centrepiece of the room was a large, baroque mirror framed in gold, its surface reflecting the dim light in a way that made it seem almost alive.

To one side of the room, a grand organ sat beneath an archway, its dark, polished surface reflecting the soft light from the candles scattered around the room. The piano's keys gleamed, hinting at the haunting melodies that might have been played there. Surrounding the piano were shelves filled with old, dusty books and musical scores, their spines lined with intricate gold leaf.

The air was filled with a mix of old parchment and a faint, sweet perfume, mingling with the scent of damp stone. The atmosphere was thick with an enigmatic charm, a place where shadows seemed to whisper secrets and the boundaries between reality and dream blurred.

As we moved further into the lair, the boat glided to a smooth stop on a small dock. The space felt both wondrous and terrifying, an enchanted domain that held the promise of both beauty and danger in equal measure.

His voice rose up again. “In all your fantasies, you always knew… that man and mystery…”

I stared, wide-eyed as I replied, “were both in you!”

He smiled, a devious, wicked smile, and our voices joined in unison as I studied his face, captivated and transfixed. “And in this labyrinth where night is blind, the Phantom of the Opera is here inside my mind…”

“… is there, inside your mind,” he sung again with me. He reached out both his hands for mine, touching me as if I might shatter in his grip. I accepted, shivering as I slipped my fingers into his gloved palms. “My angel of music,” he murmured as I stepped out of the boat, pulling me towards the centre of the room.

“He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera,” I replied, dazed. I was spun to face the ornate mirror, the Phantom's hands lingered on my hips, his touch both commanding and strangely intimate. His smile, when it appeared, was both unsettling and captivating—a predatory curve of his lips that held an enigmatic charm.

“Sing,” he growled into my ear, and my voice flew from my throat before I even realised what he had said. His smile was a stark contrast to the intensity in his eyes; it was a slow, almost predatory curl that revealed the faintest hint of his teeth. There was something both sinister and alluring about it, as if it held secrets and promises entwined together. The smile exuded a magnetic force, drawing me into its orbit and compelling me to obey his every command. He pulled the black hat off his head and slicked back his dark hair.

“Sing!” The command came again, and I rose in pitch. Gods, that smile. It was the kind of smile that could chill the blood and warm the heart simultaneously—a paradox of attraction and intimidation. His piercing blue eyes remained locked onto mine, the smile never fading as he commanded me to sing. The effect was hypnotic, making it impossible to look away, leaving me feeling both mesmerized and apprehensive. The cloak flew off from his shoulders, his eyes never leaving my gaze.

“Sing for me!”

And sing I did, the highest note I had ever achieved. I gasped, my hands racing to my throat as they once had when Elise had threatened me with the Punjab Lasso. My voice faded out, and I realised the masked man was no longer by my side. I whirled to find him, worried he had become one with the shadows again.

I jumped as his hands slammed down on the organ, and he spoke in a dark, gruff voice.

“I have brought you to the seat of sweet music’s throne; to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music.”

I stared, unsure of how to reply. It was not much of a throne, to be honest. The stage in the Paris Garnier was far more impressive with its stage lights, intricate backdrops, and stunning woodwork. This was… a far cry from that. Although the draperies were breathtaking, the walls were somewhat unremarkable, apart from the moss that grew through the cracks. The organ was impressive, large and scattered with parchment, but again, the maestro had his grand piano near the stage, and it too was an instrument to behold. The grandest possession the Phantom seemed to own was the large mirror, seemingly the only mirror that had remained uncovered. The Phantom raised a no-longer gloved finger towards me, making my breath catch in my throat as if he had placed his hands around my neck and squeezed.

“You have come here for one purpose and one alone!” And what is that, Monsieur? I do not know why I came here, why I followed the voice that has been haunting me and plaguing my nights since I first arrived at the Opera House. “Since the moment I first heard you sing,” he continued, “I have needed you with me to serve me, to sing for my music.”

Now that caught me by surprise. Serve him? What on God’s Earth did that entail?

“Monsieur?” I questioned, the trance that had allowed me to blindly follow this stranger into the darkness and away from the safety of the Opera House beginning to wane. His face broke form its calm, enchanting demeanour and a flicker of irritation briefly crossed it.

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

“Monsieur… Why have you brought me here?” I said, trying to keep my voice even, lest I betray the tremble that had begun its way into my core and was threatening to bring me to my knees. The Phantom’s demeanour shifted from the commanding authority that had drawn me in to a moment of unexpected vulnerability. His irritation, though brief, revealed a crack in the facade of the enigmatic figure before me. As he took a step away from the organ, his expression softened, though it remained inscrutable, cloaked in shadows and mystery.

He trailed a delicate hand over the keys of the grand organ, his fingers gliding with a practiced grace that spoke of years of mastery and dedication to his art. The movement was almost reverent, as if he was caressing an old, cherished friend. He raised his head to look at me, his eyes taking in every detail. He remained silent for a moment before finally speaking.

“My dear,” he said softly, his tone laden with a mix of earnestness and sorrow, “I have laboured in these depths for years, crafting melodies that the world above is not yet ready to hear. Your voice, Mademoiselle, has the purity and strength I need to bring these compositions to life. You will sing for me, and together, we shall create a masterpiece.”

My eyes widened as he continued to step closer, moving to some beat I was not privy to. I was silent for a moment, before the words came tumbling out. “And if I refuse? If I cannot agree to this… service?”

His eyes seemed to sparkle with a dark determination, as if he had expected my reply as if it were scripted by his own hands. “Refusal is a luxury I cannot afford, and neither can you. This is not merely about service; it is about destiny. The music is already written, and you, my dear, are the final note. To deny it is to deny the very essence of what you are meant to become.”

His eyes, intense and piercing, searched mine with a fervent desperation, as if he sought to convey the depth of his need and the gravity of the bond he believed we shared. The intricate half-mask accentuated the solemnity of his expression, while his piercing blue eyes remained locked onto mine with a hypnotic force. He continued, “You will not falter. I will ensure that you rise to the occasion. Together, we shall transcend the mundane and reach the sublime. You are already part of my vision, whether you realize it or not. Trust in me, and in the music we will create. I am aware trust is a delicate thing, Mademoiselle. It is earned, not given. But I assure you, my intentions are pure. The music will be our guide, and in its beauty, you will find both purpose and solace.”

He reached a hand up to my face, slowly, as if he had never touched another human being before, and brushed a loose curl behind my ear. I quivered when his fingers grazed my ear, his touch both frightening and alluring. 

“But what of my life outside these walls? What of the world I’ve known, my friends, my dreams?” Raoul? I did not have to say it, but it seemed the masked man had heard my thoughts. That flicker that crossed his face earlier returned in droves.

“The world above is but a fleeting distraction, a mere shadow of the grand vision I offer you! These friends and dreams you speak of are ephemeral compared to the eternal legacy we shall create together. Your life here, with me, will be one of profound purpose and unparalleled artistry.”

He spoke as if I had not understood the grandiose of the opportunity he was offering, his voice undercut by a mocking tone when he spoke of my ‘friends’ I was scared to never see again. I did not reply, instead lowering my feet to stare at the floor, wondering if I had fallen back into one of my nightmares. The hand that had tucked the hair behind my ear now moved to my chin, raising my head to meet those haunting eyes.

“That Vicomte is but a mere shadow that will flit in and out of your life. He offers you nothing but fleeting pleasures and transient comforts, while I offer you a chance to create something that transcends the ordinary. His affection is but a pointless distraction, an obstacle to the true greatness that lies within you.”

I did not truly consider his words before I spoke again, “You do not know him! He cares for me in ways that…”

He cut me off with an angry growl, the hand on my chin pulling my face closer to him as he lowered himself, so our faces were mere inches from one another.

“Cares? Does he truly understand the depths of your soul, or does he merely see a beautiful voice to be admired? His affection is superficial, bound by the constraints of the banal world. He cannot offer you what I can—a profound connection with the music, an understanding of the true nature of art. He will never grasp the magnitude of what you are capable of achieving.” The Phantom released me, taking a step back to regard me in my entirety. I felt like a small child under his stare, punished for a crime I had not intended to commit.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur. I did not mean to cause offense. You are right, of course, I do not know the Vicomte very well, nor his intentions.” I had expected my words to cause that softening effect that had earlier, but the Phantom’s eyes remained hard and calculating. It stirred something within me. Something fuelled by sleepless nights and voices in my head; fuelled by roses, and dresses, and notes... “But I also do not know you. You who leaves me notes, and roses, who watches me from the shadows and refuses to answer my questions, you who-.” My voice ceased as he took a quick step towards me, grabbing a fistful of hair and thrusting my face up to meet his towering frame again. I gasped as he did, not expecting the same hand which had caressed my cheek to now bring me such pain.

“I, who secured your role in the Paris Garnier when you faltered in front of the managers; I, who filled your head with the notes of Hannibal as to ensure you could replace Carlotta.” His hands tightened again, and his voice grew dangerously low. “I, who killed for you, hanging that wretched girl from the very same beam I first admired you on.”

Notes:

I cannot write chapter summaries to save my life. I hope this chapter did not deviate too much from the original plot, but I wanted to include some *other* elements to expand on the POTO universe.

NGL, this chapter is kind of spicy. Also I am SO sick at the moment, so please forgive me if this chapter feels rushed.

Chapter 9: The Realisation/Stranger Than You Dreamt It

Summary:

The Phantom's horrific confession forces a series of conversations that seem to devolve into nothing but utter lunacy. A bold move from (y/n) leads to a horrific discovery.

The echo of his words clung to the dimly lit chamber, seeping into the very walls as if the underground lair itself absorbed the gravity of his declaration. I stood still, my heart pounding, my breath shallow. He killed Elise.

The vision of her lifeless body, swaying gently from the rafters, flooded my mind—her wide, vacant eyes staring into nothingness, her once vibrant form now nothing more than a twisted silhouette against the stage. I could still see the rope biting into her neck, the cruel way it had left her dangling there, a silent testament. What had her last thoughts been? Had she seen the masked face before he snuffed out her life? Was she scared? Did she blame me?

The world began to spin around me and my vision blackened at the edges. The Phantom released his grip on my hair and stood away from me again. I staggered backwards as if his words had physically shoved me with their impact. I wanted to be sick, the contents of my stomach tickling at the back of my throat, and I tasted bile. I could not read his expression, but the intensity of his stare was not lost on me. This man – no, this monster before me had destroyed the life of Elise and left her body on display, to what end? To please me? To scare me into submission? Just because he could?

My hands flew to my face, and I rubbed my eyes viciously, attempting to scrub the visions of Elise. Scattered pictures of that day flashed across my eyes. Edith, on the floor, Meg, pointing. Madame Giry – Oh God’s, Madame Giry.

Madame Giry had known. The realization struck me like a blow, cutting through the haze of fear that had clouded my thoughts. She had known all along that it was him, the Phantom, who had orchestrated Elise’s death. The calm, stoic mask she had worn that night, the way she had ushered everyone out of the opera house save for me. She had sent Elise down to the washrooms – had she known what fate would await Elise? Or was it just as much a surprise to her as it was to everyone else? She knew of the sick joke – that magical lasso incident – that had preluded that day. I had felt her staring at me, willing me not to speak of the Opera Ghost. Because she had known. The silence in the face of the unspeakable—she had known. And worse, she had done nothing. And what had she said before Hannibal opened tonight? She had a note from the Opera Ghost. I had been angry; I had sworn I was going to question her and the managers on this topic… but the whirlwind of tonight meant I hadn’t gotten the chance to interrogate her, or the managers.

The managers… their bumbling, blissfully ignorant attempts to brush off the Opera Ghost’s presence, to dismiss the very real and disastrous consequences of his wrath. They had laughed, made light of the mysterious accidents, the strange occurrences that plagued the opera house. Even when the notes began to arrive, even when the ‘things’ Carlotta had spoken of began to pile up, they had refused to acknowledge his existence. They had acted like I was a foolish child telling ghost stories.

The anger and hurt coursed through my veins as I thought of Meg. Meg had probably suspected it too. Her nervous glances, the way she had clung to me with a desperate kind of fear, her reluctance to speak openly about the Opera Ghost. Had she been too afraid to tell me, too afraid to admit that the monster in the shadows was real? When I clung to her after my performance telling her about the Angel of Music – had she truly looked into my eyes and told me not to be frightened?

Anger surged through me, a fierce, burning anger that threatened to consume me whole. They had all known, and no-one had protected me; no-one had warned me. They had allowed me to walk blindly into this nightmare, knowing full well what he was capable of. Elise had been the only one to tell it true:

“It’s all just a bit of fun. No harm done. But be careful, (y/n), the Phantom doesn’t take kindly to those who don’t show the proper respect.” She had said.

“Why?” I had choked out.

Elise shrugged, “Who knows? Maybe he’s mad. Maybe he’s obsessed with the music, the performances. They say he’s a genius, you know. A musician, a composer, a killer…”

A killer indeed. I’m sorry, Elise. I did not realise you were the only one truly trying to warn me.

My vision still tunnelled, hands trembling with a hysteria I had not felt since I found my father dead on the stones of our cottage. I looked up at the man before me with angry tears in my eyes.

“Why? Why did you kill her?!”

The weight of my question hung in the air between us, thick and suffocating. “Why?” I repeated, louder now. My voice trembled, still raw from the realization, but I forced the words out, needing—no, demanding—an answer.

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes studying me through the mask. There was no guilt in his gaze, only a calm, unnerving intensity. I started towards him with angry strides, unthinking. I raised my hand to hit him, to provoke him, to make him feel the way I felt. He grabbed my wrist with his large hand and squeezed it tightly. We stood for a moment, my chest heaving as I tried to draw in more air. I was suffocating in this room; I was suffocating under his gaze.

 “She made a mistake,” he finally said, his voice like a cold breath of wind in the dark.

"A mistake?" I cried, my voice trembling with a mixture of horror and disbelief. My hands clenched at my sides, the words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to make sense of the madness. "It was a jest—a cruel and senseless jest, but a jest nonetheless! And for that, you took her life?"

"She was no fool," he retorted, his voice as cold and unyielding as the stone walls surrounding us. "She knew precisely what she was doing."

I shook my head, trying to understand, but the memory of Elise’s cruel laughter still echoed in my ears. “It’s all just a bit of fun,” she’d taunted, but her eyes had held something darker, something sharp and malicious. And the rope around my neck… the sound of their giggling as I struggled to breathe. The noose hadn’t been tight enough to strangle me, but the fear it had planted in my chest, the humiliation—it had been more than enough.

And then, not long after…

"You killed her... for that?" I whispered, the words scarcely audible, as if by saying them aloud, I might unravel the sanity that still clung to me. "Because she mocked you?"

“She was not mocking me,” he said coldly, his voice slicing through the dim air. “She was mocking you. And for that, she had to die.”

I stared at him, as though he had struck me. "What?" I gasped, my heart pounding in my chest.

"That damn fool Joseph Buquet," he continued, his voice low and menacing. "He did not believe in the power I hold. To him, and by extension Elise, I was but a legend, a tale told in whispers to frighten children. But you—" His voice softened, though it lost none of its intensity. "She saw you as weak, as fragile, and in that weakness, she saw an opportunity. And in her arrogance, she believed she could show you how little your life was worth.”

My breath caught in my throat. “But she was just—”

"Testing you," he interjected, his tone sharp as a knife. "She wanted to see how far she could go. To mock you, to humiliate you, to dangle you over the abyss of terror, thinking I would not act."

I recoiled, my hand instinctively rising to my throat, where the noose had once lain, a sinister reminder of how close I had come to the edge. The memory of Elise's voice—taunting, mocking—rang in my ears once more, her laughter echoing in the dark as she invoked the name of the Opera Ghost, as if daring him to respond. She had played with fire, unaware of the inferno she had kindled.

“You killed her because she… hurt me?” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of his confession.

His gaze bore into mine, unflinching. “Yes.”

He looked at me, his gaze unwavering, his eyes dark beneath the mask. He had said it so simply, and in that single word, there was an inevitability, a finality that left no room for doubt. Part of me wanted to scream at him, to lash out in rage and horror. But another part—an even darker, more dangerous part—was terrified by the realization of how far his obsession with me truly went.

“She would have done worse, in time,” he continued, his voice almost soft now, as though he were offering me some kind of twisted comfort. “She would have spread her poison. She would have turned the others against you, made them see you as weak, as something to be ridiculed. I could not allow that.”

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. “You… you didn’t have to kill her,” I choked out. “You didn’t have to—”

“She was a threat to you,” he interrupted, his tone low and fierce. “And I will not allow anyone to harm you.”

My mind spun in a whirlwind of memories, each more harrowing than the last. The image of Elise's lifeless body swaying gently in the rafters, her once mocking eyes now staring vacantly into the abyss; her body a grotesque silhouette against the dim light filtering through the opera house. The shock had frozen me in place, her cruel laughter still echoing in my ears, only to be replaced by the dreadful silence of death.

The rumours had spread like wildfire—whispers of suicide, murmurs of the Phantom’s wrath... I had clung to the notion that it was something beyond my comprehension, a tragic consequence of forces I could not control. But now… now, with the truth laid bare before me, the weight of it all began to press down on me like a vice.

Had I been the catalyst? Had Elise’s twisted game, her taunting of my fear, sealed her fate? The realization clawed at me, a sickening guilt creeping into my thoughts. I had been the one she mocked, the one she sought to humiliate. And for that, she had paid the ultimate price.

I could feel the threads of responsibility tightening around me, binding me to her death in a way that felt both unjust and inevitable. If only I had been stronger, if only I had not shown my fear, would she still be alive? The question gnawed at me, the weight of her death settling like a stone in the pit of my stomach.

This was my fault.

He killed her. For me.

I wanted to scream, to push him away, but I was paralyzed by the horrifying revelation. “You can’t… you can’t just kill people,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, but laced with the desperate hope that he could be reasoned with.

He took a step closer, his presence looming over me like a shadow. “I can, and I will. For you.”

I recoiled, the weight of his obsession suffocating, pressing in on me from all sides. “I never asked for this,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I never wanted any of this.”

His expression softened, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t waver. “You don’t need to ask. It’s already been written—our fates, intertwined. You are mine, and I am yours.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, stepping back again, the stone floor cold beneath my feet. “I am not yours. I am not like you.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on me with a quiet, terrible understanding. “You will be.”

A surge of anger mixed with sorrow welled up inside me. “You ended her life because of your need for control. How is that justified?”

"Control, my dear, is everything," he intoned, his voice like the echo of a distant bell, resonant yet hollow. "Without it, there is only chaos, a world unbridled and wild. Elise... she threatened that order. More importantly, she threatened you.”

Tears welled in my eyes, a bitter mixture of sorrow for Elise and a burning fury towards the man before me. “And you believe that by killing her, you restore that control?” My voice trembled, yet I forced it to steady, the words sharp as they left my lips. “All you’ve done is reveal the depths of your own madness.”

His gaze remained fixed upon me, cold and unwavering. “Madness, you say? Perhaps,” he mused, as though considering a distant memory. “But it is a necessary madness, a brokenness that serves a higher purpose. To create something truly magnificent, sacrifices must be made.”

I drew a shuddering breath, the weight of his reasoning bearing down upon me like a suffocating fog. “At what cost?” I demanded, my voice rising with the tempest of emotions roiling within me. “At the cost of lives? Of love? Of hope?”

For a fleeting moment, his facade cracked, the unyielding mask slipping just enough to reveal a glimmer of something—regret, perhaps, or doubt. “Sometimes,” he murmured, almost to himself, “to build a masterpiece, one must embrace the darkness. Light and shadow, you see, they define each other, coexist in a delicate balance.”

I shook my head, the tears now spilling over, tracing hot paths down my cheeks. “Your masterpiece is built on pain and fear. It’s not beauty; it’s obsession. A twisted, all-consuming obsession.”

A silence fell between us, heavy and laden with unspoken truths. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost mournful. “Obsession, yes... but without obsession, there is no greatness. Without sacrifice, there is no art. It is the burden I bear, and one you may never understand.”

His words hung in the air, a chilling testament to the darkness that had consumed him—a darkness that now threatened to engulf me as well. The room seemed to close in around me, the oppressive atmosphere mirroring the turmoil within my heart. I felt trapped between understanding his twisted rationale and rejecting the monstrous actions he had taken.

“You’ve lost yourself in your quest for greatness,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You’ve become what you loathe.”

His eyes narrowed, a shadow passing over his face as he took a slow, deliberate step toward me. “What would you know about loathing, Mademoiselle?” he murmured, his tone dripping with a cold, dangerous edge.

I stumbled back instinctively, my breath catching in my throat. My mind raced, a flood of emotions surging through me—fear, anger, despair. “I didn’t ask for this,” I spat, my voice rising in defiance. “I didn’t ask to be chosen by you! You whispered into my mind, twisted my thoughts, and now you speak of destiny as if I’m meant to be part of this folly!”

He advanced further, his presence overwhelming, like a storm gathering force. “Every great musician, every great artist has received a visit from the Angel at least once in his or her life,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, as though he were imparting some sacred truth.

“Angel?” I echoed, incredulous. “Is that what you call yourself? Is that what you think you are?”

His hand reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek, a touch so soft yet completely suffocating, it felt like he had cut me. “That is what you called me, mademoiselle. Your Angel of Music. You called to me, in sleep, in your dressing room alone at night. The way your hands pulled at the edges of your blanket when you felt me draw near – the way you stared into your mirror – ‘it frightens me’ you had said to little Meg.”

My eyes grew wide, and I continued taking small steps back, my hands reaching behind me to find something, anything that I might use to defend myself.

“No one ever sees the Angel,” he continued, his voice a dark whisper that seemed to curl around my very soul. “But he is heard by those who are meant to hear him.”

The audacity of his words, the way he spoke of fate and destiny as if he had the right to dictate the course of my life, sparked a fire within me. I swatted his hand away, my eyes blazing with fury. “I’m not some puppet for you to control!” I shouted, the anger surging through me like a tidal wave. “I refuse to believe that my life, my choices, have been reduced to fulfilling your twisted vision!”

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me closer with a sudden, jarring force that left me breathless. His face was inches from mine, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that made my heart race. “You cannot escape what has already been written,” he hissed, his voice laced with an eerie calmness. “This is not about control—it is about destiny. You were chosen because you have the gift, the power to create something extraordinary. You belong to this, to me.”

My breath hitched, and I could feel the tears welling up again, a mixture of rage and helplessness boiling over. I tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding, a reminder of the inescapable grip he had on my life. I belong to him.

“I don’t want your gift,” I seethed, glaring at him through the tears. “I don’t want anything from you!”

His gaze mollified, but only slightly, his grip on my wrist loosening just enough to let me feel a fleeting sense of hope. “It’s too late for that,” he whispered, his voice almost tender, yet still steeped in the madness that consumed him. “We’re past the point of no return.”

The reality of his words settled over me like a cold shroud, and for a moment, I felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on me. But I refused to be defeated. I refused to be a pawn in his twisted game.

Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I wrenched my wrist free from his grasp and took a step back, my chest heaving with the effort to regain control over my own life, my own fate. We stared at one another.

He moved toward me with a sudden, startling swiftness, and instinctively, I flinched, raising my arms to shield myself from the blow I was certain would follow. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath quick and shallow, as I braced for the impact. But instead of striking me, he grabbed my shoulders with an iron grip, his fingers digging into my flesh just enough to make me wince.

"You think I would hurt you?" he hissed, his voice a low growl, his eyes blazing with a fury that sent a jolt of fear through me. "After all I have done, after all I have sacrificed, you still believe I would harm you?"

I trembled beneath his touch, the sheer intensity of his anger crashing over me like a storm. In an instant, he spun me around, forcing me to face what I had thought was another veiled mirror on the wall. My pulse quickened as I stared at it, confusion mingling with fear. Then, with a sharp tug, he pulled the veil away, revealing not a mirror, but a hollow in the wall—a hollow in which stood a mannequin, dressed in an elaborate wedding gown and veil.

I gasped, horrified, as I realized that the mannequin was a perfect replica of me, from the curve of its jaw to the delicate curls of its hair. The gown was exquisite, a masterpiece of lace and satin, the veil shimmering like a gossamer cloud. But the sight of it filled me with dread, a deep, visceral terror that twisted my stomach into knots.

"Do you see?" he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, his voice once again calm, unnervingly so. "You were never meant to be my prisoner, Mademoiselle. You were meant to be my bride, my muse, the vessel through which I would create perfection."

My knees buckled, and I nearly collapsed under the weight of his words. He caught me, his arms wrapping around me in what might have seemed a tender embrace, but all I felt was the choking grip of his obsession, binding me tighter and tighter with each passing moment. I yearned to push him off me, to run to the arms of Meg, of Raoul, of anyone except this demon in front of me.

“How do you think the dress you are wearing now appeared in your dressing room, Mademoiselle? Surely you are not as foolish as to believe it materialized by mere chance?”

The bile rose in my throat again, threatening to spill out onto the burgundy fabric adorned with gold embroider that now clung to my skin with a suffocation akin to the Phantom’s grasp around me. “You looked so beautiful on stage, my dear. You were made for it.” He whispered into my ear, his hot breath tickling the back of my neck.

“No!” I pushed away from him, scrabbling on the floor dirtying my once adored costume for Elissa’s character. “No, this cannot be. This is not right!” I covered myself with my arms.

He growled, and moved towards me again, grabbing my forearm and pulling me towards him. “You loathe the dress now you have learnt it came from my hands. Am I so monstrous to you, (y/n), that you spurn even the simple beauties I bestow on you?”

The sound of my name on his lips made my eyes widen. This man knew everything about me – my name, my measurements, the contents of my dreams… I did not answer, cowering and trembling, the grip on my arm sure to leave bruises. My fear seemed to enrage him more. He threw me to the floor and stood over me, glaring down at me like a hunter might before making the killing blow.

I recoiled, instinctively clutching at the fabric of the dress as if to shield myself from his rage. “No! I-“

“Perhaps you would prefer it if I simply tore it from your body!”

“No! Monsieur, please!” The room seemed to close in around me, the air thick with his anger and the weight of his oppressive presence. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for a moment, I feared he might act on his threat.

“If you detest it so,” he continued, his voice a low growl, “I should indeed rip it from you, so you might learn to appreciate the artistry and care with which I crafted it!”

I dropped my head, biting back a sob that compressed my chest as I tried to regain my composure. “I—I didn’t mean to offend,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not the dress—it’s what it represents.” He moved, slowly this time, to kneel next to me on the floor. I looked up at him, tears falling hot and fast down my cheeks. He raised a hand to wipe the tears, and I flinched. His impassioned expression wilted, and he sighed.

 “What it represents,” he spoke, his tone now eerily calm, “is your role in my grand design, Mademoiselle; a role you seem intent on resisting, despite the gifts I lavish you with.”

His gaze lingered on me, a mixture of disappointment and something darker flickering in his eyes. “Do not make the mistake of underestimating the significance of what I offer. For if you continue to reject it, the consequences may be far more severe than a dirtied dress.” He lifted an edge of the dress that had torn when I was crawling across the floor.

"You think you can defy fate?" he continued, his tone now eerily gentle, as if speaking to a frightened child. "You think you can escape what has been ordained? You belong to me. You have always belonged to me."

"No," I managed to choke out, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't belong to anyone."

He stiffened, his grip tightening once more, and I could feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to erupt again. But he fought it, forcing himself to maintain his eerie calm.

"You will understand, in time," he said softly, almost tenderly. "You will see that there is no life for you outside of this, outside of me. We are bound together, you and I, by the music, by the art. There is no escaping it."

He released me then, stepping back to admire the mannequin, his expression a twisted mix of pride and longing. I remained on the floor, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind reeling with the horror of what I had just seen, what I had just heard.

"I will never be yours," I declared, though my voice trembled with the effort to keep my fear at bay. "No matter what you do, no matter how you try to control me, I will never be yours."

He turned to face me, his eyes dark and inscrutable behind the mask. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply watching me with that same unnerving calm.

"We shall see," he finally murmured, his voice barely audible, yet filled with an unsettling certainty. "We shall see."

***

I remained on the floor for what felt like hours, pressing my hands into the cold stone in an effort to stave off the heat that was radiating through my core. I was exhausted; the whirlwind of emotions seeming to have drained me of all energy and life force. The masked monster had walked away at some point, and as if in some kind of cruel jest, had simply begun playing his organ, stopping occasionally to scribble quill against parchment. My head was pounding, echoing with horrific visions of Elise being dragged through the Opera House halls only to be hanged; of the Phantom’s talk of fate and destiny; of his incessant organ.

In the dim light, I could see bruises forming on my forearms and wrists where he had held me. I rubbed at them, willing the hurt away. My body ached, my throat was parched, my heart felt like it had been ripped from my chest. I lifted my head to watch him move effortlessly over the keys of his instrument - as if I were the ghost in the shadows. I scoffed. It was a bitter thought, born of some kind of twisted mockery from the God above, or perhaps even the devil below. He stopped playing, and silence boomed around the space, somehow louder than the echoes of the organ. I froze, expecting to feel him next to me, to see his wicked face hovering over me, ready to torment me further.

I took in a sharp breath. “Monsieur?” I called, half hoping he would not answer, and half-dreading his absence. There was no reply. Hesitantly, I got up slowly and pushed my back against the vaguely damp wall. I listened, craning my ears to hear for any movement. The room was quiet, save for the hammering in my chest and head, which I was sure could be heard from down here to the stage up above.

Sliding around the perimeter of the room, I kept my eyes locked on the space where I had seen him last, expecting him to reappear like the ghost he was named for. My feet, which had long since been abandoned by my shoes, stepped tentatively over the cool stones, each step as cautious as the last. I reached the edge of the shadow protection, where the darkness met the light, and I was faced with a choice:

Stay here and wait for him, or step into the light and decide for myself. I took another sharp, shallow breath, and made my choice.

I took a tentative step into the light, then another, slowly making my way towards the organ. I approached it and released a breath I had not realised I had been holding. The organ truly was beautiful, and I wondered how it maintained such a gorgeous sound down here in the damp, cold, depths of hell. The organ had such an imposing beauty, an eerie blend of grandeur and menace. The gleaming pipes and intricate carvings seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, casting distorted shadows across the room. I stood over the organ, noticing the strewn sheets of parchment and scattered quills on the nearby music stand. The pages were filled with the Phantom’s meticulous handwriting, cryptic and precise. Of course, I recognised his handwriting instantly, my mind flashing to the note left on my bed in a time that felt like centuries ago.

A sudden, sharp creak pierced the silence. I froze, once again feeling like a child that had been caught. I whirled, accidentally leaning on the keys of the organ as I braced myself. At once, the haunting echo of the Phantom’s instrument reverberated through the chamber like a ghostly lament. The sound seemed to echo unnaturally, as if the organ itself were alive.

“Do you find my work so fascinating, mademoiselle?” he asked, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of menace. He stepped forward, emerging from the shadows, his presence commanding and formidable. Run, you damned fool, at least try and run!

“Curiosity is a dangerous thing, especially here,” He continued, his eyes narrowing as he took a step closer, the intensity of his gaze almost palpable. He reached towards me, and I cowered away from him. His hand moved past me, though, instead coming to rest on a haunting chord. His eyes seemed to sparkle as the sound erupted like a tortured moan. The Phantom moved to seat himself on the stool, humming the root of the chord. His hands moved swiftly, suddenly crafting a beautiful melody that reminded me of just why I had followed this monster down to the pits of hell in the first place.

Despite the monstrous nature that lurked beneath the surface, there was something undeniably captivating about the Phantom's music. As I stood there, feeling the oppressive weight of his presence, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the intricate beauty of the melodies he had composed. Each note that escaped the instrument was like a delicate brushstroke on a canvas of sound, painting vivid scenes of both haunting sorrow and sublime beauty. The music flowed with an elegance that belied the chaos that had birthed it. It was as if the Phantom's anguish and torment had been distilled into pure, unblemished artistry. The melodies, though sombre and often dark, held a poignancy that transcended their origins.

The chords resonated deeply, stirring something within me that was both profoundly moving and terrifying. Each crescendo and diminuendo seemed to mirror the peaks and valleys of human emotion, capturing the essence of both joy and despair with an almost supernatural clarity. The harmonies intertwined like a lover’s embrace, creating a tapestry of sound that was both exquisite and eerie. Despite the horror that had unfolded around me, the music offered a strange solace. It was as if, in the act of creation, the Phantom had managed to channel his inner demons into something magnificent and transcendental.

A familiar sensation began to creep over me, and I felt those invisible strings latched onto me, drawing me inexorably towards him. My body moved almost of its own accord, each step a reluctant dance in response to an unseen force. My gaze, unbidden and unwavering, was locked onto the Phantom’s mask. The more I tried to tear my eyes away, the more deeply I felt ensnared. It was as if the very air around him was charged with a potent energy, an aura that commanded attention and submission. I could feel my heart quickening, my breath becoming shallow as I was pulled closer, step by step, against my will. The Phantom’s presence, both formidable and enigmatic, loomed larger and larger as I approached him.

The once-safe distance between us diminished until it felt as though the space had collapsed. My mind, though desperate to resist, was clouded by a trance-like daze, my thoughts tangled in the web of his influence. The familiar feeling of being controlled, of having my actions dictated by an unseen force, was all too real and unsettling.

“Who was that shape in the shadows? Who is that face in the mask?” I heard my voice echo, almost as if it were coming from a distance, my hand instinctively reaching out towards him. The world seemed to slow down, each second stretching into eternity as I drew closer to him. My fingers, trembling with a mix of fear and determination, curled beneath the edges of his mask. The sensation of the cool, smooth material against my skin felt both foreign and intimate. Despite his previously fast reflexes, the Phantom could not stop this inevitability.

I tugged it from his head, the movement was both desperate and oddly delicate. The mask came away with a rustling sound, slipping from my fingers and falling to the floor with a soft thud. For an instant, everything seemed suspended in air, the room holding its breath as the mask lay between us, an object of lost power. My heart pounded as I finally glimpsed what lay beneath—the Phantom’s face, revealed in the dim light. The realization hit me with a jolt, the sight both grotesque and vulnerable. His true face, marred and deformed, was laid bare in the flickering shadows.

He shrieked and raised a hand to cover the right side of his face, whirling on me with such ferocity I could not help but scamper for safety, falling to my knees once again in front of him. The Phantom's face, now exposed, was a twisted reflection of agony and rage. His eyes, once cold and calculating, flared with a tempestuous fury. The dim light cast grotesque shadows over his features, accentuating the hideous scars that marred his face.

"No!” he roared, his voice shaking with rage. "Damn you! You little prying Pandora! You little demon!"

I recoiled, my breath catching in my throat as his words struck with the force of a physical blow. My heart raced, the realization of what I had done sinking in with icy dread. The Phantom’s anger was palpable, a living thing that seemed to fill the room. He stood with such speed that it launched the stool behind him, slamming into the wall and splintering into pieces. He advanced on me with the speed he seemingly lacked before and grabbed my face with one hand, hard.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” He snarled, before throwing me back to the floor. I gasped, the air leaving my lungs in a rush.

"Curse you, you little lying Delilah! He thundered, turning away from me. "You little viper!" he continued, his voice a snarl.

His fury was overwhelming, each word a lash against my already raw emotions. I slid further back, my hands trembling as I tried to process the whirlwind of his accusations. His face was a mask of torment, and his words cut through me with a ferocity I had never known.

"Now you cannot ever be free!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Damn you, curse you!" The room seemed to close in around me, the weight of his words pressing down like a suffocating shroud. My vision blurred with the tears I fought to hold back, each accusation a stinging reminder of the darkness I had uncovered.

As the Phantom’s anger seemed to ebb away, a new, desperate energy replaced it. His shoulders slumped, and he fell to his knees, his once imposing figure now reduced to a pitiful sight. He breathed heavily, his broad shoulders heaving with each intake and exhale.  The fury in his eyes was replaced by a raw, pleading look, as if he were searching for some shred of understanding in my gaze.

“Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even dare to look or bear to think of me?” I did not respond, instead staring at him, aghast. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he continued. “This loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly, yearns for heaven. Secretly… secretly…” he trailed off, his voice cracking with a mixture of frustration and anguish.

“But (y/n), fear can turn to love,” he whispered, his hands trembling as he reached out towards me, his fingers clawing at the air as if trying to grasp onto some semblance of sanity. I turned away from him, scared that my reaction would earn me the pleasure of his wrath. His face, laid bare for the first time, was a map of suffering and torment. The image was burned into my mind - scars and disfigurements twisted across his skin, each mark telling a story of pain and isolation. Yet, amidst the grotesque landscape of his visage, there was a glimmer of something almost human—an appeal for empathy, for recognition of the torment that had shaped him. I turned to look at him again, my face awash with fear.

“You’ll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, this… repulsive carcass… who seems a beast…” His hands moved to his face, covering the disfigured features as if trying to shield them from my gaze. He looked up at me with a mixture of defiance and desperation, his eyes pleading. “But secretly dreams of beauty…” His voice softened, becoming almost a whisper.

“Secretly… secretly…” The Phantom’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with each inhalation. His eyes, filled with a haunting sorrow, locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart ache. He reached out to me once more, his fingers trembling, almost touching me as if hoping for some form of solace or forgiveness. The room seemed to grow even colder, the shadows lengthening around us as the Phantom’s despair deepened. The weight of his words pressed heavily on me, each one a testament to the tortured soul hidden beneath the mask of monstrosity.

The mask lay discarded on the cold stone floor next to my hand. For a moment, fear mingled with pity in my heart. The grotesque disfigurement I had uncovered was terrifying, but the raw vulnerability that accompanied it was almost too much to bear. I hesitated, my fingers trembling as I reached down to pick up the mask. The weight of it in my hand felt like a tangible symbol of his suffering, an artifact of his self-imposed isolation. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, were locked onto me with a mixture of desperation and hope.

Slowly, I lifted the mask, feeling its cold, smooth surface against my fingers. The act felt almost sacrilegious, a betrayal of the raw reality I had just witnessed. My heart pounded as I moved towards him, hesitant and uncertain.

As I neared him, I saw the Phantom's eyes follow the mask with an almost feverish intensity. His breath quickened, and he reached out towards it, his hands shaking as if he were afraid it might be taken away again. I could see the flicker of something like relief in his gaze, a hope that the mask might somehow restore a fragment of his lost dignity. With a shuddering breath, I extended the mask towards him.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” I murmured. He looked up at me with a fragile mixture of gratitude and desperation. His fingers brushed mine as he took the mask, the contact sending a jolt of cold through my hand. He gently lifted it, his movements slow and reverent, as if handling a sacred relic. He stood, and turned away from me, placing the mask back over his tortured face.

The transformation was almost immediate; his features were once again concealed behind the polished facade, and the aura of torment seemed to recede, replaced by the cold, impassive façade he displayed to the world around him. The mask seemed to restore some semblance of his former self, though it did nothing to erase the desolation in his eyes. A flicker of… something… flashed behind his eyes as he studied me.

He reached out a hand to me, and I looked up at him, frightened of the change which might occur if I didn’t accept. I slipped my hand into his and stood to my full height – which was still more than a foot below him. I looked up at him, our hands still entwined.

“Come we must return,” he spoke softly. “Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you.”

Notes:

I have SO MUCH uni work to do, and it is currently 2am and this chapter is 7000 words long!!! I love it :P

Chapter 10: Notes/Not 'If,' But 'When'

Summary:

(y/n) is allowed to return back to the world above. Upon confronting Meg and Madame Giry, a series of notes are revealed.

The passage back to the Opera House was suffocating, a tunnel of shadow and stone that pressed in on me from all sides. The Phantom’s hand, cold and commanding, held mine in an iron grip, leading me through the labyrinthine corridors with a purpose that was both relentless and terrifying. Each step echoed through the silence; the sound magnified by the oppressive darkness that surrounded us. He had adorned his black leather gloves again, as if to place a further barrier between his humanity and me. No more words were exchanged between us, and I found this somehow more challenging than his incessant talk of destiny and fate.

I struggled to keep up with his long strides, my body still trembling from the events that had just transpired. The image of his scarred face, once hidden beneath the mask, lingered in my mind like a haunting spectre, a grotesque reminder of the torment he had endured—and the torment he had inflicted. And yet, the way he strode through the corridors made me feel that if I were to let go of his hand, he would simply keep walking and leave me behind in the dark. I despised the idea of remaining stuck inside these cold, wet walls, clawing at the stone and crying for reprieve; and so, I gripped his hand much harder than he held mine.

The air grew colder as we ascended, the dampness of the underground lair giving way to the musty chill of the Opera House’s forgotten passageways. I could have cried at that smell – home. It was so close. I wondered how many hours had passed between now and when I first left Raoul outside my dressing room. Was it the same night? Or the next day? Or three days later? It made no matter; the time had passed, and I was nearly through it. The Phantom must have sensed the shift in me; perhaps my step changed, or my grip loosed, for his hand pulled me just a little closer to him. I staggered slightly, the silent beat I had been marching to suddenly distempered.

I could feel the tension in his body, the way his shoulders hunched slightly as he led me through the darkness. He said nothing, but I could sense the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior, a seething rage that simmered just beneath the surface. The silence between us was heavy, laden with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths. Part of me wanted to stop him and make him face me – to tell him I was sorry for how his face had changed the course of his life. And an equal part of me felt indifferent. He killed Elise. He spied on you. He hurt you. There was a bitter irony in the fact he had inflicted far more pain than Elise had, and yet she had been the one to suffer – for ‘hurting’ me. A cruel, wicked injustice perpetuated by madness and fantasy.

As we neared the entrance to the Opera House’s lower levels, I could hear the distant murmur of voices, the faint echo of life that seemed so far removed from the nightmare I had just experienced. My steps faltered, my resolve weakening as the familiar world of light and sound came closer. I wanted to break free, to run towards the safety of the stage and the bustling chaos of the performers and crew. But his hand tightened around mine, a silent command that I could not disobey. We emerged into a narrow hallway, dimly lit by flickering sconces that cast long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. The sudden shift from darkness to light made me blink in surprise, my eyes struggling to adjust. The Phantom paused, turning to face me with that same inscrutable expression that I had come to dread.

“You must remember,” he began, his voice low and measured, “that what you have seen tonight is not for the eyes of others. This world,” he gestured to the shadowed halls around us, “is a world of secrets. And those who speak of secrets often find themselves consumed by them.”

For once, he spoke plain truth; all those who spoke of the Phantom were afflicted by him in some way. I suspected more than just Elise had met their early grave because of such vitriolic secrets. And the substance of his words was not lost on me - they were a warning, a threat wrapped in a velvet shroud. I nodded; my throat too tight with fear to speak. The enormity of what I had uncovered weighed heavily on me, a burden I had not asked for and one I could not easily cast aside.

He released my hand and took a step back, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. “You will return to the world above, but you will not speak of what has transpired here. Not to anyone.” His voice was softer now, almost gentle, but the edge of danger was unmistakable. “Do you understand?”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Yes, Monsieur,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His expression softened slightly, a flicker of something almost like sorrow crossing his features. “Good,” he murmured, his hand reaching up to adjust the mask that concealed his true self. “Now go. They will be looking for you.” He turned away from me, his cloak billowing around him as he disappeared into the shadows. I watched him go, my heart heavy with a mixture of relief and dread. The corridor felt strangely empty without his presence, the silence oppressive in a way that made my skin crawl.

Taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage and began to make my way back towards the familiar world of the Opera House. My footsteps echoed through the corridor, each one bringing me closer to the light and further from the darkness that lurked below. And yet, even as I walked away, I could still feel his eyes on me, a lingering presence that haunted my every step.

I stumbled back to my dressing room, the familiar corridors of the Opera House feeling foreign and unwelcoming after the harrowing descent into the Phantom’s world. My heart pounded with the lingering fear of what I had just endured, and my mind swirled with the dark memories of the night. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on me, my limbs heavy as lead, each step a monumental effort.

When I reached the door to my dressing room, I paused, my breath catching in my throat. The door was wide open, hanging ajar as if someone had opened it with a great force. Raoul. A cold shiver ran down my spine, and a sickening guilt settled in my bones. Gods, I was so tired of feeling so wretched. Cautiously, I pushed the door further open and stepped inside.

The sight that greeted me was one of disarray. My dressing room, usually a sanctuary of order and calm amidst the chaos of the Opera House, had been ransacked. Costumes and garments were strewn across the floor, drawers had been pulled open, and personal belongings were scattered haphazardly. It was as if someone had been searching for something, desperate and relentless in their pursuit. A sense of violation washed over me, mingling with the exhaustion that already weighed heavily on my spirit. Raoul’s note was still on the dresser, but it appeared as though all remnants of the Opera Ghost’s gifts had inextricably vanished, as he had, into the shadows. I could feel the sting of tears threatening to well up, but I blinked them away, too drained to even cry.

The first light of morning was beginning to creep through the small window, casting a pale glow over the chaos. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, feeling the cold wood against my back. My body ached with every movement, a dull throb that echoed the turmoil in my mind. My wrists, where he had held me far too tight, were discoloured in a ring where his hands had wrapped around them. The night had taken more from me than I could have anticipated—more than just my strength, but pieces of my very soul, it seemed. I was starving, the gnawing emptiness in my stomach reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in what felt like an eternity. But food was the last thing on my mind. What called to me most was sleep—blessed, dreamless sleep that might offer some small reprieve from the horrors I had witnessed.

Slowly, I crossed the room, stepping over the scattered debris until I reached my small cot. It was the only piece of furniture that hadn’t been disturbed, and I sank into it with a weary sigh. The mattress embraced me, and I let my head fall back against the soft upholstery, my eyes fluttering closed. The light of the new day was growing stronger, but I had no strength left to face it. Instead, I let the exhaustion pull me under, welcoming the darkness as it swept over me, dragging me down into the depths of sleep where, for a few merciful hours, I might escape the nightmare that had become my reality.

***

I awoke with a start, my heart racing as if I had been jolted from a nightmare. My eyes flew open, and I found myself staring into the worried face of Meg, who was leaning over me, her hands gripping my shoulders as she gently shook me awake.

“What happened? Are you alright?” she asked, her voice trembling with concern. Her wide eyes searched mine, trying to understand the fear that still gripped me.

I blinked, trying to orient myself, the remnants of sleep clinging to me like cobwebs. It took a moment to remember where I was—the familiar surroundings of my dressing room slowly coming into focus. But the chaos from earlier was still there, the disarray a stark reminder of the night’s events. My heart sank as the memories flooded back, hitting me with the force of a tidal wave.

Behind Meg, Madame Giry stood silently, her expression as unreadable as ever. She observed me with her usual calm, her eyes betraying nothing of what she might be thinking. The sight of her sent a fresh wave of anger surging through me, a bitter resentment that had been simmering beneath the surface since the night before.

“What happened to you?” Meg asked again, her voice laced with worry. “Raoul almost tore the Opera House apart looking for you! And your room – “

“Is in shambles,” Madame Giry finished, her voice cool and measured. “The Vicomte was utterly convinced something, or someone, stole you last night.” Her eyes bore into mine as if searching my soul for the answers she had known long before I had even thought to ask the question. I rubbed my eyes feeling, yet again, like a small child.

I sat up slowly, feeling a dull ache in my body that reminded me of every moment I had spent in the Phantom’s lair. I groaned, and Meg rushed to my side, collapsing to her knees and placing her hands over mine. My mind raced, trying to find the right words, but all I could think of was the searing pain, the fear, and the betrayal that gnawed at my insides. The Phantom, the mask, the disfigured face—all of it came rushing back in a flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. My mouth gaped as it tried to form the words my mind could not conjure.

“You need rest,” Madame Giry said, her tone firm but not unkind. “Whatever happened, it can wait. You are in no state to make decisions or speak rationally. Rest now, and we will discuss this when you are—”

“No!” I snapped, my voice rising with anger that startled even me. I pushed Meg’s hands away and stood, swaying slightly on my feet as the room spun around me. “You… you didn’t warn me! You didn’t protect me!”

Meg's eyes widened in shock, her hands fluttering uncertainly between reaching for me and holding back. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with uncertainty.

“You knew!” I cried, my voice trembling as I turned my glare upon Madame Giry. “You both knew the truth! You knew of him, of the Phantom! And yet, you said nothing! You abandoned me to face him—alone!”

Madame Giry's expression remained inscrutable, though for the briefest moment, a shadow of something—remorse, perhaps?—flickered in her gaze before disappearing behind her practiced composure. “There are matters you cannot possibly comprehend,” she began, her tone gentle yet distant, as though addressing a child who could not grasp the gravity of the situation. “We did what we believed was right—”

“What you believed was right?” I echoed, my voice quivering with indignation. “You could have warned me! You could have prevented this!” My voice faltered, and I turned away, unable to continue, as tears of helpless fury welled up in my eyes. “You could have spared me...”

Meg reached out, her hand brushing against my arm, but I recoiled, the anger within me too fierce to be assuaged by her touch. “I did not know for certain,” she murmured, regret heavy in her voice. “I had my suspicions, but...”

“You should have told me!” I exclaimed, my voice breaking under the weight of my emotions. “You should have done something—anything! You left me... to face him... to confront that creature!”

Madame Giry stepped forward, her eyes narrowing slightly, though her voice retained its calm, measured quality. “Meg had no part in this. You must understand, child, that there are forces at work here beyond your understanding. We acted with your best interests in mind. There was no simple way to—”

“To what? To shield me? To ensure my safety? You failed me!” I cried out, my words tinged with a bitterness that felt like a knife twisting in my heart. “You failed me!”

The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating under the weight of unspoken truths and unresolved pain. The betrayal, the fear, the sense of abandonment—they all crashed over me, threatening to drown me in their wake. I stood there, raw and exposed, with nothing left but the bitter taste of despair. Meg’s eyes were filled with tears, but she too said nothing, her hands wringing together as if she were trying to find the right words but couldn’t. How could she not have known?

The room was thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. I could feel the anger and hurt swirling within me, threatening to consume me whole. The betrayal, the fear, the helplessness—all of it collided within me, leaving me raw and exposed.

Finally, Madame Giry spoke, her voice softer now, almost sorrowful. “You must rest. There is much to discuss, but not now. Not like this.”

Her words were like a slap in the face, cold and dismissive. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to make them understand the depth of my pain. But the exhaustion was too great, the weight of it pressing down on me until I could hardly breathe. Without another word, I turned away from them both, retreating into the farthest corner of my bed. My anger had been spent, leaving only a hollow ache in its place. I sank down onto the cot once more, my body trembling with the aftershocks of my outburst.

They stood in silence, watching me as if waiting for something, but I had nothing left to give. The room seemed to close in around me, and the first light of morning, now stronger, filtered through the window, casting long shadows on the floor. I curled up on the sheets, my back to them, and closed my eyes, shutting out the world and the pain that came with it.

***

The hours passed. My sleep was dreamless, as if whatever curse that afflicted me most nights was assuaged by the nightmare I had endured at the hands of the Opera Ghost. When I awoke, the room was dimly lit by the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The shadows of the night had receded, but the weight of what had transpired lingered in the air, pressing down on my chest like an invisible burden.

I sat up slowly, my head throbbing with the remnants of exhaustion, my limbs heavy as if weighed down by lead. The bed beneath me, though soft and familiar, felt foreign. I swung my legs over the edge, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor, and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The rest had done little to quell the storm raging inside me; if anything, it had only given it time to fester. The dressing room was eerily quiet, the disarray from earlier still evident in the scattered belongings and the open wardrobe doors. It was as if the room itself had absorbed the tension of the day and was now holding its breath, waiting for the next inevitable confrontation.

The door creaked open slowly, and I tensed, expecting the worst. But it was only Meg, her face drawn with concern as she stepped hesitantly into the room. She seemed smaller than before, her usual vivacity replaced by an air of cautious worry.

“(y/n),” she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she feared breaking the fragile peace that had settled over the room. “How are you feeling?”

I didn’t answer immediately, my mind still clouded with the remnants of sleep and the lingering echoes of our earlier argument. I watched her as she hovered near the door, her hands clasped together as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“I don’t know, Meg,” I finally replied, my voice hoarse from sleep and emotion. “I feel... I don’t know what I feel.”

She nodded, as if she understood, though the uncertainty in her eyes told me otherwise. “Mother thought it best to let you rest for a while,” she said, taking a cautious step closer. “She... she wanted to speak with you when you were ready. There has been a series of… notes.”

“Notes? From whom?” But in truth, I already knew.

She hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed, then drew in a breath and began, “They were signed… O.G. The Phantom… he left instructions.”

“Instructions?!” I replied, incredulous. I stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. The Phantom had sent notes? What could he possibly want now? After everything that had happened, the idea of him still pulling strings from the shadows sent a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me. It had been mere hours since I had left his dungeon, was he not satisfied by the disaster that interaction had been?

“Mother found one of the notes,” Meg continued, her voice growing steadier as she saw my attention sharpen. “It was… it was about you.”

My heart lurched. Of course it was; I, the focal point of his obsession. I forced myself to speak. “What did it say?”

Meg hesitated again, then reached into her pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to me with trembling fingers, her eyes full of concern. “Here, read it for yourself. This is the one he sent to Raoul.

Raoul? He had dragged Raoul into this, too? Was everyone who stepped foot into the Opéra Populaire poisoned by simply comprehending his presence?

‘Do not fear for Miss (l/n)
The Angel of Music has her under his wing
Make no attempt to see her again.’

The message was brief, but it sent a shiver through me. The Angel of Music - using my once beloved epithet for him—had claimed me as his own, as if I were a piece on his chessboard to be moved at will. The possessiveness in his words, the control he sought to exert over me, made my stomach churn with a mix of fear and anger. I prayed Raoul had not been discouraged from potentially pursuing me as a consequence of this wretched note. The thought broke my heart. Before I could fully separate my thoughts, the door opened again, and Madame Giry entered the room, her expression as unreadable as ever. She carried a small bundle of papers, which she held out to me with a solemn look.

“There have been other notes,” she said quietly. “He has made his intentions clear.”

I took the parchment from her, my hands trembling slightly as I unfolded them. The first note was addressed to Carlotta, and as I read the contents, a cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach:

‘Your days at the Opéra Populaire are numbered
(y/n) (l/n) will be singing on your behalf tonight
Be prepared for a great misfortune
Should you attempt to take her place.’

The threat was unmistakable, and the demand was nothing if not clear. The idea of standing on that stage, under the weight of his expectations and the eyes of the audience, was terrifying. I looked up at Madame Giry, trying to find some kind of light amongst this darkness.

 “I presume La Carlotta returned to her position following word of my… desertion?” The older woman’s expression hardened further, and she pressed her lips into a hard line and sighed.

“Read on, child.” Madame Giry watched me closely as I read the second note. This one was addressed to the managers, and it was even more chilling than either of the previous notes combined:

‘Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance.

(y/n)(l/n) has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy and put Miss (l/n) in the role of Countess. The role which Miss (l/n) plays calls for charm and appeal; the role of the pageboy is silent which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five - which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.

I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant

O.G.’

I stared at the note in disbelief. His intrepid threats and commands made me feel like a deep rot was beginning to fester in my core. The Phantom wasn’t just threatening Carlotta—he was dictating the very structure of the upcoming performance. He was determined to push me into the spotlight, regardless of my wishes or fears. The idea of being forced into a role I wasn’t prepared for, under the watchful gaze of the Phantom, filled me with a sense of impending doom. I couldn’t do this.

 “I can’t. He knows I can’t. He knows that-“

Madame Giry placed a firm hand on my shoulder, her touch grounding me amidst the chaos swirling in my mind. “The decision has been taken out of all our hands,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a weight of inevitability. “The managers, in their desire to appease the prima donna, have decided that Carlotta will play the Countess, and you, my dear, will take the role of the pageboy.”

No, that wasn’t the answer either – had everyone forgotten what had happened to Elise simply because he was displeased with the way she had spoken to me? The thought of the managers defying the Phantom’s direct orders made my heart pound with dread. I could feel the bile rising in my throat as the reality of the situation sank in. What would the Phantom do when he learned that his commands had been ignored? I couldn’t shake the feeling of impending disaster, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

As much as the thought of being on stage terrified me, I couldn’t deny the slight relief I felt knowing I wouldn’t have to sing, at least. But the prospect of donning the makeup and costume of the pageboy, playing a part for hundreds of eager eyes, still filled me with unease – and his eyes two in those hundreds I feared the most.

Madame Giry, sensing my panic, squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. “You mustn’t worry,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I know him better than anyone, and I can assure you, he will not take their rebellion out on you. His anger, if it comes, will be directed elsewhere.”

“Not if, Madame,” I murmured, staring straight ahead of me as a daze washed over me. “But when.”

Chapter 11: Il Muto

Summary:

Big content/trigger warning for this chapter. Please skip over it if you need to, and I will write a chapter summary at the bottom.

Il Muto is underway, and Carlotta suddenly develops a strange... quirk? Did the Phantom have something to do with this?

The backstage area hummed with a tense energy, the low murmur of voices and the rustling of costumes creating an almost suffocating atmosphere. I stood to the side of the stage, my heart pounding in my chest as I adjusted the heavy pageboy costume. The makeup felt like a mask of its own, thick and unnatural on my skin, adding to the sensation that I was someone else entirely—a puppet dressed for a show, made to dance at the whims of forces beyond my control.

I swallowed hard, the nausea churning in my stomach threatening to overwhelm me. This was it. Carlotta was about to step onto the stage, a direct defiance of the Phantom’s orders. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on me like a physical burden, making it hard to breathe. My hands shook as I clutched the edge of the curtain, my gaze darting nervously to the figures moving about on the stage. Was he here? In the shadows? Or was he watching from box five?

No, he couldn’t have been watching from box five – the Vicomte had asked the managers to accompany him to watch the performance from there; another devastating blow to his orders.

Carlotta was the very picture of arrogance, strutting around like a peacock with her head held high and a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She moved with an exaggerated grace, making sure every flutter of her hand, every tilt of her head, was seen by all. Her elaborate costume sparkled under the stage lights, a stark contrast to my own somewhat plain garb. But it wasn’t just her presence that grated on my nerves; it was the way she acted, as if I were the cause of all the trouble, the one who had forced her into the tantrum that had shifted the burden of the limelight directly over me, setting the events of the previous night in motion.

Her gaze would occasionally flicker in my direction, and each time, it was filled with barely concealed disdain. She made no effort to hide her contempt, her lips curling as if the very sight of me offended her. To her, I wasn’t just an upstart chorus girl who had somehow found herself in the middle of this chaos—I was the one responsible for it. The one who had written those notes, who had driven her from the stage, who had thrust myself into the limelight during Hannibal. But it wasn’t true. None of it was true. I had never wanted this—never asked for it. The role of the Countess was supposed to be hers; the spotlight, the glory, it all belonged to her; that is how it was meant to be. And yet, standing here in the shadows waiting for my cue, I was being crushed by the weight of circumstances beyond my control. I don’t want this, you foolish, evil woman. It was useless, I knew, trying to reason with even the rational around here, yet alone the likes of Carlotta. Or the Phantom.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but the stress of the situation bore down on me like a tidal wave. How could I possibly go through with this? How could I stand there, knowing that at any moment, the Phantom could… would strike? That his eyes were likely watching, waiting to see what would happen, ready to unleash his wrath the moment things went awry?

But I had no choice. The performance had to go on, and I had to play my part, even if it meant facing the consequences of defying the Phantom. The orchestra began to play the opening notes of the next scene, the sound reverberating through the stage, signalling that the time had come. With one final, trembling breath, I opened my eyes and stepped forward, ready to face whatever awaited me in the spotlight.

The scene unfolded with an air of tension so thick it felt almost tangible, the weight of it pressing down on me as I took my place on stage. The heavy costume felt stifling, and the makeup itched against my skin, but I pushed the discomfort aside, focusing on the role I had to play. Serafimo, the silent pageboy. A role that should have been insignificant, unnoticeable. Yet, under the circumstances, it felt like I was under a spotlight, every move scrutinized by unseen eyes.

Carlotta, as the Countess, was in her element. She preened and strutted, her voice soaring through the theater with practiced ease, every note a calculated display of her supposed superiority. But I could see the undercurrent of fury in her eyes, the way her lips tightened whenever she glanced in my direction. To her, I was nothing more than an obstacle, a nuisance that had somehow upended her perfect world. And so, I played my part. As Serafimo, I exaggerated every expression, every gesture, letting my face convey what my silent lips could not. When Carlotta, as the Countess, sang her lines, I responded with wide-eyed surprise, feigned embarrassment, and exaggerated devotion. Each movement was deliberate, a silent rebuke to the phantom menace that hung over the opera house like a dark cloud.

The confidante and fops exchanged their gossip, their voices dripping with mockery and disdain, setting the stage for the Countess’s grand entrance. Carlotta, relishing her moment, delivered her lines with a flourish, casting a smirk in my direction.

As Carlotta crooned, “Serafimo—your disguise is perfect,” I couldn’t help but relish the irony. Here I was, playing a part in this grand charade, just as Serafimo was pretending to be something he was not. A knock at the door echoed through the stage, and for a split second, I felt a chill run down my spine. The anticipation of what was to come, of what the Phantom might do, made my heart race.

But the performance went on.

Don Attilio entered, the bumbling husband, delivering his lines with a wink and a nudge, playing the fool for the audience’s amusement. Carlotta, meanwhile, was playing the part of the wicked Countess to perfection, her disdain for her character’s husband dripping from every word. I shook my rear in response to Don Attilio’s comments, earning a laugh from the audience. It felt good to hear some laughter throughout these walls.

“Serafimo—away with this pretence!” she commanded, turning to me with a sly smile. I threw my skirts off, revealing my oh-so manly pants. Again, the audience responded cheerfully, and I did a little wiggle to show off my ridiculous garb. “You cannot speak—but kiss me in my husband's absence!”

Despite the fear gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, a strange thing began to happen as the performance progressed. As I exaggerated my expressions, playing the part of the hapless Serafimo with every ounce of melodrama I could muster, I felt a flicker of something unexpected. Amid the anxiety and the looming threat of the Phantom’s wrath, a small, defiant part of me began to enjoy the performance.

It was subtle at first, just a brief moment where the weight of my situation seemed to lift. The heat of the stage lights, the hum of the audience’s anticipation, and the palpable energy of my fellow performers—it all began to weave together into a kind of intoxicating blend that I couldn’t ignore. My nervousness transformed into something else, something more akin to excitement.

As Carlotta sang her lines with her usual flamboyance, I found myself responding with an exaggerated bow, my expression one of over-the-top reverence. The absurdity of Serafimo, a pageboy caught in the tangled web of the Countess’s schemes, made me smile inwardly. My melodramatic gestures and the way I widened my eyes in mock horror or feigned adoration felt almost cathartic. It was as if I could channel all my pent-up fear and frustration into this character, using the absurdity of Serafimo to escape, even if just for a moment.

When the fops and the confidante mocked the Countess, their voices dripping with sarcasm, I turned my face towards the audience, letting my features contort into an excessive mask of shock and dismay. The absurdity of it all—the ridiculousness of these characters and their shallow concerns—allowed me to distance myself from the reality that waited for me offstage. In that moment, I wasn’t (y/n), trembling under the weight of the Phantom’s obsession. I was Serafimo, a silly, silent pageboy caught up in a world of foolish adults. And it was liberating. The parallels between my role and my own situation weren’t lost on me, but for now, they only added to the strange thrill coursing through my veins.

“Poor fool, he makes me laugh!” she sang, her voice sharp and cutting, the sound of her laughter echoing through the theatre.

“Time, I tried to get a better better-half!”

The chorus joined in, their voices rising in a mocking chant that seemed to fill the entire opera house.

“Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hohohohohoho... If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!”

The world outside the stage seemed to fade away. The Phantom’s threats, the fear of his retribution, even the lingering anger at Carlotta’s spite—all of it melted into the background as I lost myself in the performance. For the first time, I felt a strange sense of control, as if by fully inhabiting this character, I could push back against the chaos that had taken over my life.

When the chorus joined in, their voices rising in mocking harmony with Carlotta’s, I threw myself into my role with reckless abandon. Every movement, every exaggerated expression became a way to lose myself, to escape the constant dread that had haunted me since I first encountered the Phantom. In this moment, on this stage, I was free.

For a brief, shining instant, the theatre wasn’t a place of fear and danger. It was a world of make-believe, where I could be anyone, even a foolish, silent pageboy. And in that world, I could forget about the terror lurking in the shadows, if only for a little while.

Of course, the fleeting joy I had begun to savour could not last forever. The laughter and merriment on stage, which for a moment had allowed me to escape the dark reality of my situation, were abruptly shattered by a thunderous voice that cut through the theatre like a knife.

“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?” The words echoed with a menacing authority that left no room for misinterpretation. His rage was palpable, seething with an intensity that could almost be felt as a physical force. The laughter that had once bubbled up from the audience now seemed like a distant memory, replaced by an ominous silence that stretched like a dark shroud over the theatre. The actors on stage froze, their faces masked with confusion and fear. Even Carlotta’s dramatic gestures faltered as the realization of the Phantom’s presence struck like a cold wave. The air grew heavy with a tangible dread, the warmth of the stage lights now feeling stifling.

“He's here: the Phantom of the Opera!” Meg's voice rang out from her role amongst the fops, filled with panic.

The tension that had been simmering throughout the performance finally reached its breaking point, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me as the reality of the situation set in. My heart raced as I glanced nervously towards the direction of Box Five, my earlier bravado dissolving into a cold sweat. The Phantom was here, watching, and we had all defied him.

I pushed away from Carlotta and stood centre stage, as if that might protect my friends – and maybe even Carlotta – from the fury his presence threatened to rain down onto all gathered on the stage.

“It’s him, I know it, it’s him!” I spoke, mostly to myself and the Phantom. I wanted him to know that I had no part in this – even if part of me had been defiantly enjoying playing the page boy. I didn’t want to be punished for the decisions I had no choice in. I was asleep, monsieur, I was not involved, please understand.

A thick, pale hand gripped my arm and pulled me backwards.

“Your part is silent, little toad!” Carlotta hissed into my ear. I doubt anyone else had heard, and yet…

“A toad, madame?” The Phantom's voice cut through the charged silence like a blade, and I could almost see the disdain saturating each word. The fact that he had heard Carlotta’s barely audible threat was both horrifying and astonishing. “Perhaps it is you who are the toad…” he continued, an intimately familiar poison coating his tone. That was not just some trivial retort, no… that was a threat. I turned my gaze towards Carlotta, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and disbelief. Her face, once full of the haughty confidence that had characterized her throughout the performance, was now a mask of strained composure. Her eyes, wide and searching, met mine briefly before she turned abruptly, signalling to the maestro with an urgent, almost frantic motion.

The maestro, his face a picture of confusion and concern, hesitated for a moment before he began to backtrack, his movements jerky and uncertain. The music faltered, then corrected itself, but the atmosphere on stage had irrevocably shifted. The air crackled with an uneasy tension, and the once lively performance now felt like a precarious balancing act, teetering on the edge of disaster.

“Serafimo—away with this… pretence” she sang, her voice wavering as we both realized with dismay that the dramatic skirts meant to accompany the scene were on the ground where I had thrown them not five minutes earlier. Nevertheless, she continued. “You cannot speak,” the emphasis on those words was not lost on me, and I struggled not to roll my eyes at her. “But kiss me in my—”

And Carlotta’s voice cracked.

I stared at her aghast. She held a shaking hand to her throat and looked at me in shock and fear. She made a small whimpering sound and shook her head. We stood, staring at each other in equal bouts of consternation. She attempted to carry on, but her voice took on an almost croaking quality, reminiscent of the very toad she had so contemptuously insulted. The sound was grating and off-key, a stark contrast to the intended grace of her role.

“Poor… fool… he makes me laugh,” she managed, a moment of confidence uplifting her words before that horrific sound occurred again. The noise emerging from Carlotta’s mouth was painful, like a gagging noise stripped of its bile. It was sickening, an auditory assault that seemed to claw at her throat. Her voice, once a powerful instrument of seduction and grandeur, had devolved into a grotesque parody of itself. The transformation was almost surreal, the kind of cruelty only the Phantom could orchestrate. How had he managed to twist her voice into such an abomination?

As Carlotta struggled to regain her composure, her attempts to sing became more desperate, each note warping into a distorted mimicry of its intended sound. The music around us twisted into a dissonant crescendo, amplifying the tension in the air. The audience, once captivated by the spectacle, now murmured in confusion and alarm. And then came the Phantom's wicked laughter, echoing throughout the theatre with a frightening resonance.

"Behold! She's singing to bring down the chandelier!" the Phantom's voice boomed, dripping with malicious delight. His words sent a shiver down my spine, the threat all too real and palpable. The laughter grew louder, more menacing, as if the very walls of the opera house were mocking Carlotta’s downfall.

Piangi, his face etched with panic, burst onto the stage. "No, maestro, no!" he cried out, rushing to Carlotta’s side. She was distraught, her once-commanding presence now reduced to a trembling shell. Piangi, with an arm around her shoulders, ushered her off stage, casting worried glances over his shoulder as if fearing the Phantom’s wrath might follow them.

The curtain promptly closed, with various chorus members and actors rushing into each other in the confusion. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood, like a frightened mouse.

From the dimly lit box five, Firmin leaned out, his face a mask of barely contained fear as he called down to the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize," he began, his voice shaky yet authoritative. "The performance will continue in ten minutes' time... when the role of the Countess will be sung by Miss (y/n)." A small applause broke out amongst the audience, and I managed an extremely brief smile before departing to the side stage.

My heart had long since dropped into my stomach, a heavy, sinking feeling that made it hard to breathe. Of course. The Phantom had to have his way, as always—by force and coercion, bending everyone’s will to his own twisted desires. I wanted to scream, to protest, to run away from the crushing inevitability of what was to come. The knowledge that he had an entire contingency plan on the off chance the managers did not obey… he was so disgustingly organised!

The terror of facing the Phantom’s wrath was overwhelming, but so was the anger—anger at the injustice, at the way he toyed with lives as if they were mere playthings. My pulse pounded in my ears, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of fear and defiance. But beneath it all, a grim resignation took hold. There was no escape from this. I would have to face him, face the audience, and play the role he had chosen for me.

"Ladies and gentlemen!” Andre, looking flustered and desperate, rushed onto the stage. “In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen," he stammered, glancing nervously at the orchestra and then back at the audience, "we shall be giving you the ballet from, uh...” He flicked through the pages of Il Muto’s script, “…Act 3 of tonight's opera! Maestro, bring the ballet forward." He turned back to the audience, clasping his hands together in a futile attempt at reassurance. "Hah, the ballet... NOW!"

The music, almost as if jolted into action by his command, promptly started, the familiar strains of the ballet providing a temporary balm to the chaos that had erupted. Dancers hurried onto the stage, their movements fluid and graceful, but the tension in the air remained, a stark reminder of the disaster that had just unfolded. The maestro, who hated being rushed, managed to salvage the demand quickly.

The stage descended into a flurry of chaotic activity as the ballet dancers hurried on, their flowing costumes swirling around them as they took their positions. The stagehands, caught off guard by the sudden change, scrambled to adjust the backdrop and set pieces, their movements frantic as they struggled to transform the scene into one befitting the ballet from Act 3. The once carefully orchestrated performance had devolved into a desperate attempt to maintain a semblance of order, yet amidst the confusion, the dancers moved with practiced grace, their bodies bending and spinning in a beautiful contrast to the mayhem that surrounded them.

The maestro, his expression a mix of irritation and determination, settled into the correct score, his hands moving with precision as he guided the orchestra through the ballet’s delicate melodies. The music, though slightly strained at first, soon filled the theater with its familiar elegance, offering a brief respite from the unsettling events that had just transpired. The audience, still buzzing with whispers and murmurs, gradually turned their attention to the dancers, their movements captivating enough to momentarily distract from the ominous undercurrent that lingered in the air.

I needed to change, to prepare for the role that had been thrust upon me. Behind me, I heard the hurried footsteps of Madame Giry, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of the situation's gravity.

“Quickly, child,” Madame Giry urged as we reached the dressing room, her hands already moving to unfasten the clasps and buttons of my pageboy costume. Her movements were efficient, yet there was a softness in her touch that spoke of her understanding of my turmoil. “We don’t have much time.”

I nodded, swallowing down the lump in my throat as I allowed her to help me out of the pageboy garb and into something more suitable for the leading role. She froze, and for a moment I feared she had somehow felt the Phantom’s presence in my dressing room before I had. I looked at her in the mirror and saw what she was staring at: a dress, much befitting the look of the Countess was hung up in the same place the previous dress had been. For what felt like the fifth time that night, my jaw dropped in abject horror.

“He’s been here… The Phantom of the Opera…” I breathed. Her mouth pressed into a hard line, and she looked away from the dress and back to me.

“Will you wear it?”

I considered her question for a moment. The dress was undeniably beautiful, a creation of such delicate craftsmanship that it seemed to float even as it hung on the hanger. It was made of a luxurious silk taffeta, smooth and slightly crisp to the touch, with a subtle sheen that caught the light as I moved. The colour was a pale, ethereal blue, so light that it bordered on white, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a snow-covered landscape. The bodice was fitted, with fine detailing of lace and pearls that adorned the neckline, cascading down to meet the cinched waist. The skirt billowed out in layers of the same shimmering fabric, its fullness achieved through layers of petticoats that added volume without weight, making it easy to glide across the stage.

The sleeves were short, puffed at the shoulders with delicate ruffles, and the dress was cinched at the waist with a silk sash that tied into a small, elegant bow at the back. The entire ensemble was a vision of grace and refinement, the kind of dress a noblewoman would wear, capturing the very essence of the Countess I was meant to portray.

Yet, despite its undeniable beauty, I could not help but loathe it with every fibre of my being. The knowledge that this dress, this exquisite creation, had come from the Phantom's hands filled me with a deep-seated revulsion. It was as though the fabric itself carried the weight of his manipulation, the threads woven with his will, binding me to his desires. Every pearl, every inch of lace, seemed to whisper his name, reminding me that this was not just a costume—it was a symbol of his control over my life, my choices, and my very identity.

As I stood there admiring the dress, I could feel the bile rising in my throat. The dress was supposed to make me feel like a Countess, like a woman of power and grace. Instead, it felt like a shroud, begging to be draped over my skin, suffocating any sense of freedom I might have had. The soft rustle of the silk against my skin would be a constant reminder that I was playing a role not of my choosing, trapped in a web of his design.

I could not admire the dress without feeling his presence, his influence wrapped around me as tightly as the bodice itself. The dress was beautiful, yes, but it was also a cage, as delicate and deadly as the man who was trying to place me in it.

“You loathe the dress now you have learnt it came from my hands. Am I so monstrous to you, (y/n), that you spurn even the simple beauties I bestow on you?”

Yes, sir. The simple to the intricate, and everything in-between.

I spoke finally. “No. Find me something else.” I met her eyes in the mirror, seeing the steely resolve there. Madame Giry’s reflection in the mirror flickered with concern as she watched me, her hands resting on the back of a chair. "This is the dress you must wear," she insisted, her voice firm but tinged with urgency. "We have seen how he responds when things do not go his way."

I shook my head, swallowing down the lump in my throat, trying to steady the turmoil roiling within me. "I am not his plaything, Madame," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and defiance. "He cannot simply toy with my life and expect me to bend to his every whim."

Her eyes softened, but there was a hint of desperation behind her calm exterior. "You don’t understand the danger you’re in," she pleaded. "He is not a man to be trifled with. You’ve seen what he’s capable of."

I held her gaze, my resolve hardening. "I refuse to let him dictate my every move. I am not some puppet to be controlled by strings of fear. Find me something else. Anything else. Please, Madame, for all the love you bear me.”

Madame Giry hesitated, her eyes searching mine for any sign of doubt, but when she found none, she finally relented with a heavy sigh. "As you wish," she murmured, the resignation clear in her voice. "But remember, you are treading on dangerous ground, child.” With that, she turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind her. The silence that followed was deafening, leaving me alone with my thoughts, clad only in my undergarments. The sense of vulnerability crept over me, the weight of the situation pressing down harder than before.

As I stood there, the silence of the room began to feel oppressive, almost suffocating. My mind raced with thoughts of the Phantom, of the control he exerted over all of us, and the power he wielded through fear. I could still feel the lingering presence of his influence, like a shadow that refused to be shaken off. I shivered, trying to brush off the feeling, but it clung to me like a second skin.

A faint noise from outside my door broke through my thoughts. It was a soft rustling, the kind that made my pulse quicken with suspicion. My heart thudded in my chest as anger surged through me. If the Phantom thought he could intrude upon my privacy, watching me in my bed; in my sleep; when I am half-clothed; if he thought he could intimidate me into submission by lurking in the shadows, he was sorely mistaken.

Without thinking, driven by a mixture of fear and fury, I rushed to the door and flung it open. "Do you wish to torment me further? Why have you come here?!" I demanded; the words ready to lash out at the figure I expected to find.

But instead of the Phantom, I was met with the startled face of Joseph Buquet, his eyes wide with shock. He stood frozen in the doorway, caught in the act of peering into my room. Horror washed over me as the realization hit—he had been spying on me. My blood ran cold, and a wave of nausea rolled over me as the implications of his presence sank in. "Buquet," I whispered, my voice barely audible, laced with disbelief and disgust. "What are you doing?"

Buquet’s eyes, once wide with shock, quickly narrowed as he realized his predicament. Instead of retreating as I had expected, he took a step forward, closing the distance between us. The sudden shift in his demeanour sent a jolt of fear through me. I instinctively stepped back, but it was too late—his hand shot out, clamping over my mouth, silencing any cry I might have made.

“Not a word, mademoiselle,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. The smell of sweat and something sour clung to him, making my stomach churn. I could feel the roughness of his calloused hand against my lips, his fingers digging into my skin with a brutal force that made me wince.

Panic surged through me, and I struggled against him, my mind a whirl of terror and disbelief. How could this be happening? I tried to push him away, my hands frantically clawing at his arm, but he was stronger than I had imagined, and my efforts only seemed to fuel his determination.

“Thought you could just slam the door in my face, eh?” he muttered, his breath hot against my ear, sending shivers of revulsion down my spine. His grip tightened as he leaned in closer, his body pressing mine against the wall. “You think you're better than the rest of us? Up there on stage, prancing about like some sort of princess?”

My heart hammered in my chest; each beat a drum of pure terror. I could barely think, the weight of his body pinning me down, the sickening realization that no one would hear me if I screamed. The walls of the dressing room, once a haven of preparation, now felt like the confines of a tomb, closing in on me with every passing second.

But beneath the fear, something else stirred—anger, fierce and unyielding. This man had no right to treat me this way, to strip me of my dignity, to impose his will upon me as if I were nothing more than an object for his amusement. The Phantom may have terrified me, but at least his power was distant, intangible, and somewhat predictable. Buquet’s was all too real, a physical threat that left me realising just how small and weak I was.

I bit down hard on his hand, the taste of salt and sweat filling my mouth as I sank my teeth into his flesh. He yelped in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. I stumbled back, gasping for breath, the taste of blood on my tongue as I glared at him with all the defiance I could muster.

“You’re mad,” I spat, my voice trembling with the effort to keep it steady. “You think you can get away with this? You’ll be ruined, Buquet. The managers and Madame Giry, and Raoul! They’ll all see to that! Perhaps even the Phantom himself will come to my aid!”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—fear, perhaps? But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a sneer of contempt. “The Phantom, eh?” he scoffed, though I could see the faint tremor in his hand as he wiped his mouth. “That’s what you’re counting on? A ghost? A figment of your imagination?”

I didn’t respond, too shaken by the encounter to speak. Instead, I took another step back, putting as much distance between us as the small room would allow. My mind raced, searching for a way out, for something—anything—that could save me from this nightmare.

Buquet seemed to sense my desperation, and for a moment, his resolve wavered. “Listen,” he said, his tone softening ever so slightly. “We can keep this between us, eh? No need for any trouble. Just… let me have a taste, and I’ll be on my way.”

The words made my skin crawl, the vile suggestion twisting in my gut like a knife. I stared at him, horrified by the depths of his depravity, and knew then that there was no reasoning with him.

“Never,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. “I’d rather die.”

Buquet’s expression hardened, and he took another step forward, his hand reaching for me once more. I tried to slap, push, fight, scream, but he was on me faster than I ever could’ve imagined a man of his size moving. His arms, thickened by years of hauling heavy props and backdrops, now crushed my throat like it was paper. I sucked in a quick breath, not nearly enough to fill my lungs. I could feel the pressure in my head instantly increase, and the edges of my vision darkened.

“Then die,” he snarled.

Buquet reached a rough hand to grope manically at my breasts through the basic undergarment I wore. My eyes widened, despising the fact this was my first – and likely last – experience with a man. He ripped the cloth separating his disgusting, fat fingers from my bare skin, and growled in excitement. My hands fought desperately, ignoring his wandering hand to focus on removing the more imminent threat around my neck. I could feel what little strength I had in my body fading. My lungs burned with stale air, desperate to replenish their reserves, but Buquet persisted.

Buquet’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into my neck with a relentless pressure. My world shrank to the burning in my lungs and the vile sensation of his hands on my body. I struggled, clawing at his arms, but it was no use—he was too strong, too determined. The darkness at the edges of my vision began to close in, and I knew that I was moments away from losing consciousness. The thought of dying like this, at the hands of this brute, filled me with a mix of despair and rage.

And then, just as I felt myself slipping away, the door burst open with a thunderous crash.

“Buquet! Stop this at once!” Madame Giry’s voice cut through the haze of pain and fear, sharp and commanding. She stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with fury as she took in the scene before her. “Release her, or I swear to God you’ll regret it!”

Buquet hesitated, startled by her sudden appearance. His grip loosened just enough for me to suck in a ragged breath, the rush of air almost painful as it flooded my starving lungs. Gasping, I seized the opportunity to scramble away from him, kicking desperately as I pushed myself up the bed, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

Madame Giry’s presence seemed to shock Buquet out of his predatory daze. He stumbled back, his eyes darting between me and the formidable figure of Madame Giry, who was now advancing on him with an almost terrifying intensity.

“Get out, you filth!” she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. “Before I have every stagehand in this opera house come and drag you out by your worthless hide!”

Buquet faltered, the sudden change in power dynamic leaving him visibly shaken. He threw one last, hateful glare in my direction before he turned and fled the room, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding finality.

I was left trembling, still clutching at my throat as I gasped for air, my heart racing wildly in my chest. The horror of what had just happened hung heavy in the room, the reality of my near escape settling over me like a suffocating blanket.

Madame Giry rushed to my side, her stern expression softening with concern as she knelt beside me. “Are you all right, my dear?” she asked, her voice gentle now, a stark contrast to the steel she had shown moments before. I could only nod, too shaken to speak. The tears I had been holding back finally spilled over, and I sobbed, overwhelmed by the terror and the relief that flooded through me in equal measure.

“You’re safe now,” she whispered, pulling me into a comforting embrace. “I’m here. He won’t hurt you again.”

But even as she held me, I knew that safety was an illusion in this place. The Phantom’s shadow loomed over everything, and now, with Buquet’s assault fresh in my mind, I realized that the dangers of the opera house were not just confined to its spectral master. They were everywhere, lurking in every dark corner, in every person who thought they could take what they wanted without consequence.

Madame Giry pulled back, her eyes searching mine. “We need to get you out of here,” she said, her voice firm. “Before anything else happens.”

I nodded again, still too shaken to form words, and allowed her to help me to my feet. My body ached, my throat raw from Buquet’s assault, but I knew she was right. I couldn’t stay here. Not after this.

As we left the room, the torn fabric of my undergarment clinging to my skin like a reminder of the violation I had just endured, I couldn’t help but think of the Phantom. He was a monster, yes—but in that moment, I couldn’t help but wish that he had been the one to find Buquet instead of Madame Giry. Because if there was one thing I knew for certain, it was that the Phantom would have made him pay dearly for what he had tried to do.

Notes:

Chapter summary:
- Carlotta sings her part in Il Muto
- The Phantom is outraged that it was not (y/n) singing the role.
- He punishes Carlotta, and by extension the managers, for their disobedience.
- (y/n) runs off stage to change into her costume required for the performance. The Phantom has made her a beautiful dress, but she refuses to wear it because he made it.
- Madame Giry leaves to get another dress.
- A noise is heard outside the door and it is Joseph Buquet is revealed.
- A fight ensues between (y/n) and Buquet, in which he gropes at her and chokes her.
- Madame Giry enters and screams at him.
- Buquet leaves.
- (y/n) cannot help but wish the Phantom had been the one rescuing her.
- Madame Giry tells (y/n) she cannot stay in that dressing room any longer.

Chapter 12: The Aftermath

Summary:

Unable to sing, the young soprano does what little she can to find small, fleeting comforts in the night; even if that includes cuddling a mysterious cloak.

Madame Giry led me through a labyrinth of corridors, her pace brisk and determined, as if she were on a mission. My heart still pounded from the terror that had gripped me moments earlier, and I could barely focus on where we were going. Finally, we stopped before a nondescript door tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the opera house. She pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked it with a quick, practiced motion.

“This room is seldom used,” she said softly, her voice steady yet tinged with concern. “Few know of its existence—least of all the stagehands. You’ll be safe here.”

The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a small, musty room. A bed, the only piece of furniture, was pushed up against one wall, its headboard nearly touching the built-in wardrobe that took up most of the opposite wall. Dust hung in the air, catching the faint light that filtered through a tiny, high-set window. The room felt suffocatingly small, the scent of stale air and disuse thick in the atmosphere.

Madame Giry moved quickly, setting a small bundle of clothes and a nightgown on the bed. “These should fit you,” she murmured, her eyes scanning the room as if assessing its suitability for my stay. She then turned to me, her gaze softening as it landed on my throat.

Her face tightened with distress as she saw the dark bruises already forming on my skin. She reached out a gentle hand but hesitated before touching me, her fingertips hovering just above the marks. “Oh, my dear,” she whispered, the pain in her voice unmistakable.

I swallowed, the movement sending a sharp pang through my bruised throat. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her I would be fine, but the words caught in my throat, too painful to force out. Madame Giry straightened, her expression hardening with resolve. “Rest here,” she instructed, her tone brooking no argument. “I will inform the managers that you won’t be able to sing tonight. They’ll understand.”

With that, she turned and left the room. As the door clicked shut, the oppressive silence of the room wrapped around me like a shroud. I stood motionless, staring at the worn wooden floor, my mind reeling. The darkness of the room seemed to press in on me from all sides, amplifying my fear. The small space, meant to be a sanctuary, felt more like a prison, and I was its lone, terrified occupant.

I didn't want to be alone. The very thought of it made my chest tighten with dread. Every creak of the old building, every distant murmur from the opera house, sent a shiver down my spine. I half expected Buquet to burst through the door, his leering face and rough hands ready to finish what he had started. The memory of his attack was too fresh, too raw, and it clung to me like a dark shadow.

I moved to the bed and sat down, my body trembling with exhaustion and fear. The mattress was hard beneath me, offering little comfort, but I didn’t care. I pulled the thin blanket around my shoulders, trying to ward off the chill that had settled into my bones. I was desperate for sleep, for any escape from the horror of the last two days, but every time I closed my eyes, Buquet’s face loomed before me, twisted with malice. I could feel his hands on my throat, crushing the air from my lungs, and I would jolt awake, heart pounding, gasping for breath.

I tried to tell myself I was safe, that Madame Giry would never leave me somewhere I could be found, but the fear was relentless, gnawing away at my resolve. The pain in my throat throbbed in time with my racing heartbeat, and my wrists ached where Buquet had grabbed me. I curled into a tight ball on the bed, clutching the blanket as if it could shield me from the nightmares that stalked my mind.

Time lost all meaning as I lay there, teetering on the edge of sleep, only to be pulled back into waking terror time and time again. The weariness was overwhelming, dragging me down into the depths of exhaustion. Eventually, my body gave in, and I slipped into a fitful sleep, my mind too tired to resist any longer.

I am standing in the opera house, but it is different – warped, twisted, as though I am viewing it through a broken lens. The corridors are impossibly long, stretching out before me like a labyrinth. The flickering light from the torches on the walls cast eerie shadows that make me jump and gasp. I wander aimlessly, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness; lost.

I feel him before I see him – his eyes, watching, waiting.

“Mademoiselle,” his voice echoes around me, disembodied, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It is smooth, seductive, and laced with an undercurrent of something; something dangerous.

I try to answer, but my voice falters. I raise a hand to my throat and wince. I have been rendered mute. Panic surges within me as I realise I am utterly alone with no way to defend myself. Again.

“Do not fear,” the voice coos, closer now, almost a whisper in my ear. “You are mine, and I protect what is mine.”

I spin around, desperate to find him, to see his face, but there is nothing – only the shadows and the oppressive weight of his presence. The walls seem to close in on me and the air is thick with suffocating pressure.

“What did he do to you...?”

The shadows around me deepen, and he is here – his tall figure emerging from the darkness. His mask gleams white in the dim light, a stark contrast to the blackness that surrounds us. His eyes stare down at me, holding me captive with their intensity. His hand slides down to my throat, his fingers brushing over the painful skin. His touch is gentle, almost tender, and his expression warps in disgust. His eyes meet mine and a sob tries to escape my throat. Desperate for an ounce of comfort, I reach for him. His expression flickers, only for a moment, and he moves to envelop me in his arms. As we begin to touch, he speaks:

“I have killed for you once, mademoiselle. I shall gladly do it again.”

I awoke with a start, my breath coming in shallow gasps as the last vestiges of the dream clung to my mind. The opera house warped and twisted, the Phantom’s voice echoing around me—it all faded into the dim light of the small, musty room. My heart pounded in my chest, but it wasn’t the same frantic terror I had felt in the dream. Instead, there was an odd sense of calm, a strange stillness that I couldn’t quite explain.

The sound of the closet door clicking shut pulled me fully into wakefulness. My eyes flicked toward it, but instead of the spike of fear I would have expected, there was only a quiet acceptance. My pulse, though quickened, remained steady, and the familiar panic that usually accompanied thoughts of the Phantom did not rise.

I sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off my shoulders as I tried to make sense of the dream that had felt all too real. The Phantom’s words echoed in my mind and the memory of his touch, his fingers tracing the bruises on my throat with surprising gentleness, lingered long after I had awakened.

But the room around me was silent now, save for the muffled sounds of the opera house far above. The shadows in the corners of the room remained still, and the oppressive weight I had felt in the dream was gone. The closet door stood closed, as it had been before I fell asleep.

I should have been unnerved, perhaps even terrified, by the thought that he could have been here, so close to me while I slept. Yet, I felt none of that. The fear that had consumed me after Buquet's attack seemed muted, replaced by an inexplicable calm. You are just tired; it is the burden of dreams and disturbed sleep that has brought you such hallucinations. I wanted to believe that the click of the closet door had been nothing more than the settling of the old wood, but deep down, I knew better.

Despite everything that had happened, despite all the fear and anger that the Phantom’s manipulations had stirred within me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence, terrifying though it was, had been the only thing standing between me and something far worse.

Still, the strangeness of it all gnawed at the edges of my mind. I glanced again at the closet, half expecting it to swing open, but it remained closed. There was nothing to see, nothing to fear. Just shadows, just silence. I lay back down, curling into the blanket, feeling the ache in my throat and the weariness in my bones.

As I shifted beneath the blanket, trying to settle back into sleep, something felt off. The fabric that draped over me wasn’t the rough, threadbare coverlet I had pulled around myself earlier. It was softer, heavier, with a texture that felt almost luxurious against my skin. My brows furrowed in confusion as I realised the blanket was not the one I had fallen asleep with.

Pushing myself up on one elbow, I ran my fingers over the material. It was black, velvety to the touch, and far too rich to belong in this dusty, forgotten room. The faintest hint of a scent reached me—a strange, intoxicating mix of roses, parchment, and candle wax. The aroma was oddly familiar, stirring something deep within me, something that made my heart quicken in a way that was no longer purely fear.

A cold realization washed over me as I grasped what I was holding. This was not just any blanket. It was the Phantom’s cloak.

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I was paralysed by the implications. He had been here. Not just a figment of my dream, but truly, physically present in this room while I slept. The thought should have sent me spiralling into panic, but instead, it left me in a state of bewildered calm. The cloak was warm, almost comforting, as if it held the lingering heat of the man who had wrapped it around me.

Why had he done this? Was it an act of protection, of care, or was it merely another way to assert his control over me? My fingers clenched the fabric, torn between the urge to cast it away and the need to clutch it closer. The scent enveloped me, rich and heady, bringing with it an undeniable awareness of the Phantom’s presence, his influence, and the way he seemed to seep into every corner of my life.

But more than anything, the cloak served as a reminder of the hold he had over me, a hold that was tightening with every passing moment. And yet, despite the fear and confusion that warred within me, I found myself unable to push it away. The cloak, for all its unsettling implications, was the only thing in this lonely, hidden room that offered any semblance of warmth or safety. I pulled it closer around me, trying to reconcile the strange mix of emotions that swirled in my chest, until exhaustion finally dragged me back into the darkness of sleep.

***

The next morning, I awoke to a dull ache in my throat, the pain a sharp reminder of the events that had unfolded the previous day. I tried to clear my throat, but even the smallest sound was like swallowing glass. My voice, once a source of strength and expression, had been reduced to a mere whisper—if that. The weight of the Phantom’s cloak still lay over me, a heavy, black shroud that I had clung to in the night. Now, in the light of day, it felt more like a chain than a comfort. The door creaked open, and Madame Giry stepped into the room, her expression carefully composed, though her eyes betrayed a hint of concern. She glanced at the cloak wrapped around me, a flicker of surprise washing her expression, but said nothing of it, her focus instead on my bruised throat and the rasping breaths that escaped me.

“Carlotta’s voice has not recovered,” she began quietly, her voice tinged with a mix of relief and worry. “She is unable to sing, and …” She trailed off, looking at me with a pained expression. She did not have to say it, I was painfully aware that mine would not be of use for several weeks now. I had been rendered completely useless, somehow worse off than when I wandered the streets of Paris.

I nodded, wincing at the strain it caused, and pulled the cloak tighter around me, needing its warmth despite the unease it brought.

“Rest,” Madame Giry urged. “You must rest, (y/n). The managers will not be pleased, but there is nothing more that can be done. They will visit soon, but I will be here.”

As if summoned by her words, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway, growing louder until there was a brisk knock at the door. Madame Giry’s expression hardened slightly, and she gave me a reassuring nod before opening the door to admit the managers.

Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André entered the room, their faces a study in contrasts—Firmin, stern and businesslike, while André’s was more sympathetic, though tinged with frustration.

“Miss (l/n),” Firmin began, his tone clipped but not unkind, “we understand that you have been through a most difficult ordeal, but the show must go on. We need to know when you might be able to resume your role.”

I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat, and I could only manage a faint croak. Madame Giry stepped in quickly, her tone brooking no argument. “She cannot speak, let alone sing. Her voice is damaged, perhaps permanently. You must give her time.”

André looked genuinely distressed at this news, while Firmin’s expression darkened. “This is most unfortunate,” he muttered, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. “But we will have to manage, somehow.”

The rest of the conversation between the managers was, unfortunately, a tedious affair. Their voices droned on in a mixture of frustration and practical concerns, the urgency of their earlier visit now subdued by the necessity of their predicament.

Monsieur Firmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression a mask of concentration. “We’ll have to make do with ballet performances for the time being. It’s the only option we have until one or both sopranos are fit to perform.”

Monsieur André nodded in agreement, though his frustration was still evident. “Indeed. Perhaps we can lighten the mood a bit. Madame Giry, would your ballet girls be willing to put on a small performance for the rest of the cast?”

She hesitated a moment, before she gave a thoughtful nod.

Firmin’s face brightened slightly at this suggestion. “Oh! Perhaps we can make it more of an event. We could arrange for some strong wine to be brought in, André?”

André’s eyes lit up at the mention of wine. “Yes, and maybe some fine cheeses as well. It’s been too long since I’ve had a proper selection.”

The prospect of such indulgence seemed to perk up Firmin’s mood considerably, and he nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right. We must make the best of the situation, after all. If we can’t have the full opera, we might as well enjoy the interim with good food and drink.”

They both turned their attention back to me, and despite my own weariness and discomfort, their attempts to lift the mood were evident. Firmin’s gaze softened slightly, and he gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “I do hope you’ll be feeling better soon, (y/n). We’ll try to keep the spirits up while you recover.”

André added, with a touch of optimism, “And in the meantime, perhaps the small performance and the wine will help you rest easier. We’ll have something to look forward to, at least.”

Their efforts to make light of the situation were somewhat successful, if only because their good-natured banter provided a brief distraction from the gravity of the moment. I managed a faint, though genuine, smile at their attempts to make me laugh.

With a final nod of encouragement, Firmin and André took their leave. “Farewell for now,” Firmin said, his voice softening as he headed for the door. “We’ll keep you informed.”

André followed, giving me a reassuring look. “Take care, Miss (l/n). We’ll see what we can do to make things more bearable.”

Madame Giry gave me a small nod and followed the managers out the door. The room seemed to settle back into its quiet, sombre state. Their departure left a lingering sense of relief but also a deeper realization of the challenges that lay ahead.

Sleep pulled at me again, and I gave in to its incessant tug.

***

“(y/n),” a deep voice spoke. Raoul sat beside me on the bed, his hand reaching for mine. “I’m here,” he said softly.

My opened my eyes, slowly at first. I’m dreaming. The handsome Vicomte is in my bed, and I am dreaming. It was a comforting thought, and one that reality quickly corrected. I opened my mouth to speak and frowned when a high-pitched wheeze escaped instead. My eyes flickered to Raoul’s, a panic settling over them as I remembered. Buquet’s hands…

He squeezed my hand and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe with me.”

His words were meant to be comforting, but all I could think of was how I had heard those same words from the Phantom—how those words had come from a man who claimed to protect what was his, a man who had the power to control every aspect of my life. I squeezed Raoul’s hand weakly, grateful for his presence, yet haunted by the shadow that loomed over my thoughts. Raoul seemed to sense the conflict within me, and he gently cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “Just know that I’m here for you. Always.”

I managed a smile at the handsome man, my eyes drifting over his striking features. They lingered on his eyes—his beautiful, soft, blue eyes. Raoul’s gaze was mesmerizing, with a depth and clarity that drew me in. His eyes shifted subtly with the light, from the bright azure of a summer sky to the deeper, more mysterious shades of twilight. They exuded a gentle warmth, framed by long lashes, and conveyed both sincerity and a hint of vulnerability. When he looked at me, it felt as if he was seeing straight into my soul, offering nothing but understanding and compassion. Yet, as I gazed at him, I couldn’t help but notice the echo of the Phantom’s eyes in Raoul’s.

My smile faltered, a shadow crossing my face as my thoughts unwillingly returned to him. Why did my mind always gravitate back to the Phantom?

I sighed, and a look of deep concern washed over Raoul’s face. I wished I could speak my thoughts, to tell him about the shadowy man who follows me from my dreams into my waking life. My feelings for Raoul were, unfortunately, merely glimpses of light amidst the Phantom’s shadow. It wasn’t that I knew him deeply; our moments together had been fleeting, mere glimpses into each other’s lives. But the Phantom, for all his darkness and manipulation, had glimpsed parts of me that no one else had—he had laid bare my fears, insecurities, and vulnerabilities. In contrast, Raoul was a figure from a storybook, an idealized hero come to life. The Phantom's presence was a dark, haunting reality, while Raoul's was a distant, almost too-perfect dream.

I couldn’t deny the appeal of having someone like Raoul around—someone who embodied the romance of a knight in shining armour, a prince who seemed to have come to my rescue. There was something undeniably attractive about his presence, like a beacon of hope and safety amidst the chaos and danger. It was a girlish fantasy, the kind of daydream where the Vicomte swoops in to save the damsel in distress. It was a comforting notion, a brief escape from the suffocating reality of my situation.

Yet, despite the allure of Raoul’s heroism, I couldn’t ignore the shallow nature of my feelings. They were more about the idea of him than the reality. The Phantom’s presence seemed to be deeply woven into the fabric of my existence. Raoul was a pleasant distraction, a symbol of something pure and noble that I yearned for, but he was still a stranger in many ways.

The warmth of his touch, so different from the cold grip of the Phantom, brought a brief sense of peace, though it did little to quell the turmoil inside. I rested my head against his shoulder, closing my eyes as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me once more. My throat throbbed, my wrists ached, and my heart was heavy with grief and burden. But, in this moment, I allowed myself to lean on Raoul, finding solace in the presence of someone who truly cared for me, offering comfort without expectation or self-interest.

But why can’t I have Raoul? Why is it that the idea of him seemed so unreachable, like a beautiful mirage fading into the distance?

It wasn’t that Raoul was unworthy or that he didn’t care—he did. It was the fact that I felt tethered, bound by that masked force that claimed dominion over my life. The man in the shadows - he had said I belonged to him, and for all his cruelty and manipulation, his words had carved a place in my heart. Raoul represented a future I longed for, one of freedom and love, unmarred by the darkness that the Phantom brought. But as long as the Phantom’s shadow loomed large, that future felt like a distant dream. It wasn’t just a matter of choice; it was a matter of being ensnared in a web spun by the very man who had already claimed me as his own. 

Unwilling to continue my internal conflict, I relaxed further into Raoul’s shoulder and pulled the Phantom’s cloak over me, allowing myself to find sleep again.

Notes:

I'm sorry this is a bit of a filler/transition chapter. I need to set up the next chapters somehow!

Chapter 13: Magical Lasso II

Summary:

CW: graphic descriptions of death
(y/n) finally comes out of 'hiding' and is enjoying an afternoon matinee.. until...

The days had passed in a blur, each one blending into the next with the quiet monotony of care and recovery. Madame Giry, Raoul, and Meg rotated in and out of the small, dusty room, offering me comfort, sustenance, and moments of brief distraction. My voice had begun to return, though hoarse and raspy, slowly regaining a semblance of normalcy. After each warm cup of tea they brought me, I could feel my throat relaxing, easing some of the pain, though the faint bruises still lingered like shadows of that terrible night.

Meg, sweet and attentive, had brought a small hand mirror from my old dressing room one afternoon, holding it up for me to see the marks still visible on my neck. The sight sent a shiver through me. My personal effects had been returned to me, though notably absent were the Phantom’s gifts—his mysterious veil seemed to extend even into these small tokens. However, Raoul had managed to retrieve his note, and the necklace my father had once passed to my mother. That necklace had been a lifeline in the past few days, its familiar weight a reminder of who I was before all this.

Yet, I had not dared to leave my room. Fear held me captive—fear of running into Buquet, of encountering Elise's ghost - or even the other manifestations of ghosts the Opera Garnier had to offer. Though I hadn’t seen him in the waking hours, I knew the Phantom had been visiting. I would wake to the unmistakable scent of roses, parchment, and candle wax—his scent—lingering in the air. The soft click of the closet door closing would rouse me from sleep on some nights, the only sign of his silent presence. It wasn’t every night, but on the evenings where he didn’t visit, my sleep was dreamless. Comforting, but also… strangely lonely.

I had tried, on more than one occasion, to explore the back of the closet, to understand how he might be slipping in and out. But every time, it was just as it appeared: a solid wooden backing, nothing more. I could find no hidden door or passage, but I knew he had been there, and it was unlike him to move throughout the Opera House through normal means.

Raoul had been so kind, his visits frequent and full of warmth. He brought me news of the outside world, telling me how Madame Giry’s ballet girls had been rehearsing for a special matinee performance, reserved for the non-dancing members of the cast. It seemed to be a small effort to lift spirits amidst all the chaos, a temporary balm over the wounds the Opera House had suffered. As Raoul recounted these small moments of joy, I found myself smiling, though it felt fleeting. His words were a bright thread in the dark tapestry of my thoughts, a reminder that there was still light, still a chance at happiness.

It had been a week since Buquet’s attack, and the Opera House had been whispering with rumours of his sudden disappearance. Madame Giry and the managers had come to my room just two days ago to inform me of his absence, their voices a mix of relief and suspicion. Madame Giry, her eyes sharp with distaste, had commented that he had likely crawled back into whatever hole he had come from. Her words brought me little comfort, though I tried to believe them. The fear he’d instilled in me still lingered, a shadow that crept at the corners of my mind. Some nights, I woke screaming into the dark, convinced I had felt his hands around my throat and on my body again.

This morning, however, was different. I awoke to the gentle patter of rain against the window, the sound soothing and rhythmic, washing away the tension that had built up over the last few days. I lay there for a while, listening to the soft smattering, letting it lull me into a calm I had not felt in some time. The rain was a quiet comfort, a sign that life continued beyond the walls of this room, beyond the nightmares I had endured.

I reached for the red scarf Raoul had bought me just days ago, its soft fabric a welcome contrast to the harsh reality it was meant to conceal. The bruises on my throat were still visible, faint but stubborn, a reminder of the violence that had nearly taken my voice, and perhaps my life. I wrapped the scarf carefully around my neck, tucking it in place with a quiet resolve. Today was the day of the matinee performance, and I was determined to face the rest of the cast. I would not let fear keep me hidden away any longer.

As I prepared myself to leave the small room that had become my refuge, I glanced at the hand mirror Meg had left for me on the vanity. My reflection stared back, pale but composed, my throat carefully hidden beneath the rich red fabric. As I set the mirror back down, my eyes caught something that hadn’t been there the night before—a note, placed delicately next to the candle on my bedside table.

I felt my breath hitch in my throat. The note was small, its edges slightly curled from the moisture in the air, and the elegant handwriting on its surface was unmistakable. The Phantom.

I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the note. I didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to invite his presence back into my mind when I had fought so hard to find peace. Yet, I couldn’t resist the pull. My fingers grazed the paper, and I carefully unfolded it, my heart beating faster with every second.

The words within were short, but they carried the weight of his influence:

‘You are never far from me, mademoiselle. I shall be watching over you tonight. Do not forget - you are mine, and there are consequences to those who do not remember such things.’

The familiar scent of roses and wax lingered on the paper, the essence of him clinging to the note like a haunting memory. I felt a shiver run down my spine, the rain outside suddenly colder, sharper. I didn’t like that he had placed me at the forefront of this note – I am never far from him, as opposed to him never being far from me. I was not the one with the obsession; this note made it seem as such.

Consequences. Yes, I had seen the product of those consequences – Elise had paid the ultimate price for disrespecting and humiliating me. I couldn’t help but wonder if Buquet was about to meet a similar fate. The Phantom, it seemed, would not let me forget who truly held control over my life, not even on a day that should have brought joy and distraction. The scarf around my neck felt tighter, the air heavier. But I would face him, just as I would face the rest of the Opera House today. Perhaps I could even thank him for his generous gifts.

As I tucked the note into the folds of my red scarf, trying to keep the Phantom’s words from lingering too long in my mind, a soft knock sounded on the door. Madame Giry stood waiting, her ever-watchful eyes scanning me as if she could sense the weight of my thoughts.

"It is time," she said gently, her voice a balm against the tension in my chest. I nodded, stepping out into the dimly lit corridor. I pulled the scarf a little tighter around my throat, the vibrant red a stark contrast against the muted tones of the opera house walls. Madame Giry led the way, her footsteps soft but purposeful as we wound through the labyrinth of corridors. The familiar hum of voices from the common room grew louder, and with it, a sense of normalcy—however fragile it might be—began to settle in my chest.

We entered the room, the warmth and chatter of the cast members immediately filling the air. I was greeted with smiles, pats on the shoulder, and kind words. For a moment, the burden of the past week seemed to lift, if only slightly. I made my way to a small table where plates of food had been set out. Madame Giry lingered close, ensuring I found my footing, but giving me enough space to breathe.

The smell of warm bread and cheese filled the air, and I took a seat among the familiar faces of the cast. They chatted about the upcoming performance, light-heartedly discussing last-minute jitters and costume mishaps. I even found myself laughing, a real laugh, at one of the younger ballet dancers who told a story about slipping during a rehearsal and falling into the orchestra pit. It was almost enough to make me forget the note that burned like a brand beneath my scarf.

But as the door to the common room creaked open, my laughter died on my lips. Carlotta and Piangi entered the room, their grand presence filling the space. Carlotta, as always, commanded attention with her dramatic flair, her head held high as if she had just performed a grand aria. Piangi trailed behind her, his bulk more muted but no less commanding. She swept her gaze across the room, her eyes briefly landing on me before dismissing me entirely.

Carlotta’s voice rang out as she launched into a monologue about her still-recovering voice. “It is a tragedy!” she declared, placing a dramatic hand to her chest. “The finest voice in all of Paris, brought low by some ridiculous ailment.” Her eyes flickered toward Madame Giry, narrowing slightly, as if she suspected her of plotting against her voice. Piangi nodded solemnly at her side, adding in his own words of sympathy, though it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere—likely on the upcoming performance and the lavish dinner that would follow.

I turned my attention back to the others, grateful that the interaction with Carlotta had been nothing more than a glance. The weight of the note in my scarf had already stirred enough fear in me, and I did not wish to engage with the diva’s antics today.

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Raoul’s comforting voice called beside me. I turned to him and smiled, widely. “The finest voice in all of Paris has been momentarily silenced.”

“Vicomte,” I spoke as he took his seat beside me, his presence like a calming consolation amidst the agitation that clung to my bones. “You are too kind.”

He waved a hand, dismissing my comment, before reaching forward and feeling the fabric of the scarf.  “I am pleased you like the gift, (y/n), but I am saddened by the circumstances that imposed this on you.” He took my hand in his, as he had done many a-time over the last week when he let me fall asleep on his shoulder. I smile, slightly sadly, but felt a small blush creeping up my throat, threatening to match the glow of my scarf. He turned to me, his blue eyes full of concern. "I was hoping I might accompany you to the performance," he said, his voice warm and genuine. "I’ve ensured we have seats in the front row. I thought it might be nice to have a familiar face by your side."

After the events of the past week, I found solace in Raoul’s presence. With Madame Giry leading the dancers and Meg performing, Raoul would be my only protector for the night. Trust did not come easily now, but Raoul was one of the few whose intentions I believed were pure.

"Thank you," I said, my voice still hoarse but grateful. I stood and adjusted the red scarf, ensuring it covered the marks on my throat. Raoul offered me his arm, and together we made our way toward the theatre. I felt far underdressed next to the handsome Vicomte, but he did not seem to mind. We strolled into the doors of the auditorium, and I tensed only for a moment. There is no Elise on the beam. There is no Buquet to tell ghost stories. There is no reason for the Phantom to become irate at this performance.

But he would be here. He had said so himself. The note burned my skin as Raoul and I continued walking to the front row. I longed to reach into my scarf and show him; to ask for his protection and shelter. But a hesitation left me incapable of doing anything but following the Vicomte’s lead.

‘Do not forget - you are mine, and there are consequences to those who do not remember such things.’

Perhaps the Phantom was not remarking on Buquet, but Raoul. Was Raoul going to suffering… consequences as a result of being by my side and accompanying me now? The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and of course, that familiar sensation of being watched, returned. I felt somewhat comforted by the fact Raoul was beside me, and Madame Giry and Meg not far. Surely nothing would come of this simple performance meant to raise the dampened spirits of the cast. The Phantom was just letting you know he would be there, watching, to make you feel safe.

Safe. A distorted, corrupt version of it, at least.

The managers, Firmin and André, were already seated near the front as we arrived. They waved us over, their earlier businesslike demeanour replaced with something lighter, more jovial, as if tonight’s performance might be a reprieve from the mounting tensions in the opera house.

“Ah, Vicomte!” André called out. “Miss (y/n), we saved you both the best seats!” He gestured to the two plush chairs beside them. Firmin nodded in agreement, though his eyes still carried the weight of the opera’s ongoing troubles. I couldn’t help but wonder how much they knew, how much they chose to ignore, about the man lurking in the shadows—always watching. Firmin’s moustache seemed to defy gravity the way it curled around his lip. He had clearly already had his fair share of cheese and wine, evidenced by the two empty bottles that sat between him and Andre. Andre, refined as always, stood straight and tall, and was nibbling on a piece of brie with a dried piece of bread.

Raoul led me to our seats, and I tried to suppress the unease that had settled in my chest. The familiar scent of the Phantom’s cloak still clung to me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that, even now, I was being watched. But I pushed the thought aside and focused on the stage. Tonight was Meg’s performance, and I would be there to support her.

As the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, the first strains of music filled the air. The dancers floated onto the stage, the performance expertly crafted by Madame Giry. Meg, in the centre, moved with a fluidity that was enchanting, her movements light and airy as though she floated above the ground. The audience of cast members fell into a hush, their attention fixed on the beauty of the performance.

I stole a glance at Raoul beside me. His eyes were focused on the stage, but there was an easy smile on his lips, one that spoke of pride for the dancers, and perhaps relief that the night was unfolding without any unforeseen calamities. I wished I could feel the same sense of peace, but the weight of the note, the Phantom’s words, still lingered in my mind.

‘Do not forget - you are mine…’

I shifted slightly in my seat, trying to ignore the invisible tether I felt pulling me back into the shadows. The feeling, which I had come to understand was likely his gaze, was like an itch that desperately yearned to be scratched. However, determined not to let any of the Opera House’s ghosts interrupt this performance, I pursed my lips and kept my eyes transfixed on stage.

As the ballet continued, the grace and beauty of the performance lulled me into a brief moment of peace. I clutched Raoul’s arm a little tighter, reminding myself that I was not alone, even if it felt that way.

The dancers continued to glide across the stage, their movements elegant and fluid, drawing the audience deeper into the world of the performance. Meg was mesmerizing, her every leap and turn precise, her expression serene. I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride watching her, even as my own heart remained heavy.

Raoul leaned toward me; his voice soft so as not to disturb the others. "She’s remarkable, isn’t she?" he said, his eyes still fixed on the stage.

"She is," I whispered, managing a small smile, though my thoughts were elsewhere. The Phantom’s words echoed in my mind, a dark cloud overshadowing the beauty of the moment. I had tried to shake the feeling of being watched, but it lingered, a presence I couldn’t escape. Every shadow seemed to pulse with his unseen gaze, his possessiveness wrapping around me like a shroud.

The performance unfolded gracefully, but the weight of anticipation pressed down on me. I glanced toward the managers, Firmin and André, who sat nearby. Firmin’s usually stern face had softened, and even André looked more relaxed, both seemingly enjoying the ballet. They whispered occasionally, but their attention stayed on the stage, unaware of the turmoil swirling in my mind.

As the dancers twirled and the music swelled, I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see a familiar white mask lurking in the shadows. The memory of the note haunted me, a reminder that I was never truly free. Even in moments like this, with Raoul beside me and the warmth of the theatre around me, the Phantom’s words clung to me like a second skin. I hardly even noticed when the managers left their seats and began to make their way out of the theatre.

I was beginning to grow weary, all strength I had still being devoted to staying vigilant for any possible threats. The music was modest but pleasant, and the soft thudding of the dancer’s feet was soothing. I tucked my legs up onto the chair and let my skirts fall over them. It was unladylike, but I doubted anyone would mind, least of all Raoul, who had seen me at my absolute lowest and still held my hand. I looked up at him and he smiled at me, so warmly. I closed my eyes. It was so pleasant to not feel afraid for a moment, and in a soft, warm kind of way. The Phantom’s presence was always cold and unpredictable – I like a malevolent kindred spirit that I could note scape from. But Raoul… he did not make me feel like that, to put it simply. The music slowed, a natural end to the performance. I opened my eyes and clapped, along with everyone else. The dancers bowed and curtsied and hurried off stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Opera Populaire, we kindly thank you for joining us tonight for this little performance. Madame Giry, you and your dancers have done splendid work here. I think I speak for us all when I say our spirits have been thoroughly lifted,” Andre called as he stood centre-stage. Firmin, who stood beside him, was not half as eloquent.

“Yes, I agree, Andre. The uh… unfortunate circumstances that led to this performance were… unfortunate,” the moustached man spoke, slurring his words ever so slightly. “However! They have presented us with an opportunity to admire these pulchritudinous dancers!” He emphasised all the wrong parts of ‘pulchritudinous,’ and Andre shifted, slightly irritated. Raoul laughed beside me, and I managed a small smile despite how heavy my eyelids felt.

The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around me like a soft, comforting blanket. Laughter and chatter filled the air, the clinking of glasses and silverware creating a pleasant backdrop to the merriment. Candlelight flickered from the ornate chandeliers above, casting a golden glow over the faces of my companions. It felt like a moment plucked from a happier time, one untouched by fear or uncertainty.

Andre’s grin was infectious as he raised his glass, his eyes twinkling with the lightheartedness of the celebration. The people around him mirrored his enthusiasm, their faces lit up with genuine smiles. Even Firmin, who had clearly indulged in a bit too much wine, was buoyed by the camaraderie, swaying ever so slightly as he offered his own toast. His words were heartfelt, touching on my strength, my resilience, and the unspoken bond that had grown between us all.

“A toast,” Andre called, raising his wine glass high. “To the health and good fortune of our two leading sopranos!”

Raoul’s hand gently rubbed my arm, a subtle yet comforting gesture that made me feel grounded, safe. His smile was soft, reassuring—like the sun breaking through after a long, stormy night. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the troubles that had weighed on my heart had faded into the background. There was laughter, warmth, and the kind of easy joy that had been missing for too long.

Firmin raised his glass and staggered ever so slightly. “A toast! To the resilience of our dear friend, (y/n), who has faced more than any of us could bear. May those who have wronged her get what they deserve and find themselves confronted by their own shadows.”

The people around me clinked their glasses together, their faces bright with optimism. There were smiles exchanged, nods of approval, and whispers of encouragement. Even Madame Giry, normally so reserved, had a faint smile on her lips, a rare softness in her eyes. The room was filled with the sound of voices rising in agreement, the cheerful murmur of a group bound by a shared experience. It was a scene of normalcy, of friendship and shared relief.

I found myself smiling too, allowing the lightness of the moment to settle into my bones. For just a brief instant, it felt like everything was as it should be—no looming shadows, no threats hanging overhead. Just the warmth of good company, the clinking of glasses, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, the worst was behind us.

But the lightness was fleeting, like a candle snuffed out by an unseen hand.

The room's warmth chilled in an instant as the clinking of glasses gave way to a sickening thud that seemed to reverberate through the very walls. It was a sound so stark, so brutal, that it made my heart leap violently in my chest. Conversation halted mid-sentence, the once-cheerful hum now replaced by gasps and screams. For a terrible, fleeting moment, I thought it was Elise. Her memory, never far from my mind, surged forward with cruel clarity. I could almost see her again, hanging in the shadows, her face etched with the anguish of her final moments. Raoul's hand, which had been a comforting presence on my shoulder moments before, now clenched with a fear that mirrored my own. His grip tightened, painfully, as though anchoring me to the moment and to the horrific reality that was unfolding before us; forcing me to realise this was no apparition, no conjuring of my own guilt and fear. With my breath lodged in my throat, I forced my eyes upwards. My mind struggled to process what I was seeing.

A body, falling from the beam that overhung the stage.

It wasn’t Elise—it was Joseph Buquet. His body hung suspended from the beam, the rope around his neck taut, his limbs thrashing wildly in an agonizing dance of death. Worse still the fall, though significant, had not been enough to cause a fatal injury. Instead of a clean break, Buquet was left writhing in the air high above the stage, his legs kicking wildly as he clawed at the rope around his throat. His eyes bulged with terror, and his hands clawed desperately at the noose, his nails scratching at his own skin in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure.

The sound of his strangled gasps for air filled the room, mingling with the screams of the cast and crew as they scrambled in all directions, their panic amplifying the terror that had gripped the opera house. Madame Giry was the first to act, rushing beneath Buquet’s writhing form, her face as pale as death itself as she shouted for the stagehands to do something—anything. But even as they fumbled to find a way to cut him down, I knew it was already too late.

Raoul leapt to his feet, barking orders as he moved to assist the others. His voice was steady, authoritative, but the horror etched across his features betrayed the fear he felt. His actions were swift, driven by instinct, yet I remained frozen in my seat, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to move.

Buquet’s struggle was grotesque, almost animalistic in its desperation. His legs kicked out in a frantic rhythm, his boots scraping against the air as if they might somehow find solid ground. His hands, now bloodied from his own nails, continued to tear at the rope with diminishing strength. His skin, once flushed with panic, began to take on a ghastly shade of blue as his oxygen-starved body betrayed him.

I sat, fixed to my chair, unable to look away. A sickening delight twisted within me as I watched his face slowly turn blue, his movements growing more sluggish. There was something profoundly disturbing yet oddly satisfying about witnessing his struggle wane. I knew, deep down, that there would be no saving him now, and a dark, quiet sense of relief washed over me.

As his struggles finally ceased and he went limp, his eyes, glazed and empty, locked onto mine. Alone in the row of seats, a whisper escaped my lips, barely more than a breath:

“It must have been a ghost.”

Notes:

Sorry, bit of a shorter one!

Chapter 14: A Gift Most Deserved

Summary:

(y/n) has two extremely difficult conversations with her light, Raoul, and her darkness, the Phantom.

Madame Giry wasted no time. As the stage dissolved into chaos, she made her way off stage towards me, her face grim and her steps urgent. Without a word, she motioned for Raoul and me to follow her, her sharp eyes cutting through the panic as though it were nothing more than a bothersome mist. She didn’t need to speak; the look in her eyes said everything. We were both thinking the same thing. Raoul, still in shock, grasped my arm tighter than before, his face pale and drawn as Madame Giry led us through the labyrinthine corridors, back to the room I had been staying in. The air between us felt heavy, laden with the unspoken terror that the Opera House had once again been claimed by death.

As soon as the door closed behind us, Raoul’s carefully composed facade began to crack. His eyes, filled with desperation, searched mine. “This place—” His voice wavered slightly before regaining its usual firm tone. “This place is no longer safe for you. You must see that.” He took a step closer, his hand moving from my arm to cradle my face gently. “You can’t stay here, (y/n). I can’t allow it.”

My breath caught in my throat, my heart clenching at his words. “Raoul... I can’t just leave.” My voice, still weak and hoarse from my recovery, barely rose above a whisper, but the conviction in it was clear.

Raoul’s face darkened. "How can you not be scared for your life?" His voice rose, shaking with frustration. "Have you forgotten Elise? This… this man, or whatever it is, doesn’t care who it kills. You could be next! You should be next, if only because you’re tied up in whatever madness haunts this place!" His hands dropped from my face as he began to pace, his fear tangling with his words. "We can see now that it isn’t beyond killing women." His gaze met mine, a silent plea behind his anger. “How can you not be terrified?”

His words struck me, and I felt a tremor of fear rising in my chest. But still, I shook my head. “I... I can’t leave,” I repeated, the desperation in my voice now matching his. “I must stay. I must sing, Raoul. It’s my dream. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Tears welled in my eyes, my throat tightening as I fought to make him understand.

Raoul stared at me, incredulous. "Your dream?" His voice was barely controlled, a mixture of disbelief and pain. "How can you speak of dreams when your life is at stake? What good will it do if you’re dead before you can even fulfill them?" He stepped closer again, his voice softening but no less intense. "Please, (y/n), you must leave with me. We’ll go far away, somewhere safe where this... nightmare can’t touch you."

I recoiled at the thought, my heart racing, the fear mingling with something else. Something I hadn’t wanted to admit, not to him, and not even to myself. Raoul pushed for an answer, his gaze piercing, and I couldn’t avoid it any longer.

Trembling, I looked into his eyes, my voice barely more than a whisper, but carrying a weight of certainty. "He would never harm me, Raoul. Everything he has done… he has done to protect me."

Raoul froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Protect you? Him? You speak as if you know this man’s face! What foolishness are you speaking of?” He growled, turning away from me. “This place – it has driven men to madness and murder!” His voice shook with emotion. “How can you believe that?”

I swallowed, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Because it’s the truth. He would never hurt me. This… all of it—” I gestured vaguely, my hands trembling. “It’s to keep me safe.”

Raoul's eyes narrowed, disbelief hardening his features as he took a step back, shaking his head slowly. "You speak of him as if he were some guardian, but he’s nothing more than a madman—a madman who terrorizes this place! And you—" He paused, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You’re not safe here, don’t you see that? There’s no Opera Ghost, (y/n). He’s not some spectre. He’s just a man—perhaps an escaped lunatic from Charenton." His voice took on a bitter edge as he referenced the notorious asylum just outside Paris, south of the Bois de Vincennes.

I flinched at his words, my heart racing as I tried to make him understand. "No, Raoul, you don’t understand. He’s not just a man—he’s the Angel of Music. He… he was sent to me. To guide me, to protect me. You don’t know him like I do." My voice shook with the intensity of my conviction, but the more I spoke, the more Raoul’s expression contorted with disbelief.

"An angel?" Raoul scoffed, his tone bordering on contempt as he took another step back, his hands raised in disbelief. "You’re speaking madness, (y/n)! He’s no angel—he’s dangerous. And you… you sound like—" He stopped short, his voice trailing off as though he realized the weight of what he was about to say. But the damage was already done. I could see it in his eyes, the doubt—the way he looked at me now, as if I were the one who had lost my senses.

He inhaled sharply and then spoke the words that cut deeper than I thought possible. “Maybe you belong in Charenton.”

His words felt like a slap, the sting of them rippling through me, stealing the breath from my lungs. Tears welled in my eyes, and I recoiled, taking a step back from him. My voice was barely audible as I choked out, “How could you say that?”

Raoul’s face softened instantly, guilt flooding his expression as he reached for me, his hands trembling with regret. “No, no, (y/n)—I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I just—” He stopped, swallowing hard as his hands hovered helplessly near my shoulders. “I just want to protect you. I can’t bear the thought of you being hurt, or worse… I just—”

“Leave me,” I whispered, stepping further out of his reach. My heart ached, but it was too much. The fear, the doubt in his voice, the disbelief—it all weighed on me like a leaden cloak, suffocating me.

Raoul froze, his hands falling to his sides, his face etched with sorrow. “Please, (y/n)—I’m only trying to help.”

“Just leave me be,” I repeated, my voice cracking as I turned away from him, my arms wrapping around myself in an attempt to steady the storm inside me.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, I heard his footsteps retreating, the door closing softly behind him as he left me to the quiet, and to the shadows that now felt closer than ever. My chest tightened, the lingering weight of Raoul’s words pressing down on me. Maybe you belong in Charenton. I could still hear his voice, the disbelief, the fear—for me, for the Opera House, for everything he didn’t understand. It was a thought I had had myself when I first heard the Phantom’s voice in my head, in what now felt like a lifetime ago.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Raoul didn’t believe in the Opera Ghost. He couldn’t. To him, it was nothing more than a terrifying story, a man driven mad by the darkness of the theatre—a ghost of flesh and bone, dangerous and unstable. And maybe, just maybe, he was right. The Phantom—my Phantom—was more than that. He had protected me, guided me. The Angel of Music wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, wasn’t some deranged figure to be feared. He had whispered to me from the shadows, offering a path forward, offering safety. He wouldn’t harm me. He couldn’t.

I touched my throat gently, the red scarf that Raoul had given me barely concealing the lingering bruises, a haunting reminder of Buquet's attack and the horror that had unfolded just hours ago. My mind flickered back to the moment—the way Buquet’s lifeless eyes had locked onto mine, the way his body had gone limp in the air, swaying like a grotesque marionette. A part of me had felt relief. The Phantom had saved me, hadn’t he? Protected me again, and to one far more deserving than Elise.

A soft knock came at the door, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up, expecting to see Raoul again, hoping maybe he had come to apologise, to make sense of everything. But instead, Madame Giry stepped into the room, her face pale and drawn.

"Child," she whispered, her voice low and urgent. "We don’t have much time."

I stood, still shaken from the confrontation with Raoul. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Madame Giry glanced around the room before stepping closer, her dark eyes locking onto mine. “You know as well as I do who is responsible for what happened tonight. Joseph Buquet was warned. He did not heed the warning, and now he’s paid the price.”

My stomach twisted. "The Phantom…"

She nodded solemnly. “You must understand, he will go to great lengths to protect you. But others—” she hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “they may not be so fortunate.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. The thought of anyone else being hurt, or worse, because of me—it made me feel sick. And yet, there was a part of me that still felt that same sickening relief. Buquet had wronged me. The Phantom had righted that wrong. But at what cost? Raoul’s words echoed in my mind again, his desperate plea to take me away from the Opera House, to leave this place of nightmares behind. Could I really do that? Could I leave behind my dream, my voice, the very music that had once called to me like a siren’s song?

Madame Giry watched me carefully, her gaze unreadable. “You know what he is capable of. And you know what this means. You are safe with him—for now. But you must tread carefully. There are those who will try to take you from him.”

Her words sent a shiver down my spine. "Raoul…"

Madame Giry’s expression softened, just for a moment. “He cares for you. But his concern will only bring him deeper into danger. The Phantom will not let anyone stand in his way—not even the Vicomte.”

I felt tears welling in my eyes again. Everything was spiralling out of control. Raoul wanted to protect me, to take me away from this place, but I couldn’t leave. My voice, my music—it was everything to me. And the Phantom... he was a part of that, whether I wanted him to be or not. She turned her head to glance back out the door and shifted uncomfortably.

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked, my voice trembling. Madame Giry quickly crossed the room to place a hand on my arm, her grip firm. “You must decide where your loyalties lie. But be careful, child. Once you’ve made your choice, there may be no turning back.”

A memory stirred:

“I don’t want your gift,” I had said. “I don’t want anything from you!”

 “It’s too late for that,” he had whispered, his voice almost tender, yet still steeped in the madness that consumed him. “We’re past the point of no return.”

I stared at her, the weight of her words and the recounting of my conversation with The Phantom pressing down on me. There was no easy answer, no clear path forward. I was caught between two worlds—the life I so desperately wanted with Raoul, and the dark, intoxicating allure of the Phantom’s shadow.

The sound of shuffling footsteps and Madame Giry cast her head back towards the door. “Rest now. You’ll need your strength for what’s to come.”

With that, she quickly left the room, the door closing with a slight bang behind her, leaving me alone once again. The shadows seemed to grow darker, the silence heavier, as I sat back down on the bed, my thoughts swirling like the storm outside.

The afternoon ended the same way it had started—soft rain pattering endlessly against the small window, casting a faint, rhythmic lull over the room. I stood by the window for a moment, watching the droplets race each other down the glass, feeling the quiet tension in my chest refuse to release. I touched the red scarf Raoul had given me, still wrapped gently around my neck. The fabric was soft and warm, comforting in its own way—a symbol of his affection, of his desire to keep me safe from the horrors of this place. But it also was beginning to feel similar to the Phantom’s tether; something pulling me back to a life of normalcy I wasn’t sure I could return to.

With a sigh, I moved to the small bed, the shadows deepening as the sky grew darker. The Phantom’s cloak lay across the sheets, its presence an undeniable reminder of the man who had claimed me as his muse, as his own. I pulled the cloak around me, the heavy, dark fabric enveloping me like a shroud, its scent still faintly lingering—earthy, mysterious, tinged with the faintest trace of something unplaceable. It was an odd comfort, this cloak, as if its weight somehow held all the conflicting emotions swirling inside me.

I lay down, pulling both the scarf and the cloak tighter around me, cocooned in the symbols of two very different worlds. Raoul’s warmth against my skin and the Phantom’s darkness draped over me. Two protectors, two men who, in their own ways, had carved their places into my life. One offering safety, domestication, a future away from the chaos—and the other offering something deeper, more dangerous, yet irresistibly tied to the music that stirred within me.

As the rain continued to tap lightly on the window, I felt myself sinking into the bed, exhaustion finally catching up with me. My mind wandered back to Buquet’s lifeless form swaying in the air, to the terror in Raoul’s eyes as he tried to pull me from the Opera House, to the soft yet ever-present whispers of the Phantom, his voice threading through my dreams even now.

Yes, the Phantom had protected me, had done things no one else would dare to. And yet, the weight of his presence, yet alone his protection, was suffocating; his shadow creeping into every corner of my life. And yet, it was also the very thing that had allowed me to sing, to pursue my dream. His presence was a curse and a blessing, a shackle and a lifeline. How long could this last before it consumed everything I held dear? How long could I exist in this liminal space, caught between Raoul’s light and the Phantom’s darkness?

I didn’t know the answers. All I knew was that, as I drifted into sleep, both men held parts of me—and neither would let go easily.

The rain outside became a soothing lullaby, and as my eyelids grew heavier, I wondered if the storm inside me would ever find peace. For now, there was only the sound of the rain, the warmth of the scarf, and the weight of the Phantom’s cloak pulling me into the darkness of sleep.

***

I awoke suddenly, my breath catching in my throat, the room thick with the sensation of being watched. It clung to me, like a fog that refused to lift. I lay still, the weight of it pressing down on my chest, my pulse quickening as the silence became suffocating. The darkness in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and shift, and for a sickening second, I believed it was Buquet.

The image of him, his lifeless body hanging and swaying, clawing at the rope in his final moments, flashed before my eyes, and I felt a cold shiver crawl down my spine. I clutched the red scarf around my neck as if it could shield me from the ghosts of the night. But no, it couldn’t be him—it couldn’t be. I forced myself to breathe, to think.

This was not the presence of a corpse. This was something else. Something familiar.

I swallowed the rising panic and, in a voice that wavered despite my efforts to steady it, called into the darkness, "Monsieur? Are you there?"

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the faint patter of rain against the window. And then, from the shadowed corner of the room, a voice emerged—soft, velvety, and yet commanding in its quietness.

"Did you miss me, mademoiselle?" The voice was unmistakable. The Phantom.

I sat up in bed, drawing the cloak tighter around me, heart racing but no longer with fear. His presence had become like a shadow—always there, even when unseen.

"Is it you?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

A low chuckle, dark and smooth. "Who else would watch over you so carefully? Who else would care as I do?"

I felt my breath hitch again, this time not from fear, but from the weight of his words. There was something in them—an unsettling mixture of protection and possessiveness, a claim laid so deeply over my life.

"You… you’ve been here all this time?" I managed to ask, though I already knew. The cloak had not fallen through the cracks in the ceiling, in the same way neither of the two dresses had. I wondered, for a moment, what had happened to my beautiful dress the Phantom had hand-crafted for Il Muto. Had it too disappeared chaos of Buquet and the changing of my room?

"Always," he whispered, his voice moving through the darkness like a caress. "Even in sleep, you are never far from me. I watch over you, as I have promised. Do you not feel it? The safety I provide? The gifts.”

I hesitated, unsure how to respond. Yes, gifts; many and more. Some, I was more grateful for than others. His words held a strange power over me, making it difficult to separate the fear from the comfort. The safety he spoke of was not the safety Raoul offered—it was something far darker, yet undeniably real.

"Is that what you call it, monsieur?" I asked, my voice steadying as I found my footing in the conversation. "Is this safety? The things that have happened…"

"You doubt me?" His voice shifted, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "Have I not kept you from harm? Have I not removed those who would threaten you?"

I shuddered, the image of Buquet and Elise flashing before me again. "But at what cost?"

There was a pause, a pregnant silence in which the rain seemed to fall louder. Then, his voice returned, softer, more insidious. "Everything has a cost, my dear. Even your precious voice. Do you not understand that yet?" His words stung, though I couldn’t deny the truth in them. I did understand. Too well. "And you," he continued, stepping closer so that I could feel his presence looming over me, even if I could not see him. "You, mademoiselle, are mine to protect. Remember that."

The weight of his last words hung in the air, and I found myself at a loss. Part of me longed to flee, to tear away from this invisible bond that chained me to him. And yet, another part—a deeper, darker part—couldn’t help but be drawn to the very power he held over me.

"I..." My voice faltered. "I do not know if I can live under such a shadow."

"You already do," he whispered, the softness in his tone returning. "And you thrive within it." The silence between us stretched as the darkness wrapped itself around me, thick and suffocating. I could feel his presence, closer now, almost tangible in the stillness of the room. His voice cut through the air once more, low and controlled, with a strange mix of affection and possession. "I gave you that cloak," he murmured. "I have watched you cradle it every night, mademoiselle. It brings me solace to know you have finally accepted a gift—my protection.”

My fingers unconsciously tightened around the fabric, the weight of his words pressing heavily on my heart. Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty—there was a part of me that couldn’t help but feel grateful. The cloak had been a comfort in the cold nights, a shield against the world that seemed to shift and tremble around me.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice soft, almost reverent. "For the cloak… for watching over me."

From the shadows, I heard him move, the faintest shift of fabric brushing against the air, and then his silhouette emerged from the darkness. The dim light of the candle illuminated his figure, and I felt my pulse quicken as memories of our last encounter surfaced—the bruises he had left on my wrists, his grip cold and unyielding. Fear tightened in my chest, and I instinctively pulled the cloak tighter around my body, as though it might shield me from him now. My eyes darted to the shadows, but there was nowhere to escape. His gaze was fixed on me, dark and intense, as he stepped forward with slow, deliberate steps. I couldn’t move. The room felt suddenly too small, the walls pressing in, the air thick with his presence. He moved closer, and I remembered the way his hands had closed around my wrists, the way his fingers had left their mark on my skin.

"You’re afraid," he observed, his voice soft but sharp, as though the very thought of it pained him. "Do you still not trust me, mademoiselle? After all I have done for you?"

I swallowed, my throat dry. "I…" Words failed me. How could I explain the swirling confusion inside me—the strange mixture of fear and gratitude, of dread and fascination?

He continued to approach, his face half-hidden by the mask, the rest of him shrouded in darkness. The faint light glinted off the white porcelain, his visible eye gleaming with a predatory intensity.

"I would never harm you, my dear." His voice was like velvet, soft yet with a dangerous undertone. "Do you not see? Everything I do, I do for you. You are mine to protect, mine to cherish… mine to love."

His last words sent a shiver down my spine, and though part of me longed to retreat, there was no escaping him. The shadows in the room seemed to close in tighter, as though he were the very darkness itself, surrounding me, suffocating me. Before I could respond, before I could even think, he moved—quickly, too quickly—and in an instant, his hand darted toward my throat. A gasp escaped my lips, terrified that this was some cruel twist of reality and Buquet was indeed back to hurt me. Instead, his fingers grazed my skin, pulling at the scarf that Raoul had gifted me. My throat, still tender from my injuries, pulsed with a dull ache as the fabric was whisked away. The Phantom stood there, holding the scarf between his fingers, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the delicate material. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a frown, and the air between us thickened with tension. Slowly, deliberately, he brought the scarf to his face, his cold gaze fixed on mine as he pressed the cloth to his nose.

“This,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. “You were so quick to scorn my gifts, mademoiselle, but so accepting of offerings from others. From him?” The disdain in his tone was palpable, dripping with a deep, smouldering hatred that made my heart pound in my chest. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as his words cut through the air like a blade.

“The Vicomte,” he spat, as though the very name left a foul taste in his mouth. “That insipid boy, thinking he can lay claim to you with his pretty little gifts—" His grip tightened around the scarf, his knuckles whitening as he twisted the fabric between his hands. “Do you not know what you are doing, allowing him into your world? Into my world?” I tried to speak, but my throat, still tender, closed up in fear.

He took a step forward, looming over me, his dark eyes flashing with fury. “I have seen him,” he growled, “leaving your dressing room. Lingering where he does not belong. Where no one belongs!” His voice rose, sharp and accusatory. “Madame Giry betrayed me by showing him and those managers your room. My room. Our room. It was to remain sacred, a sanctuary from prying eyes, and now… now they think they have the right to invade it.” His rage was palpable, the weight of his anger pressing down on me as he paced before me like a caged animal, his movements erratic and tense.

"That space was not meant for the likes of him," he continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "And yet you allow him in, allow him to shower you with trinkets as if his affection could mean more than my devotion." He stopped suddenly, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my blood run cold. "Do you care for him, mademoiselle?" His words were quiet, deadly. "Does he hold your heart as I do?"

I could feel my pulse quickening, the suffocating tension in the room closing in around me. His jealousy, his possessiveness, was terrifying, and yet… somewhere, deep within me, I understood it. This man, this Phantom, had intertwined his very existence with mine. His eyes bore into mine, searching for an answer I wasn’t sure I could give. My heart pounded in my chest, torn between the suffocating intensity of his presence and the fear that had taken root deep within me.

I swallowed hard, my voice caught in my throat, the air between us growing thick with the weight of his question. Did the Phantom hold my heart? Could Raoul? The truth was, I didn’t know. I was too frightened—too consumed by the dangers that lurked in every corner of the opera house to even think of love in a tangible sense. The girl in me wanted a prince to carry her off, to dote on her and admire her singing. But the woman…

“I—” My voice faltered, trembling under the pressure. I couldn’t meet his gaze, and yet I couldn’t look away. “I don’t know.”

His expression darkened, the slight flicker of hope in his eyes vanishing in an instant. The Phantom took another step toward me, his face inches from mine now, the heat of his breath brushing against my skin. His hand hovered near my cheek, but he didn’t touch me—not yet. Instead, he waited, his eyes burning with the unspoken question.

“You don’t know?” His voice was low, dangerously quiet, like the calm before a storm. “After all I’ve done for you, after everything I’ve sacrificed… you don’t know?”

I shook my head, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. “It’s not that simple,” I whispered, my voice fragile and uncertain. “I… I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, for the way you’ve protected me. But—" I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. “I’m scared. I don’t know what I feel, I don’t know what’s right anymore.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might lash out—his anger was palpable, hanging in the air like a blade poised to strike. But instead, his hand finally moved, gently brushing the side of my face. The touch was cold, but not harsh. It sent a shiver down my spine, a confusing mix of fear and something else—something I didn’t want to name.

“Fear,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “Fear is what binds us, mademoiselle. I know it well, for I too have lived in its grip. But you must understand… what I feel for you is more than gratitude, more than protection. It is devotion. And devotion knows no fear.”

I closed my eyes, trying to make sense of the storm of emotions raging inside me. The Phantom was alluring, magnetic in a way that frightened me. And yet Raoul—Raoul was the light in all this darkness, the part of my world that was still safe, still untouched by the shadows. How could I choose between them, when I didn’t even know if I could choose myself?

“I don’t know if my heart belongs to anyone,” I said at last, my voice barely a whisper. “Not to you… not to Raoul. Not yet.”

He pulled away then, his touch gone as quickly as it had come. There was a silence, heavy and cold, before he finally spoke, his voice edged with quiet bitterness.

“Then perhaps,” he said, his tone soft but laced with pain, “you will find your answer soon enough. But beware, mademoiselle. The world will not wait for your heart to decide.”

The shadows seemed to close in around him as he stepped back, retreating into the darkness once more. My chest tightened, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air long after he had disappeared from view.

“Wait!” The words seemed to spill from my mouth before I could think to stop them. “Please, my Angel of Music. Please, monsieur, don’t go.” I could not see him, but I felt his eyes burning a hole through me from the darkness, and so I continued. “Monsieur, I am frightened, and I am in pain. I yearn to sing on stage, for the audience, for you. I meant those words I spoke the first time I saw you.”

Despite the pain in my throat, I took a deep breath and sung:

“Stay by my side, guide me. Angel, my soul is weak, forgive me..”

It was strained and sounded awful. But I hoped he understood the sentiment.

The room fell silent for a moment, the echo of my strained voice hanging in the air. Then, slowly, the shadows stirred, and he emerged once more from the darkness. The Phantom approached, his movements deliberate and measured, until he stood before me again, his presence overwhelming yet oddly comforting. The soft, melancholic melody of his voice filled the air, "I am your Angel of Music, come to me, Angel of Music."

Trembling, I rose to meet his gaze, our eyes locking in a moment fraught with a thousand unspoken words. He approached slowly, each step measured and silent, until he stood before me, close enough that I could feel the chill emanating from his presence. His hand rose, hesitating for a moment before resting gently on my cheek. The touch was cold, yet strangely comforting, and it trailed slowly down to my throat. His expression darkened with a pained sorrow as he felt the bruises that marred my skin.

"Monsieur," I whispered, my voice a mix of fear and fascination. "Why must we dwell in shadows? Why must music be mingled with sorrow?"

He looked into my eyes deeply, his own filled with a tumultuous storm of emotions. "Because, my dear, even in the darkest of shadows, music is the light that can never be extinguished. It is our refuge, our salvation. You, with a voice that touches the heavens, must understand this better than anyone."

His words washed over me, seductive and sincere, and for a moment, I lost myself in the depth of his gaze. "Come with me," he continued, his voice lowering to a compelling whisper. "There is something I must show you, something that will explain the unexplainable."

I hesitated, my mind flashing with images of Raoul's earnest pleas, his warnings of the danger that lurked within the Phantom's embrace. Yet the allure of the unknown, the promise of understanding the enigmatic Angel of Music, tugged at my heartstrings with a powerful force.

"Monsieur, I am torn," I admitted, my voice trembling with the weight of my confession. "Raoul—he wishes to take me away from all this, from the darkness that you dwell in. He speaks of safety, of a life away from the shadows of the Opera."

The Phantom's hand fell from my throat, and he stepped back, a look of tormented conflict playing across his masked visage. "Then go with him, if that is your wish," he said, his voice breaking with a mixture of defiance and despair. "But know this, my angel—no light can exist without darkness, no joy without sorrow. The music we could make together will transcend the shadows, reach beyond the depths of any despair."

His plea hung heavy between us, a poignant reminder of the dual nature of our bond—both beautiful and foreboding. "Let me show you what lies beyond all this," he implored. "Let me show you the music of the night."

I stood, conflicted, my soul torn between the safety Raoul promised and the mysterious allure of the Phantom's dark world. As I looked into his eyes, I saw not just a ghost or a fiend, but a man tortured by his own genius, a man who needed my voice not just to command but to comfort.

Finally, I nodded, a silent agreement to follow him into the depths, to face whatever truths lay hidden in the heart of his music. "Lead the way, Monsieur," I said, my decision made, my heart heavy with both dread and anticipation. "Take me back down into the darkness."

Notes:

Double upload. This one is a bit longer. Please leave comments if you're enjoying!

Chapter 15: The Music Of The Night

Summary:

(y/n) continues her journey back to the depths of the Phantom's lair.

Notes:

Finallyyyyyy

The descent into the lair this time was starkly different from the first. There was no trance-like daze, no hypnotic melody to lead me through the winding corridors beneath the Paris Opera House. My steps were deliberate, my decision to follow the Phantom a conscious choice marked by a tumultuous mix of dread and determination. The torch-lit path that once seemed a dreamlike passage now felt eerily tangible, each flickering shadow and cool gust of subterranean air a reminder of the reality of my descent into the Phantom's world.

As we reached the mist-shrouded lake, the familiar small boat awaited us, its surface reflecting the dim, ghostly light. The Phantom extended his hand to help me into the boat, a gesture that had become strangely intimate. The contact of our skin ignited a sensation deep within me, a stirring of something profound and unnamed. It was a feeling that Raoul, with all his earnest affection, had never evoked. Each gentle touch from the Phantom was a spark that kindled a fire of conflicting emotions—fear, fascination, and an undeniable pull towards the man shrouded in darkness and mystery.

The boat glided silently over the calm, dark waters, carrying us deeper into the heart of the lair. The silence between us was filled with the soft lapping of water against the boat, a soothing yet sombre sound that echoed the tumult in my heart. There were no words spoken, nor sung.

As the gate creaked open, the haunting ambiance of the Phantom’s lair enveloped us once more. The cavernous space stretched out like a hidden realm, the flickering torchlight casting elongated shadows that danced upon the ancient stone walls. The deep shades of the crimson and black velvet drapes added a rich, grave texture to the surroundings, contrasting starkly with the stark foreboding of the stone and shadows.

As we reached the small dock, the Phantom again offered his hand, his grip firm and reassuring as he helped me step onto the damp stone floor. The solidity of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he looked into my eyes, resonated within me, awakening feelings and desires I was not yet ready to understand or confront.

The grand organ stood as a silent sentinel beneath the archway, its polished surface reflecting the soft, eerie light of scattered candles. The sight of it stirred a tumult of memories within me. It was here, by this very instrument, that I had once seen the man behind the mask—the Phantom who haunted both my dreams and waking moments. I was instantly drawn to it, and couldn’t help but move towards it.

I approached the organ slowly, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet that lined the floor near the it. The keys gleamed under the dim light, each one a reminder of the complexity of the man who played them. I remembered the desperation in his eyes when I had pulled away his mask, the raw agony that had twisted his features. He had spoken of love then, a twisted, painful sort of love that sought to claim and bind.

The memory was vivid, almost painfully so. His voice had been a mixture of command and desperation, his words a plea for understanding and acceptance. "But (y/n), fear can turn to love, you’ll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, this… repulsive carcass… who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty," he had said, his voice breaking with the weight of his isolation and longing. It was a declaration fraught with vulnerability, a revelation of his deepest yearning. The enormity of what he had offered—and what he had asked in return—weighed heavily on me. To be loved by such a man was to be caught in a labyrinth of its own: of beauty and terror, music and madness. It was a love that could elevate or destroy, and standing there among the miscellanies of his passions and fears, I felt the full burden of that realization.

As I stood before the grand organ, its keys gleaming dimly in the flickering candlelight, the Phantom approached from behind, his presence as imposing as the shadow he cast. He paused a moment, watching me with an intensity that seemed to reach into the very depths of my soul, then began to speak, his voice a soft echo in the vastness of the lair.

"Every stone in this place, mademoiselle," he began, his voice echoing softly off the walls, "has been laid with a purpose, shaped by hands that were once condemned to be only destroyers, creators of illusions meant for the entertainment of others." His gaze was distant, as if lost in memories he seldom dared to revisit.

"I was born far from here, in a place where my very appearance was a curse. My life began as a spectacle—a display of nature's cruelty," he said, his tone laced with bitterness. "But what they meant to mock, I honed into a craft." He gestured around at the elaborate architecture of his lair, hinting at a past filled with grandeur and deception.

"In lands far from France, under the gaze of kings and tyrants, I learned that beauty can be a weapon, and secrets are a form of power." His hands touched the organ, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings as if reliving the moments of their creation. "I built palaces that sang and whispered, where walls had ears and shadows kept secrets."

He turned to me, his eyes piercing in the dim light. "This lair, this refuge—it is my masterpiece, where I have woven my sorrows and my skills into every thread of its existence." His voice dropped to a whisper, "It is here that I thought to escape the world, to create a sanctuary not just for myself but for my music...”

Moved by the rawness of his confession and the depth of pain in his voice, I instinctively reached out to him, my hand moving toward his chest in a gesture of comfort. For a moment, he tensed, his body stiffening as if bracing for an intrusion, perhaps fearing that my fingers sought the edges of his mask once again. His eyes, filled with a guarded wariness, flickered to my approaching hand, and I could see the conflict playing out behind them—his long-held defensiveness clashing with a desperate craving for a connection he had seldom, if ever, allowed himself to experience.

Realizing his apprehension, I paused, letting my intention clear through my softened gaze and the gentle tilt of my head, signalling that my motives bore no resemblance to the fears he harboured. Seeing this, the Phantom's demeanour shifted almost imperceptibly, a subtle relaxation of the muscles around his eyes, the barest easing of his posture. It was as if, in that brief moment, the fortress around his heart permitted a single, tentative gateway to open.

He watched me, the intensity of his gaze never wavering but now tinged with a vulnerability he rarely showed. As my hand finally rested upon his chest, a connection formed, tenuous and charged with the electricity of our shared understanding. His body, initially rigid, softened under my touch, and he allowed himself to lean ever so slightly into the comfort offered.

This simple touch seemed to bridge the distance between us, the layers of his isolation momentarily peeled back by the sincerity of human contact. His hand rose, hesitating in the air before settling atop mine, pressing it gently against his heart as if to anchor himself to the empathy I extended. In this touch, there was an acknowledgment of his solitude and a silent plea for the compassion he had long denied himself.

The Phantom's eyes closed briefly, a sigh escaping him that spoke of burdens carried too long alone. When he opened them again, there was a softening, a tentative acceptance of the solace I provided, not as his possession or his creation but as a fellow soul navigating the shadows of a world that had not been kind to either of us.

As we stood there in the dimly lit lair, our shared silence became a profound dialogue of its own, communicating in the quiet breaths and the subtle shifts of our bodies more than words ever could. I felt the weight of his gaze, heavy with years of solitude and secrets, yet now there seemed a glimmer of something new, something like hope or perhaps just lessened loneliness.

The Phantom, usually so composed and commanding, appeared almost human in his vulnerability. He broke the silence first, his voice low, the fierce edge it often carried now smoothed by our quiet moment of connection. "You are braver than I ever anticipated," he murmured, his words a soft echo in the cavernous room. "And kinder."

I found my own voice, though it was still rough and weak, "Everyone deserves compassion," I replied, my hand still resting on his chest, feeling the tension that never fully ebbed away from his frame.

He nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression crossing the features that the mask did not hide. "Perhaps," he conceded, "but not everyone receives it. Your kindness... it is not something I am accustomed to."

Encouraged by his openness, I ventured further, "Why show me this? Why tell me your story?" My curiosity was tinged with caution, aware that every piece of himself he revealed was a carefully calculated risk on his part.

The Phantom glanced away, his gaze drifting towards the grand organ that stood silent in the shadowy periphery. "Because you, of all people, might understand. Because in this place, where shadows reign, you have brought a glimpse of light. And maybe... maybe I no longer wish to dwell in darkness alone."

His admission hung between us, bold and fragile. I stepped closer, my movement instinctive, drawn by the poignant honesty in his voice. "You don't have to be alone," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "Not if you don't want to be."

He looked back at me, his eyes searching my face as if looking for a sign of deception or perhaps just reassurance. Slowly, he reached out his other hand, and I took it, feeling the cool leather of his glove against my skin. We stood there, two solitary figures bound by shared loneliness and a budding trust that was as terrifying as it was new.

"Show me," I said, gesturing to the shadows that enveloped us. "Show me all that you hide."

The Phantom's nod was almost imperceptible, but decisive. Releasing my hand, he turned to lead me deeper into his world, his back a silent invitation to follow him into the depths of his solitude, a place few had ever seen. As we walked side by side, the soft echoes of our footsteps mingled with the quiet sounds of the underground, a symphony of the unseen, leading us into the heart of his hidden empire.

As we continued deeper into the lair, the sound of distant water echoed through the tunnels, mingling with our footsteps. Finally, we arrived at a vast chamber, the heart of his domain. I gasped as I entered the room. The room was dominated by an enormous organ, far surpassing the one near the entrance in both grandeur and scale. Its golden pipes ascended the chamber walls, intertwining like the branches of an ancient, colossal tree, reaching toward the shadow-draped ceiling. The console itself was an intricate masterpiece of craftsmanship, adorned with carved motifs that whispered of forgotten eras and untold stories. Each detail, from the polished keys to the ornate stops, was meticulously designed, reflecting not only a musician's precision but also an artist's passion.

As I stepped closer, the sheer size of the organ became more apparent. It wasn't just an instrument; it was a monumental tribute to music itself, built with a devotion that could only come from a lifetime of both deep love and profound isolation. The surrounding candles cast a flickering light across its surface, making the polished wood and metal gleam like treasures in a sunken ship, mysterious and alluring.

"This is not merely an organ," he murmured, his voice a blend of reverence and pride. "It is a testament to what can be born from solitude and determination. Here, I have not only composed music; I have created my companion, my confidant, my solace in the darkest of times. It is where I create the music of the night."

He removed his gloves, staring at me as he did so. He took a deep breath and sat on the stool in front of the instrument. The resonant sound of his voice filled the chamber as he finally placed his hands upon the keys. The hesitant touch transformed into a confident gesture, and with a deep breath, he began to draw forth a melody that seemed to emanate from the very soul of the lair itself, filling the air with a music that was both hauntingly beautiful and achingly sad.

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation..." he sang, his voice a velvety whisper that seemed to caress every corner of my mind. The darkness around us felt alive, stirring with each note, as if awakening to the sound of his voice. The room's chilly air seemed to grow warmer with each word, wrapping around me like a cloak.

"Darkness stirs and wakes imagination..." As he continued, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the keys, I found myself drawn in, my own senses heightening in response to the music's call. The shadows seemed to creep closer, and in response, I moved closer to him. He looked up to me, and I felt weak.

"Silently the senses abandon their defences..." He held the final note in an uplift, and I felt the weight of my woes give way. There was no Raoul, no Buquet, no Elise… just him.

The music seemed to continue without him needing to press the keys, and he stood. "Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour," he sang, moving towards me. I stood motionless, caught in the gravity of the moment, as he reached out and gently took my hand. His touch was both thrilling and terrifying, a reminder of the complexity of our connection. With a graceful motion, he guided me to the centre of the room, the candles casting our elongated shadows against the stone.

He spun me gently, and I found myself pulled back against his chest. “Grasp it! Sense it!” He continued, his presence enveloped me, and my heart fluttered uncontrollably, caught between the fear of the unknown and the allure of his proximity. “…Tremulous and tender,” he murmured, and my breath caught in my throat. He cupped my face with his hands, the coolness from his hands soothing my burning cheeks.

"Turn your face away from the garish light of day," he sang softly into my ear, his breath warm against my skin. The sensation sent shivers down my spine, and I instinctively turned, allowing the shadows of the room to become my visual embrace.

"Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light," he continued, his hands moving from my face down to rest lightly on my shoulders, guiding me as if I were a part of the music itself. The dim, flickering light of the candles seemed to retreat, leaving us in a cocoon of darkness that felt both intimate and infinite. I relaxed completely into his touch, intoxicated.

"And listen to the music of the night," he concluded, his voice a deep murmur that echoed the depth of the darkness around us. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming sensations—the feel of his body against mine, the sound of his voice, and the relentless pull of the music that seemed to consume everything.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams," he sang, his voice rising as the melody swelled around us. His words seemed to cast a spell, urging me to let go of all that had once anchored me to a simpler, safer life. Every fibre in my body was attuned to him, every movement he made beckoning me to follow.

"Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before," he continued, his tone insistent, almost commanding. His hands guided me gently, yet firmly, steering me through the dance of shadows and light that our movements created. The life I had known—singing in the streets of Paris, the humble craftsmanship of girlish dresses and stolen shoes—all seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by the grandeur of this moment.

"Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar," he sang, his voice reaching a high, melodical pitch that took me by surprise. The note was pure, powerful, echoing off the stone walls and filling the chamber with its intensity. It was as if his voice itself was lifting me, pushing me towards heights I had never dared to dream of. My heart raced, and a thrill of excitement coursed through me. Our movement slowed, as I wrapped my hands around the back of his neck. He, in turn, moved his to my waist and I sucked in a sharp breath.

"And you'll live as you've never lived before." His promise hung in the air, a tantalizing vision of a future filled with adoration, applause, and the fulfillment of desires I hadn't even known I harboured. The thousands of adoring fans, the grandeur of performances under the opulent chandeliers of the Opera House—these visions began to seep into my consciousness, mingling with the music to create a potent allure.

"Softly, deftly music shall caress you," the Phantom intoned, his voice wrapping around me like a velvet shroud. As he sang, he led me slowly around the room, his movements as graceful as the music itself. Each step we took was measured, deliberate, as if he was teaching me a sacred dance known only to those who truly understood the depth of his world. All I could feel were his hands planted firmly on my hips, and a heat originating from my core.

"Hear it, feel it secretly possess you," he continued, his left hand moving to pull me closer, tracking a small circling on my back sending shivers down my spine. The sensation was like a whisper against my skin, intimate and haunting.

"Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind," he urged, his voice a gentle command that beckoned me to release my hold on reality. I felt my imagination taking flight, carried by the lilt of his voice. The walls of the lair seemed to recede, replaced by visions of surreal landscapes crafted from sound and shadow.

"In this darkness which you know you cannot fight," he sang as we reached the heart of the chamber. Here, the darkness felt alive, pulsing with the rhythm of the music. It was not a darkness to be feared, but one to be embraced, a sanctuary where the only light came from the soul of the music itself.

"The darkness of the music of the night," he concluded, drawing me close to him. His presence enveloped me, a mixture of strength and mystery. For a moment, we stood there, our faces drawn tantalizing close to one another. My eyes moved from his piercingly blue ones down to his lips. For a moment, I craved to feel them against my own.

"Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the life you knew before," the Phantom sang, pulling me out of my thoughts and eliciting new ones. He moved to hold me at arms distance, the body feeling empty without his warmth.

"Let your soul take you where you long to be," he boomed, drawing out the note on "be" into a haunting melody that seemed to hang in the air, resonant and clear. The note stretched on, its vibrancy filling the space, touching every corner of the lair with its promise of liberation.

"Only then can you belong to me." His voice dipped slightly, a velvet caress that was both seductive and slightly foreboding. I felt a twinge of wariness at his words, a reminder of the strings attached to this enchanting offer. The idea of "belonging" to someone, even him, stirred a complex mix of emotions within me—desire mingled with apprehension, intrigue with an instinctive pull for autonomy. And yet despite the allure of his voice and the world he offered, a part of me remained guarded, not fully ready to surrender my sense of self.

He continued, his voice soaring through the cavernous lair, his words weaving a tapestry of sound around us. "Floating, falling, sweet intoxication," he sang, his voice a potent elixir that seemed to lift me off my feet. His hands found mine in the dim light, our fingers intertwining as he led me in a slow, graceful dance across the cold stone floor again. I let him lead me.

"Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation," he continued, his voice a whisper that sent shivers down my spine. Each word was a brush of velvet against my consciousness, urging me to let go of my reservations and immerse myself fully in the moment. Our bodies moved closer, the slight touch evolving into a near embrace, our movements synchronized with the haunting melody.

As we danced, he guided me effortlessly, his presence both commanding and gentle. "Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in," he urged, his tone both a command and a plea. I felt myself being drawn in, the barriers within me beginning to crumble under the weight of his seductive cadence. He dipped me and I let him – Gods, I let him. I’d let him do anything to me in this moment.

"To the power of the music that I write. The power of the music of the night." His voice crescendoed, filling the lair with its resonant power. The music enveloped us, a living entity that pulsed through the very air. He pulled me up towards him and he we spin together, the world outside fading away, leaving only the music, his presence, and the intoxicating closeness that grew with each note.

He whirled me suddenly to face another cavity in the wall. There, like a spectre from a dream, stood the same mannequin I had seen the first time I entered, adorned in an elaborate wedding gown and veil. The reality of his intentions crashed over me, stripping away the last vestiges of the enchantment his music had woven. The illusion shattered, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I felt a rush of dizziness, the room spinning dangerously as the weight of the revelation bore down on me. As my knees buckled beneath me, the world tilting dangerously, it wasn't the cold, hard stone that met my fall but his arms. The Phantom swept me up with ease, holding me close against his chest in a bridal embrace. I was too weak, too overwhelmed to resist, my body limp as he carried me across the room. His movements were smooth, almost graceful, each step measured and sure.

The scent of him enveloped me—roses, parchment, and candle wax—a fragrance that had become both a comfort and a curse. As he laid me down gently on something soft, the edges of my consciousness began to fray. The softness of the fabric and the familiar scent lulled me further towards oblivion. As darkness claimed me, his voice, a soft whisper now, barely pierced the fog of my senses:

"You alone can make my song take flight. Help me make the music of the night."

And with that, I allowed the darkness to consume me.

Chapter 16: Je m'appelle

Summary:

A much needed discussion is had in the depths of the Phantom's lair...

Notes:

A bit of a longer one!

I awoke to a dimly lit room, the soft flicker of candlelight casting shadows that danced across the stone walls. My eyes adjusted slowly, the details of the Phantom's lair coming into focus. The air was cool and still, filled with the scent of old books and the distant, musty dampness that seemed to seep from the very bones of the Opera house.

As consciousness fully returned, I realized where I was—lying in the Phantom's bed, wrapped in the fine fabrics that smelled faintly of his unique mixture of roses and parchment. My head throbbed lightly, a dull reminder of the overwhelming night before. The last thing I remembered was the powerful surge of music and emotion, his voice carrying me away until I could no longer stand. And… the dress…

Sitting up, I felt the soft covers slip slightly, the cool air brushing against my skin. I was still wearing the dress I had worn to the afternoon matinee. The room was quiet, eerily so, and I felt a pang of vulnerability being so exposed in the heart of his domain. I glanced around, searching for any sign of the Phantom, but found myself alone. Pushing the sheets away, I swung my legs off the bed, my feet touching the cold stone floor. Each movement was cautious, unsure, as I listened intently for the sound of his approach. But there was only silence—a thick, waiting silence that seemed to expect me to fill it.

As I stood, steadying myself against the bedpost, I noticed a small table nearby with a pitcher of water and a glass. My throat felt parched, the events of the previous evening having left a physical mark as much as an emotional one. Pouring myself a glass, I drank deeply, the cool water soothing the lingering rawness in my throat. My throat felt considerably less swollen today, and I wondered if the bruising was beginning to recede.

The sight of the wedding dress he had shown me earlier loomed large in my mind. It was a symbol of his desire not merely for a bride, but for companionship, for someone to share in the profound isolation of his existence. Did it truly matter whether it was me who filled that void for him, or could it have been anyone? Was my presence specifically sought after, or was I merely fitting into the outline of a role he had desperately needed to fill?

As I set the glass down, I resolved to find him, to confront the myriad questions that haunted me. With each step towards the door of the chamber, I felt a growing determination mixed with apprehension, not knowing what I would find beyond or what the new day would bring in the shadowy depths of the Phantom's lair.

Steeling myself, I pushed open the door and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor of his lair. The air was cool and damp, the echo of distant music barely perceptible. I followed the sound, each note pulling me deeper into the labyrinthine passageways. Had it not been for the musical guide rope, I was sure I would’ve become lost.

As I approached the grand chamber where the organ stood, the music grew louder, more insistent. It was a haunting melody that seemed to weave through the air, wrapping around me like a tangible presence. The Phantom was there, his back to me, hunched over the keys, lost in his creation.

I hesitated at the threshold, watching him for a moment. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, the light dancing over the intricate designs of the organ, illuminating the figure before it in a ghostly glow. His concentration was absolute, every fibre of his being focused on the music.

Gathering my courage, I cleared my throat softly, announcing my presence. He stopped playing immediately, his body stiffening. Slowly, he turned to face me, his masked face unreadable. "You awoke," he said simply, his voice a mixture of relief and something else—was it fear?

"Yes," I replied, feeling a tension build between us. "Thank you for your care." I paused, noticing the slightest softening in his posture at the gratitude, but the air remained thick with unspoken words. The tension in the chamber was suffocating, thick with unspoken fears and desires. My appreciation seemed to fall flat, like a pebble in the depths of a well as the Phantom stood there, still and silent, the flickering light casting a twisted reflection of his form. His kindness felt... wrong, as though it was a fragile veneer masking something far more dangerous beneath.

"You saw my face the last time you came here," he murmured, his voice like velvet over glass. He took a slow step toward me, his words soft but laced with that terrible, cold intensity. "And yet, you returned with me. You did not flee. Tell me, was it curiosity that brought you back?"

I swallowed hard, the memory of that night flooding back with a vividness that made my throat tighten. "I returned because I had no choice," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though it trembled like a leaf. "But now, I must leave. They’ll be wondering where I am... They’ll worry."

His figure stiffened, the air between us suddenly electrified with tension. “Worry? You speak of their worry as if it matters to me. You speak of their concern as though it could mean something in this place—my place." His voice dropped, turning sharp as a knife. "Tell me, mademoiselle... is it the Vicomte you are so eager to return to?"

I froze. His tone cut through me like ice. His steps were swift and deliberate as he closed the distance between us, his looming presence swallowing me in shadows. His eyes, dark behind the mask, burned with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

"It is always about him, isn’t it?” he hissed, the words curling like smoke in the air. “The young fool, the Vicomte... who understands nothing. Who knows nothing of the shadows, of music, of what it is to truly live.”

I flinched as his voice grew louder; the mockery laced with something far darker—jealousy. He stepped closer, his breath hot against my skin, the closeness making my heart pound.

"Do you believe he can protect you from what haunts these walls? From me?” he growled, his voice rising with fury. "The Vicomte who dances in the light, blind to the shadows that swallow you whole! What does he know of the darkness that sings in your soul, of the depths you hide from everyone?"

My back pressed against the cold stone wall, and I felt my breath quicken. His anger was palpable, suffocating, and I could see the barely contained violence behind his eyes. His hands twitched, as if fighting the urge to seize me, to possess me fully. His hands, just like his words, had the power to stir emotions in me that no other man had ever come close to invoking. His touch, rough and unyielding, filled me with an overwhelming mixture of fear and something else—something far more dangerous. His fingers, the same ones that had bruised my wrists and left their mark on my skin, now hovered inches from me, trembling with the intensity of his barely contained fury. And yet, as terrifying as that rage was, there was an undeniable pull, a twisted allure that made my heart race not just from fear but from something darker, something forbidden.

The Phantom’s presence overwhelmed my senses. His fury was palpable, but so was his need—his desperation to claim something, anything, that tethered him to the world beyond his own shadowed existence. I felt trapped, not just by his physical closeness, but by the emotions that churned within me.

"You think I can’t protect myself?" I breathed, my voice shaking as I dared to challenge him, though my body trembled. "You think I need saving from you... or from me?" His eyes, intense and unrelenting, bore into mine, and I saw the flicker of something deeper, a glimpse of the tortured soul hidden beneath the mask.

"You need saving from the lies you tell yourself,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "From the falsehoods that bind you to a world that will never understand you. A world of light, of banality, that will suffocate the very music you are meant to create!"

His hands finally moved, hovering near my face, and I instinctively flinched, anticipating the familiar roughness. But when his fingers brushed my cheek, it was with a tenderness that shocked me. His rage had not vanished, but it had shifted, twisted into something more fragile, more dangerous.

"You think that Vicomte can give you what you desire?" His voice softened, and his thumb traced the line of my jaw, sending a shiver through me. "Do you think he knows the darkness in you, the hunger for more than the mundane life he offers? You cannot hide from what you are, ma chère."

My breath hitched as his hand moved lower, brushing against the bruises on my throat, his touch both a reminder of the violence he was capable of and a strange, intoxicating comfort. His presence filled the space between us, and though I should have felt suffocated, I felt drawn closer, caught in the web he had so carefully spun around me.

"Tell me,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "What is it you truly want? The light of his affection, the shallow comfort of his embrace? Or do you crave more... something deeper, something only I can give you?"

His words coiled around my heart like a serpent, squeezing the breath from my lungs as I tried to make sense of the war raging within me. Every piece of my being wanted to recoil, to run, but some part of me—a part I could no longer deny—was tempted. Tempted by the darkness, by the music, by him.

I shook my head, struggling to find my voice. "I... I don’t know," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but I knew the truth: no matter how much I wanted to deny it, the Phantom had a hold on me that I could not shake.

His eyes flashed with something triumphant, though there was a flicker of vulnerability in his expression that he could not fully hide. "You do know," he murmured, his fingers trailing down to my collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "You belong to the music, to the night... to me."

My heart raced, my mind a whirl of confusion, fear, and that insidious desire I could no longer ignore. His hands, his voice, his very presence filled me with conflicting emotions—both terror and longing intertwined in a way that left me powerless to resist.

The tension between us crackled in the air, heavy and oppressive. The Phantom's eyes, dark and piercing, searched mine as if he could see the very thoughts I was trying to bury. I wanted to turn away, to pull back from the force of his words and the truth they threatened to reveal, but I couldn’t. His presence held me captive, his hands still hovering near my skin, leaving me trembling with fear and something darker—something I didn’t dare name.

"What about life beyond the music?" I asked softly, daring to break the spell that held us both captive.

The Phantom’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching me as if weighing the significance of my question. The silence was heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost dangerous.

"Beyond the music?" he echoed, as though the very idea was foreign to him. His gaze darkened, and he stepped closer, his breath warm against my skin. "There is nothing beyond the music, mademoiselle. It is everything."

His words sent a shiver through me, and I felt myself drawn in once again, the power of his presence pulling me under like a tide I couldn’t fight. But I couldn’t ignore the doubts swirling in my mind, the questions that had plagued me ever since he first revealed himself.

"I need more than just music," I said, my voice steady despite the fear tightening my chest. "I have… curiosities. Questions that need answers. And they will determine the path I take."

The Phantom’s gaze flickered with something I couldn’t quite name—anger, perhaps, or fear. He took another step toward me, his hand hovering near my cheek, but not quite touching. "Curiosities?" he repeated, his tone mocking. "What is there to be curious about, mademoiselle? You already know all that matters. The music is in your soul, it ties you to me."

I shook my head, taking a small step back, my heart pounding in my chest. "No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I need to understand who you are, what this all means. Why you chose me. Why I feel… this way."

For a moment, his mask of composure cracked, revealing something raw and desperate beneath. His hand reached out, but this time it didn’t stop. His fingers grazed my cheek, then trailed down to my throat, brushing over the bruises that still marred my skin. His touch was both tender and possessive, and I fought the urge to flinch, to pull away from the complexity of his emotions.

"You ask questions," he murmured, his voice softening as his fingers lingered on my throat, "but the answers are already before you. I chose you because you were meant for this—meant for the music. For me."

His words sent a surge of conflicting emotions through me, a storm of fear, desire, and confusion. I stared into his eyes, searching for some glimpse of the man behind the mask, some clue to the mystery that consumed us both.

"But what if I don’t want to be just the music?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "What if I want more than this… than you?"

His eyes darkened instantly, a flash of anger crossing his features before it quickly receded. "There is nothing more, mademoiselle," he said, his voice cold, though there was an undercurrent of desperation. "The world beyond is a lie. It will never give you what I can. What we can have together."

I swallowed, my throat dry as I struggled to find the words. I had thought his possessiveness was frightening before, but this—this was different. It wasn’t just about the music, or about us. It was about control, about his need to own me completely, mind and soul.

"I need to understand this," I said, stepping back again, my pulse quickening. "I can’t just follow you blindly without answers. Not anymore."

The Phantom’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might lash out in fury. But then, just as quickly, his expression shifted. He softened, though the intensity in his gaze never wavered.

"Then you shall have your answers," he said, his voice low and measured.  He stood in silence, his words swirling around me like the very music that had entranced my soul. But the weight of unasked questions pressed against my heart, questions that had haunted me ever since I had first been drawn into his world.

"Monsieur..." The title felt hollow in my mouth, inadequate for the depth of the man before me, but I had no other name to give him. He turned toward me, his gaze piercing through the mask, and I could feel the intensity of his attention as though it were a tangible thing.

"Tell me..." I hesitated, my throat tightening as the questions finally found their voice. "Would it have been any woman? Had someone else possessed the voice you so desired, would she have been the one you chose?"

For a moment, his eyes darkened behind the mask, and I feared I had overstepped, but his reaction was not one of anger—at least not yet. Instead, a slow, deliberate sigh escaped him as though my words had carved something open inside him. "Do you think you are merely a voice to me?" he asked, his tone filled with a quiet, trembling disbelief. "It is not your voice that haunts me. It is you—all of you. You are the one who fills the void in me, the one who can stand beside my music, who can understand the darkness that lives in my soul."

And is it you who haunts me, in turn, Monsieur.

I swallowed, unsure of how to respond. His words were both comforting and unsettling, laced with that same possessiveness that always lingered beneath his affections. "And what of life above?" I asked, my voice faltering but insistent. "Could you ever leave this place? Live as others do? Or are you bound here... chained to the opera, by fear or something else?"

A long silence stretched between us as he turned away, his fingers tightening around the edge of the organ. His breath came shallow and quick as though the very idea pained him. "This place," he began, his voice almost a whisper, "is not merely my prison. It is my creation, my kingdom. I built every passage, every hidden room with my own hands. And in the world above, I am nothing but a monster—an outcast. How could I leave it behind? Where would I go? To walk among those who recoil at the sight of me?"

"And what of life beyond the music?" I asked, my voice softer now. "What of the things that come with it? The laughter brought by children, the light of day... Do you ever dream of such things? Or have you only dreamt of darkness?"

The Phantom stood before me, his expression torn between desperation and longing. His presence filled the room, suffocating, yet undeniably magnetic. He had always been a man of contradictions—his cruelty matched only by his desire for love, his manipulation tempered by a yearning to be understood.

"You speak of life above, of children, of laughter," he began, his voice soft but laced with bitterness. "But do you think I have never longed for such things? Do you believe me so monstrous that I would not wish for the same joys, the same simple pleasures that others take for granted?"

He took a step closer, and I could see the pain etched into his features, even beneath the mask. His hands, which had often brought me fear, now trembled slightly as he reached out, not to grab or restrain me, but as if pleading for understanding. "You ask if it could have been anyone," he continued, his tone growing more urgent. "But it was you. Only you. From the moment I first heard your voice, I knew. You are not merely a replacement for something I lost—you are everything I have sought, everything I have dreamed of."

I could feel my heart race, torn between the intensity of his words and the fear that had always shadowed our encounters. There was something so raw in his voice, a vulnerability that he rarely showed. It unsettled me, yet at the same time, it drew me closer.

He stepped even nearer, until there was hardly any distance between us. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, as though he were confessing a secret he had kept locked away for far too long. "I have built a life in this darkness because the world above has no place for a man like me. But I… I dream of more. Do you think I do not wish to walk the streets like any other man? To take my wife—yes, my wife—out on Sundays, as others do? To live, to love, to sing not for an audience, but for ourselves?"

His eyes, burning with an intensity I had never seen before, locked onto mine. "I have created a mask that makes me look like anyone else," he whispered. "I could walk beside you, and no one would turn to stare. No one would know. You would be the happiest of women. And we… we would sing, all by ourselves, until we swooned with the joy of it. That is what I can offer you, (y/n). That is the life I dream of."

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at him. His words were filled with longing, with the promise of a life that seemed so far removed from the shadows of this lair. And yet, the intensity of his desire, the desperation with which he clung to the idea of us, frightened me.

His words tugged at something deep within me, but there was still one last question that needed answering. "And what of the stage?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Would you let me sing again? For the audience I love? Or is my voice only for you?"

A shadow passed over his face, his lips curling in a half-smile that did not reach his eyes. "You will sing," he whispered, his voice taking on that familiar, possessive tone. "But you will sing for me. You belong to my music, mademoiselle. You always have."

My heart twisted at his words—there was love in them, but it felt like chains tightening around me, pulling me deeper into his world. "But I need the light," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I need to be free."

His back straightened, and his eyes hardened. "The light will burn you," he said, almost to himself. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and opened them. He moved closer still, his hand reaching for my face, his fingers trembling as they brushed against my cheek. "I do not ask for much, (y/n)," he whispered. "Only your love. Only your trust. Love me, and you will see—I am not wicked. If you loved me, I would be as gentle as a lamb. You could do anything with me that you pleased." His voice broke. "All I ever wanted was to be loved… for myself."

The weight of his confession hung between us, suffocating in its intensity. I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, torn between the promise of a life with him and the fear of what that life might cost. Could I love him? Could I give him what he so desperately craved? Or was I merely the next piece in a long line of obsessions, the final key to a puzzle he had built to trap us both?

His hand moved to my throat, lightly tracing the bruises left from the violence of the world that had surrounded us. His touch was surprisingly tender, yet a reminder of the chains that still bound me to him. "You will sing again, my love," he whispered, his voice carrying both a promise and a warning. "But it will be for me and for the music. Together, we will make the world listen."

His eyes darkened with fervour as he continued, "You shall sing in my Don Juan Triumphant—the role of Aminta will be yours, and only yours. The stage will tremble with the power of our music." His words brimmed with pride, his chest swelling as though he had waited a lifetime for this moment. "Don Juan Triumphant is no ordinary opera," he declared, his voice thick with passion. "It is a work that transcends the common theatre, a composition that will shake the very foundations of the Paris Opéra! It is a masterpiece that only you can bring to life. Aminta is not a role that could be filled by just any voice; it is a role for you. You shall stand at the centre of it all, your voice rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the trivial and the mundane."

He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with the pride of a creator certain of his genius. The depth of his belief in me—his unwavering conviction that I alone could fulfill his vision—was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. And yet, beneath the surface, a creeping unease took hold of me. The thought of being thrust into his masterpiece, a role he had so meticulously crafted, unsettled me. Was this the only reason he believed he… felt something for me? Had he simply plucked me from the chorus to sing his notes because I had happened to catch his ear?

I feigned excitement, forcing a smile to creep onto my lips. "Don Juan Triumphant... it sounds magnificent, monsieur," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, as if the weight of his expectations had stolen my breath. "I... I would be honoured to sing for you. For the music." My words felt hollow, an echo of the truth I was too afraid to speak.

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as though my words had confirmed everything he had hoped for. "Yes," he said softly, his hand still tracing the line of my throat. "You will see. You will bring my vision to life, and the world will bow before our creation."

But inside, a knot of fear tightened in my chest. He spoke of music, of masterpieces and glory, but I could not shake the feeling that I was being pulled deeper into something far darker. My heart, still caught between two worlds, whispered Raoul's name. I needed to leave. I needed to return to the world above and tell Raoul, to confide in someone who wasn’t blinded by obsession.

The Phantom’s gaze softened ever so slightly, though the intensity behind his eyes never wavered. "You are conflicted, my dear," he whispered, his voice low and smooth, like the notes of a melancholy violin. "I can see it in your eyes. But soon… soon you will understand." His fingers traced the bruises on my throat one last time before he withdrew his hand. "I will take you back to your world above, for now."

My heart pounded as the weight of his words settled over me. I was grateful to hear him say it, but the conflict within me only deepened. "Thank you, monsieur," I murmured, my voice shaking despite my attempt to maintain composure.

He studied me, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. "You may thank me when your voice has been restored, and you stand where you were meant to stand—on that stage, singing my music. Only then will you truly see what I have promised you." His voice was full of conviction, a promise laced with both ambition and possession.

"I—" My throat tightened, the words faltering on my lips. What was I supposed to say? I wanted to return to my world, to the light and the normalcy that Raoul represented, yet here I was, standing before this man—this creature—who had ensnared me in a way I could barely comprehend.

His eyes locked onto mine, as if sensing the turmoil within me. "Do not worry, mademoiselle," he said softly, almost gently. "I will not inform the managers of your role in Don Juan Triumphant until your voice is wholly healed. Rest now, and recover your strength. When the time comes, you will be ready."

A knot tightened in my stomach as he spoke, the reality of what awaited me pressing down like a weight. I nodded, trying to mask the fear that gnawed at me. "I will do my best," I whispered, my voice hoarse but determined.

The Phantom’s lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile. "You will not fail me, (y/n). I know you won’t. You were meant for this." He stepped back, and with a dramatic flourish of his cloak, turned towards the darkened corridors of his lair.

I followed silently, my heart heavy with uncertainty. As we navigated the twisting, shadowy tunnels back to the world above, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking a dangerous line, teetering between two paths—one that led to the light, and one that threatened to pull me into the depths of the Phantom’s world forever.

As we reached the edge of the boat, his hand remained outstretched, but instead of simply helping me in, this time there was something different in his touch—something far more intimate, more possessive. His fingers wrapped around mine firmly, and as I stepped into the boat, he did not let go. He gently guided me down, and sat down behind me. Before I could protest, he pulled me flush to his chest, his arms encircling me as though he feared I might vanish at any moment. My eyes widened, but I did not resist.

The boat drifted silently through the dark waters, but I could no longer focus on the eerie beauty of the underground lake. All I could feel was the steady rise and fall of his breath against my back, the weight of his hands holding me in place, gentle yet desperate, as if I were a bird trapped in a gilded cage. His touch spoke of longing, of a deep, unspoken fear—that if he let me go, I would not return.

I wasn’t sure if I would.

The boat rocked slightly as we moved, the soft splashes of water barely audible in the thick silence that hung between us. His chest was solid beneath my back, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cool air of the cavern. My thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion, uncertainty, and a strange, almost painful sense of empathy for the man whose arms now held me so tightly.

His fingers squeezed slightly, as if testing my willingness to stay. His desperation was palpable in the way his hands lingered, brushing my sides with an almost reverence, as if he couldn't bear the thought of losing what he believed was his. The Phantom's presence was overwhelming, and though I should have felt trapped, suffocated by his touch, something inside me stirred—a strange, inexplicable comfort.

With a sigh, I leaned back into him, my head resting against his shoulder. I could feel his breath hitch at the unexpected closeness, and for a moment, the tension in his body eased. His grip on me softened, though it remained firm enough to remind me that I was still held within his grasp.

In that moment, as we floated through the darkness, I allowed myself to relax. There was something about the way he held me—something that made me feel, if only for a fleeting second, as though I was truly wanted. Not just for my voice, not just for my role in his grand design, but for myself.

But even as I sighed into his embrace, a part of me remained wary. I had seen the depth of his madness, the possessive hunger that drove him. The Phantom was both a protector and a captor, and I knew that my return to the world above would be far from simple. The line between love and obsession was blurred in his mind, and I wasn’t certain which side I truly belonged to. The weight of his arms around me became heavier with the burden of everything unsaid. The steady rhythm of the oars cutting through the water was the only sound, save for the occasional creak of the boat as it rocked gently beneath us. My thoughts, however, were far from calm.

The Phantom’s breath was warm against my neck, and I could feel the tension in his body, a subtle tremor that betrayed the calm facade he tried so hard to maintain. I shifted slightly, turning my head just enough to catch a glimpse of his masked face. His eyes, hidden in shadow, were fixed ahead, but his grip on me tightened, as if he feared that even this small movement might signal my desire to escape.

The air between us was thick with unspoken emotions, and I could feel the conflict raging inside him—the battle between the tenderness of his touch and the dangerous obsession that always lurked beneath the surface. My mind floated to Raoul, just for a moment.  

"I will take you back," The Phantom murmured softly, his voice a low whisper in the darkness. "But you must know, mademoiselle... this world above, this world you long to return to—it cannot offer you what I can."

I remained silent, unsure of how to respond. My heart pounded in my chest, torn between the strange comfort of his embrace and the growing sense of dread that gnawed at the edges of my mind. He was giving me back my freedom, yet the way he held me—so tightly, so unwilling to let go—made it clear that this was not a release. It was a temporary reprieve.

His words hung in the air as the boat finally came to a stop at the edge of the underground lake. The faint light from the opera house above filtered down, casting long shadows across the water. He helped me out of the boat, his hands lingering on mine for just a moment too long, as if he was unwilling to let go.

"Await the news of Don Juan Triumphant," he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion, the words lingering in the cool, damp air like a final note of a symphony. He turned, his grip on my hands loosening.

But I didn’t let go of his hand.

The gesture was instinctual, my fingers tightening around his before my mind even had a chance to catch up. A surprised look flickered across his masked face, a brief moment of vulnerability passing through his eyes. My heart hammered in my chest as our gazes locked.

"Monsieur..." I began, my voice barely more than a whisper, but the weight of the moment filled the silence between us. The air felt charged, a tension hanging there that neither of us could ignore. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say—what I could say—but the thought of letting him fade back into the darkness felt unbearable, as though some invisible tether bound me to him in ways I had yet to understand.

His eyes, wide with surprise, searched mine as though he were trying to decipher a language he could no longer speak. He stepped closer, his hand still intertwined with mine, but there was hesitation now in his movements, as though my touch had awakened something fragile within him.

"You… you wish to remain?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft, filled with a tremor of hope that had never been there before.

I didn’t know how to answer him. The words seemed to stick in my throat, tangled up in the whirl of emotions that swirled within me. Yes, I had to return to the world above—back to Raoul, back to the stage, back to the life I had known. But there was something about the Phantom, something about this place, that made it difficult to turn away entirely.

His hand trembled in mine, and I could feel the weight of the unspoken emotions between us, hanging in the air like a fragile thread that might break at any moment. He stood so close now, the faint scent of roses and candle wax clinging to him, his breath shallow as though he, too, was caught in the gravity of what lingered between us.

I looked up at him, truly looked at him—not just the mask, but the man behind it, the mystery and torment that had haunted me from the moment our lives had become entangled. His presence, his touch, his music—they had become inescapable, a part of me that I could no longer deny.

The silence stretched, heavy and meaningful, until I finally found the courage to speak. I swallowed, my breath coming shallow, and then I whispered the question that had been on my heart for so long, the question that felt like it would break the very air between us.

“Monsieur, you ask the world of me, and yet…” My voice trailed off and my eyes lowered. He raised a hand to lift my chin, and I allowed him, my own vulnerability palpable.

“And yet?” He whispered, desperation plaguing him.

“And yet, I do not even know your name.”

The words, though soft, echoed through the cavern, their weight monumental. I could see the shift in him—the way his posture stiffened, the way his eyes, so often filled with the darkness of his obsession, now flashed with something raw and vulnerable. For a brief moment, I thought he might not answer. His grip on my hand tightened, as if my question had unravelled something deep inside him.

He turned away, his shoulders slumping as though the very weight of his existence had grown too heavy to carry. I watched him, my heart twisting at the sight of him retreating into himself. There was something in his stance—an overwhelming sense of defeat, of a man who had spent his life clawing at the world from the shadows, only to find himself slipping further into darkness.

Without thinking, I reached for him, my hand trembling as it brushed the fabric of his cloak. I was worried I had offended him, that my question had pulled back too much of the veil he so carefully guarded. But it wasn’t just concern that drove me—it was something deeper, something I could not name. His desperation, his longing, had somehow seeped into me, filling my veins with a yearning that mirrored his own.

I found myself moving closer, my arms wrapping around him from behind, as if I could somehow anchor him, keep him from dissolving into the shadows that always seemed to surround him. It wasn’t rational—it was instinct, a primal need to connect with him in a way that went beyond words, beyond music. My chest pressed against his back, and I clung to him, feeling small and childlike in my need for his affection, for his acknowledgment. It was as if I, too, had been lost in the dark for too long, and I needed to know that I wasn’t alone in it.

The silk of his cloak felt cool beneath my hands, and I pressed my cheek against his back, inhaling the familiar scent of roses and old parchment that clung to him. My heart beat wildly in my chest, a chaotic rhythm that matched the storm of emotions inside me. The desperation that radiated from him only intensified my own, pulling me deeper into his world. My grip on him tightened, and for a moment, I was afraid he would push me away, that he would reject this small, fragile offering of connection. But he didn’t move. He stood still, as if he, too, was caught in the overwhelming current of emotions that flowed between us.

We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, the silence thick with unspoken fears and desires. And as I held him, I realized that in this strange, twisted way, I needed him. The soft rustle of his cloak was the only sound between us, the opera house above seeming worlds away. I could feel his body stiffen under my embrace, and I half-expected him to pull away, to remind me of the chasm that separated us—monster and innocent, master and muse.

But instead, he stayed, motionless, as if my touch had momentarily broken through the armor of his solitude. His breathing was shallow, uneven, and I wondered if, perhaps, he had never been held like this before—had never known the warmth of another person without fear or revulsion clouding the moment.

Slowly, as if testing the weight of the intimacy between us, he reached up and covered my hand with his own. His fingers were cold, and yet they trembled against mine, the gesture more tender than I had ever expected from him. My heart raced faster, but I didn’t move. I didn’t want to break the fragile connection that now bound us together.

For a second, I thought I felt him lean into my embrace, but just as quickly, he straightened, stepping forward, away from me. I let my arms fall to my sides, a sense of loss washing over me as the warmth of his body left mine. He stood there, half-turned, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side, as though battling with himself, trapped between the need to flee and the desire to stay. His voice, when it came, was low, broken, trembling in a way I had never heard before.

“Erik,” he breathed, his voice catching on the name, as though even speaking it aloud pained him. “My name… is Erik.”

The silence that followed felt sacred, as though the very walls of his lair had held their breath. The man behind the Phantom, the ghost, the monster, had spoken his truth at last.

“Erik…” I whispered, tasting the name, feeling it settle like a secret between us. It was not the name of a ghost, nor of a monster—it was the name of a man. A man who had lived in shadows for far too long, a man who had built a kingdom of darkness and music, but who now stood before me, fragile and human.

His name felt like a revelation, a truth I had been seeking without even knowing. And in that moment, I knew that everything had changed. The boundaries between us, the veil of mystery and fear—it had all shifted. I had asked, and he had given me the one thing that no one else in the world had ever known. His name. His true self.

He turned back toward me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, the barest flicker of hope in his gaze, as if daring to believe that, with the offering of his name, he might be seen—truly seen—for the first time. I realized that in knowing his name, I had taken a step further into his world than I had ever intended. I reached for his hand, and he let me take it.

"Erik," I repeated, the name carrying a weight I had not anticipated. His fingers tightened around mine, his gaze never leaving me. I looked up at him, the sharp angles of his mask catching the light from the flickering candles. Behind it, his eyes, full of longing and a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before, held mine captive. For the first time, I saw not the Phantom, not the Angel of Music, but a man. It was as though speaking it aloud had changed something between us, peeling back the layers of fear and mystery. My chest tightened, torn between the gravity of what lay before me and the uncertainty of what this revelation meant.

His fingers slowly slipped from mine, and he stepped back, retreating into the dim light of the cavern. "You should return to the world above now," he said softly, his voice tinged with an unspoken sorrow. "Await the news of Don Juan Triumphant. When your voice is ready, when your spirit is ready... you will sing for me. For us."

I nodded, unable to form words. Erik turned, disappearing into the shadows once again, as though the darkness itself had swallowed him whole. I watched him fade, feeling the weight of his presence still lingering in the air, even after he was gone.

I stood there for a moment longer, rooted to the spot, before finally taking a step toward the corridor that would lead me back to the world above. The soft echo of my footsteps was the only sound in the cavern as I made my way toward the light, my thoughts a tumultuous storm of everything that had just passed between us.

But his name—Erik—followed me like a ghost, haunting me with every step I took. As I ascended toward the light of the opera house, I knew that I had crossed a threshold, one that could never be undone. I had seen the man behind the mask, and in doing so, had tethered myself to his fate in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

And as I emerged from the shadows and into the light, the weight of Erik’s world pressed heavy on my heart, reminding me that this was only the beginning of the path we now shared.

Was this the point of no return?

Chapter 17: Shades of Grey

Summary:

(y/n) returns to the world above, conflicted by everything she has experienced. Will Raoul be able to understand?

Notes:

Very sorry I disappeared for a moment there - I promise no matter what happens I won't give up on this fic!

The warmth of the opera house wrapped around me like an unwelcome shroud, its golden glow oppressive against my skin. The light poured through the high, arched windows, glistening off the polished marble and gilded statues, turning the space into a radiant sanctuary—one I felt ill-suited to occupy. The life here felt too bright, too oblivious to the world of shadows I had just escaped, as if I’d brought the chill of the catacombs up with me, leaving it to hover just beneath the surface of my skin. I paused in the hallway, my breath shallow, heart still racing from the depths I had emerged from. Erik's lair, the shadows, the secrets—they clung to me, threatening to pull me back. I had crossed into the world of the living again, but I felt more a ghost than ever, torn between two realities.

The sound of laughter, distant but unmistakable, echoed from the grand foyer ahead. The opera house bustled with life, voices mingling in conversation, the footsteps of performers and patrons alike carrying on with the rhythm of a place untouched by the darkness below. Yet, as I stood there, on the threshold of the mundane world, I felt its unreality. How could I return to this world after everything? After The Phantom—after his name?

I moved forward mechanically, my feet guiding me through the familiar corridors, but my thoughts remained far below, in the labyrinth of shadows and music where he waited. The Phantom, who had confessed his name to me, who had shown me his pain and his longing, who had made me a part of his soul. The knowledge of his suffering had settled deep within me, and it was a weight I could not easily cast aside.

The grand foyer’s chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting a soft, amber glow over the marble floors, and as I approached the grand staircase, the familiar figure of Madame Giry appeared. Madame Giry’s face, usually so stern, softened in the dim corridor, the flickering candlelight catching on the faint creases around her mouth and eyes. Her presence was steady, a beacon of strength against the opulence surrounding us. She reached for my arm, her fingers as cold as stone, and I could see a hint of sorrow behind her knowing eyes. It was as if she, too, carried the weight of secrets that had long burrowed into the walls of the opera house.

"Child," she whispered, drawing closer, her voice low as though the walls themselves might betray her. "You have returned. And yet, I see the burden upon your shoulders."

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. "Madame Giry, he... he told me his name."

Her expression did not change, but I saw something flicker behind her eyes—understanding, perhaps, or sorrow. "Erik," she said softly, almost reverently. "He has shared what few ever know. It means you are no longer just another voice in the chorus, no longer just a fleeting muse. You are bound to him now, in ways you cannot yet understand."

Her words, though true, struck fear into me. "Bound?" I echoed, my voice barely more than a whisper. "But I... I do not know if I can bear such a weight."

Madame Giry placed a hand on my arm, her grip firm, yet somehow comforting. "You are standing on a threshold, child, caught between light and shadow, and you must choose the path you will walk. Erik’s love is not the love of ordinary men. It is fierce, consuming, and it will not allow room for half-measures. He would tear down the world itself to keep you by his side. But you are not without choice. Remember that."

I nodded, but the knot in my chest tightened further. "What if I cannot choose?" I asked, my voice trembling. "What if the shadows have already claimed me? What if I’m lost to him?"

Madame Giry’s gaze softened, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of sympathy in her eyes, perhaps even a touch of regret. "Then you must learn to live in both the light and the darkness, for neither can exist without the other," she murmured, almost as if speaking to herself. "Erik walks a path few understand. His darkness is not born of malice, but of suffering. Yet know this: if you walk beside him, you will share in his pain as well as his passion. It is a burden that could consume you."

She released my arm, her fingers lingering for a moment as if she wished to say more, as if she wished to draw me back from the precipice I was teetering on. But then, a distant look clouded her eyes, and her hand fell to her side. "The choice is yours, child. But whatever path you take, do not let it destroy you. I have seen others who lost themselves in Erik’s world, and they did not return the same."

I felt a sharp jolt, her words slicing through me like the sudden chill of winter air. Others? The idea struck me as foreign, disorienting, as if the ground beneath my feet had shifted. There have been others... in Erik’s world? Others he has pulled into the shadows, others who have known him as I have? The thought was unsettling, planting a seed of jealousy deep within my heart, one I hadn’t expected. It felt wrong, irrational, but the feeling grew, entwining with the fear that I was not as unique to him as he was to me.

A part of me recoiled, ashamed at the sting of possessiveness that lingered in my chest. I should feel relieved to know I was not alone in navigating the storm Erik had created, that I was not the first to find myself entangled in his darkness. And yet, the thought of Erik sharing pieces of himself with someone else, with others who had ventured into the depths of his world, made my heart clench. Had they known his name, as I did? Had they seen glimpses of his suffering, the vulnerability he had shown to me?

The jealousy coiled around my mind, making it hard to breathe, even as I struggled to silence it. I was torn, caught between the urge to pull away from him and the fierce, inexplicable desire to be the only one who had walked this path with him, the only one who held his secrets. But what if I was just another soul drawn into the shadows, destined to disappear as they had, my presence fading from his memory like a whisper? The thought stung, a fresh wound on top of the confusion already tearing me apart.

Madame Giry’s eyes searched mine, and I wondered if she could see the turmoil churning within me, the quiet war between fear and envy, desperation and doubt. She seemed to study me, her expression softening, as though she could sense the jealousy tightening its hold on me, pulling me further into the labyrinth of my own emotions.

"Yes," she said softly, as if responding to the unspoken questions in my eyes. "Others have ventured into his world before you, drawn by the same haunting pull, the same darkness that now calls to you. But you are not them, (y/n). Whatever it is that Erik sees in you, it has bound him to you in ways I have never seen. Be wary, child, for that connection is a powerful one. It can consume just as surely as it can transform."

Her words did little to soothe the knot in my chest, but they were a reminder that my path was my own, unique as I had hoped it to be, yet bound by the same dangers that had claimed others before me. I took a steadying breath, struggling to untangle the jealousy that simmered beneath the surface, a feeling I knew I had no right to, yet couldn’t shake. This strange, unsettling emotion was but another reminder of the way Erik’s world had seeped into mine, colouring my thoughts with shades I barely recognized. Before I could respond, the grand doors of the opera house swung open, and a voice called out my name. I cast a glance at Madame Giry and pressed her lips into a thin line, before turning and leaving me to grapple with Raoul’s questions.

Raoul rushed toward me, his footsteps echoing like the frantic beating of my heart. His warmth reached me before he did, a beacon of comfort amidst the gilded mirrors and towering pillars that loomed above us, bearing witness to our moment. The distant murmur of patrons and performers drifted in from the theatre beyond, the sounds of laughter and life filling the space with a vivid energy that felt alien against the chill that clung to me from below. He reached out, taking my hands in his, his touch warm and comforting—a complete contrast to the cold, possessive grasp of the Phantom.

“(y/n), you’re safe!” Raoul’s voice broke as he pulled me into a fierce embrace, his hands gripping my shoulders, eyes searching mine with a desperation that made my heart ache. “I was so worried,” he breathed, releasing me just enough to hold my face, his brow furrowing. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, and I—” He stopped, realization flickering in his eyes, an anomalous shadow crossing his face. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you? With... the Phantom?”

His words struck me like a blow, and I felt the shame of his gaze burning into me. I looked away, unable to meet the questions in his eyes. “Raoul, I... I had to speak with him. He—”

“No,” Raoul interrupted, his grip tightening, his fingers trembling slightly. “You don’t owe him anything!” His voice quivered with a mix of anger and fear. “Don’t you see? He’s dangerous, (y/n). He’ll never let you go. Not now, not ever.”

tried to pull my hands free, but he held on, his fingers digging in as if he could keep me from slipping away. His grip, usually so gentle and warm, now felt like iron, binding me in a way that was as shocking as it was desperate. This wasn’t the Raoul I knew—the Raoul who’d always been my sanctuary, my soft place to fall, offering his kindness with a light touch and steady hands.

Now, his intensity mirrored a desperation I hadn’t seen before, and his eyes burned with a fierce urgency, a refusal to let go. This is what Erik does, I realized with a strange chill, he drives even the kindest souls to this edge. I could feel Raoul's pulse thundering beneath his skin, his breath unsteady, as if he was fighting to keep himself tethered, struggling to understand what the darkness had done to us both.

“Raoul, please,” I whispered, pleading with him to understand. “It’s not that simple. He... he told me things. Showed me things—things I can’t unsee.”

His face softened, but his hands trembled, betraying the tension he was fighting to hold back. “Things?” His voice broke, and I saw the fear lurking beneath his anger. “What could he have possibly shown you that would keep you with him? He’s a monster, (y/n). He’s... he’s trying to pull you into his world, and I can’t—” His voice faltered, thick with desperation. “I can’t lose you to him.”

“Raoul...” I whispered, caught off-guard by the harshness in his grasp, so unlike the boy who had once serenaded me beneath the summer sun. The boy who’d always treated me like I was something fragile, something to be cherished. I had run to him for safety, for light, but here he was, gripping me with a force that spoke of his own fears, his own shadows. Had the Phantom’s darkness begun to seep into Raoul as well, reshaping him, twisting him into someone unrecognizable, someone as fierce and unrelenting as the man I had left below?

"And now he’s trying to claim you, isn’t he?" Raoul’s voice broke, his fear and anger palpable. "I can’t let him have you, (Y/n). I won’t."

His words, though spoken with love, felt like chains of their own. I was trapped between them—between the light Raoul offered and the dark embrace of the Phantom’s world. Erik’s words, his touch, still lingered in my mind, and I knew that the choice Madame Giry spoke of would not be an easy one. It wasn’t as simple as stepping into the light or retreating into the shadows; both paths had become intertwined, their edges blurring until they dissolved into an unsettling shade of grey.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the light Raoul offered wasn’t the pure refuge it once seemed. It was as confining as Erik’s darkness, a place of expectations, of unspoken rules and fears. Raoul wanted to protect me, to shield me from harm, but in his embrace, I felt the weight of his need to keep me safe—even if it meant denying the parts of me that had wandered into the shadows.

And Erik, who claimed the darkness as his own, offered no true freedom either. His love was fierce, consuming, and uncompromising, casting out all shades but his own, devouring everything else. Yet in his presence, there was a strange kind of liberation, a rawness that allowed me to be more than a delicate figure to be guarded. I had stepped into his world of shadows and felt the thrill of it, even as the darkness threatened to swallow me whole.

I stood there, feeling torn in two, as if Raoul and Erik were each holding one of my hands, pulling me into places I no longer recognized. The lines of light and dark had merged, overlapping and bleeding into one another, until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. It was a murky, uncomfortable space, a fog that clouded everything I thought I knew about right and wrong, safety and danger. The warmth I sought from Raoul no longer felt like a shelter, and the cold allure of Erik’s world no longer seemed a realm of pure shadow. Both held me in their grip, leaving me suspended between two worlds, unsure of where I truly belonged.

As I stood there, I realized that perhaps this in-between, this uneasy grey, was where I would remain—caught forever between light and dark, trapped in a place where neither felt truly right, nor truly wrong. And in this strange, blurred space, I could feel my soul stretching and straining, reaching for something more than either of them could offer, yet bound by the pull of them both.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them away. "Raoul, I need time. Please understand. I need to figure out what is right—what is true."

Raoul’s face softened, but the tension in his shoulders remained. "I only want to protect you," he said quietly, his voice filled with anguish. He looked at me, searching for answers in my eyes, desperation creeping into his voice. "Does he love you so much? This... Phantom?"

I hesitated, the weight of Raoul’s question pressing down on me, and I found myself whispering the terrible truth that I had been trying to ignore. "He would commit murder for me." The words left my lips like a confession, trembling with the horror and the power that I knew they carried.

Raoul's face paled, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Murder..." he echoed, his voice barely more than a whisper. He took a step back, as if the weight of my words had physically struck him. "You can’t mean that, (y/n). You can’t let that be love."

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the chill of his retreat. "I don’t know what it is, Raoul. But that’s the truth. He’s done terrible things... but he’s also done them because he believes it’s the only way to keep me safe. In his twisted mind, it’s love."

Raoul shook his head, his jaw clenched tight with frustration and disbelief. "And you think that’s enough? You think you can justify what he’s done—what he’s capable of doing—because he thinks it’s love?"

"I’m not justifying anything," I said, my voice trembling. "But I can’t ignore what he’s done for me. He’s killed for me, Raoul. And as terrifying as that is, it’s also... it’s also something I can’t just walk away from."

Raoul's expression hardened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You can walk away," he said firmly, though his voice wavered with emotion. "You should walk away. He doesn’t own you, (y/n). His love—if you can even call it that—is a cage. And you’re letting him trap you in it."

I bit my lip, feeling the conflict rise within me, tearing me apart. "I’m not trapped," I whispered, though even I wasn’t sure if I believed the words. "But I’m torn. Between you and him. Between the light and the darkness. I can’t just abandon either of you... not yet."

Raoul’s gaze hardened further still, his frustration giving way to something deeper—something broken. "You don’t belong to him," he said with a quiet rage, his voice filled with a mixture of sorrow and desperation. "You don’t have to stay in that darkness, (y/n). You can be free. You can have a life—our life—together."

I swallowed hard, my heart aching with the weight of the choice I couldn’t yet make. "I need time, Raoul. Please... I need time to figure it out."

Raoul stared at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and anguish, silently pleading with me to choose him, to find refuge in the safety of the life he offered. But I could see the flicker of doubt behind his gaze, the creeping realization that I couldn’t give him that certainty—not while Erik’s shadow still lingered in my mind, pulling me back into the darkness I couldn’t seem to leave behind.

“You don’t have to be afraid of him,” Raoul murmured, his voice softening, even as his eyes shone with desperation. He stepped closer, reaching out as if he could draw me back into the light by the sheer force of his will. “I’ll protect you. From him, from anything that comes our way. Just let me,” he whispered, his words as tender as they were resolute.

I looked down, unable to meet his gaze, the knot of fear and confusion tightening like a vice in my chest. “You don’t understand, Raoul.” My voice trembled as I spoke, a fracture in the calm I’d struggled to maintain. “Erik... he’s dangerous, yes, but he’s more than that. He’s broken, lost in ways that make him cling to me as if I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. And in those moments, I see something in him—something that needs to be understood, even if no one else can see it. I can’t just... walk away from that. Not yet.”

Raoul’s face twisted, hurt flashing in his eyes as he absorbed my words. “You think I don’t understand?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, laced with a raw, unguarded pain. “I know he’s broken, (y/n). I know he needs you, but do you know what that’s doing to you? He’s drowning, and he’s pulling you under with him. I can see it every time I look at you.” His hand reached out, trembling as he cupped my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “You used to shine, so brightly that I could barely stand it. But now… now, it’s like you’re slipping away, disappearing into his shadows, and I’m losing you bit by bit.”

His words tore at me, exposing the truth I’d tried so hard to deny. I felt my breath catch, the ache in my chest spreading until it seemed to consume me. “Raoul,” I whispered, my own voice breaking as I placed my hand over his, holding it to my face. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been my light, my escape from everything I feared. But Erik… he’s like a haunting melody, one that calls to me even when I know I should resist. I can’t ignore that pull, not yet. He’s more than the monster people think he is. He’s human, just like you, and he’s crying out for someone to see him as something more.”

Raoul’s hand fell away, his expression crumbling as he took a step back, as if my words had struck him with a force he hadn’t anticipated. “And where does that leave us?” he asked, his voice low and trembling with hurt. “You’re willing to risk yourself for a man who sees you as his salvation, a man who would drag you into his darkness without a second thought, and yet… you hesitate when it comes to me. What am I, then? A fleeting escape, a way to soothe the parts of you that he’s hurt?”

“Raoul, it’s not like that,” I protested, but the words sounded hollow even to my own ears. I could see the hurt etched into his face, the realization dawning in his eyes that I was drifting further from the life he longed to build for us, for me. “You’re my anchor, the one thing that feels safe, but Erik… he’s a part of me now, too. A part that I can’t just sever because it’s easier to stay in the light.”

He laughed, but there was no warmth in it, only a bitterness that sent a chill through me. “Safe? You think I want to be your safe choice?” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I want to be your choice, (y/n), your heart, your future. I want you to look at me and see the life we could have, not just the shelter I can offer when his world becomes too dark.”

Tears pricked my own eyes, and I struggled to hold back the wave of emotion threatening to overtake me. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “I never wanted to make you feel this way. I never wanted to choose between you and him, because I never thought it would come to this.”

Raoul’s shoulders slumped, the last remnants of his strength seeming to drain away as he looked at me with a sorrow that cut me to the core. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “You’ve already chosen, haven’t you? Even if you can’t admit it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him he was wrong, but the words refused to come. In that moment, I saw the truth laid bare between us—the truth I had been too afraid to face. I was caught between two worlds, two men, and the pieces of my heart were scattered across a chasm I wasn’t sure I could bridge. I wanted to tell Raoul that he was wrong, that I could find my way back to the light, but even as I stood there, I felt Erik’s presence like a shadow over my soul, a pull I couldn’t resist.

Raoul’s expression softened, though the tension in his shoulders remained, his desperation clear in the way he searched my face, as if clinging to any hope that I might still turn to him. He took a step closer, his voice a quiet plea, edged with the weight of everything that hung between us. "Give me a chance, (y/n)," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine, filled with hope and sorrow. "There’s a masquerade ball next week—celebrating the end of the season. Come with me. Let me show you what life could be. Away from the shadows, away from him. Just one night, please. Let me have that."

His words hung in the air, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. A masquerade... a night wrapped in the allure of elegance and mystery. But it also felt like an escape, an attempt to pull me from the tangled web that bound me to Erik.

"I... I don’t know, Raoul," I whispered, my voice trembling with uncertainty. The idea of such a night, of dancing in the light, felt distant—like a world that no longer belonged to me. "I need time, and The Phantom—"

Raoul’s face twisted with emotion, his hand reaching out to cup my cheek, his touch warm and steady, a stark contrast to the cold grip of Erik’s possessive hands. "Please," he spoke softly, his voice almost breaking. "Come with me. Let me remind you of who you were before all of this. Before him."

Raoul’s eyes, pleading and filled with the kind of affection I had longed to feel, drew me closer to him in that moment. His touch was steady, warm, grounding—so different from the electrifying intensity that always accompanied Erik’s presence. There was safety in Raoul, a promise of normalcy, of light.

"Just one night," he whispered again, his voice trembling with a vulnerability that nearly broke my resolve. "Let me show you that there’s more than the darkness he has trapped you in. It’s all I ask of you."

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. The idea of stepping away from Erik, even for a night, seemed impossible. But the weariness of it all—the secrets, the fear, the pull of two worlds—was overwhelming. And Raoul was offering me an escape, if only for a fleeting moment.

"Okay, monsieur," I whispered, feeling the words leave me before I could even comprehend them. "I will attend the masquerade with you."

Relief washed over Raoul's face as he smiled, his thumb gently brushing my cheek. "Thank you," he breathed, the weight of his words filled with hope. "I promise, you won’t regret it."

But even as he pulled me into a gentle embrace, the knot of unease in my chest tightened. Would Erik allow me this one night? Would he understand, or would his jealousy consume him?

I closed my eyes, resting my head against Raoul’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. His arms wrapped around me, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt the warmth of familiarity, the safety of a world that wasn’t shrouded in darkness. In Raoul’s embrace, there was no menace lurking behind kind gestures, no haunting melodies wrapping around my soul, demanding more than I could give. There was only the gentle rise and fall of his breath, the quiet promise of protection that he had offered so freely.

Yet, even as his arms held me close, a strange hollowness crept into my heart. I wanted to feel at ease in his embrace, to sink into the light he represented, but a part of me resisted. His touch was steady, comforting, but it did not stir the depths of me like Erik’s touch did, with its dangerous allure and the undercurrent of possessive need. Where Raoul’s hands were kind and gentle, Erik’s were fire—burning me with every brush of his fingers, igniting emotions I had never known before. With Raoul, I was safe. With Erik, I was alive.

I wanted to belong here, in this light, to lose myself in the simplicity of Raoul’s affection. But the shadows clung to me, reminding me that Erik was still there, waiting, watching. Even now, as I leaned into Raoul’s warmth, I could feel Erik’s presence in the back of my mind, like a ghost haunting the edge of my consciousness, reminding me that I could not escape so easily.

A small sigh escaped my lips as I burrowed deeper into Raoul’s embrace, trying to hold onto the peace he offered. Yet, with every beat of his heart beneath my cheek, the question loomed larger: could I ever truly leave the Phantom behind? Could I ever be free of the pull he had on me, of the music, of the darkness? And if I could... did I even want to?

Raoul’s arms tightened around me, and I felt his lips brush the top of my head. He was my protector, the one who had always been there, offering safety. But in that safety, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my indecision, the looming shadow of the Phantom’s world pulling at me, even as I stood in the arms of light.

Notes:

What did you think? Is (y/n) making the right choice in giving Raoul a chance?

Chapter 18: All I Ask Of You

Summary:

As the days pass in a haze, (y/n) finds herself caught between the preparations for the masquerade and the haunting silence left by Erik’s absence. She is torn between the allure of Raoul’s promise of freedom and Erik’s dark, consuming pull.

In an unexpected gesture of affection, Raoul asks (y/n) to join him...

The days passed in a blur, each one a step closer to the masquerade that Raoul had promised would free me, if only for a night. I moved through them like a ghost, my mind still entangled in the lingering shadows of Erik’s world, even as I went through the motions of my daily life at the opera house. Madame Giry’s words haunted me, echoing in my mind, a constant reminder of the choice I had yet to make. The weight of both light and shadow, she had said, and I carried it with me, pressing down on my chest with each breath.

Preparations for the masquerade filled the opera house, as elaborate gowns and dazzling masks were crafted by eager hands, and whispers of the night’s festivities swept through the corridors. It felt strange, surreal even, to watch the excitement unfold around me. The masquerade was meant to be an escape, a night of freedom and illusion, but for me, it loomed as a crossroads, a moment where the light of Raoul’s world and the darkness of Erik’s would both collide.

Raoul had not spoken much to me since our conversation in the grand foyer. He seemed to sense my reluctance, my hesitation, but I knew he was waiting, watching for a sign that I was ready to step back into the life he had so carefully woven for me. In his gaze, I could see a fragile hope, one that both comforted and burdened me. He wanted so badly to save me from the shadows, to draw me into a world of light and love. And yet, a part of me felt like an imposter, an actress playing a role I could no longer inhabit.

And Erik…

Erik had not visited since he told me his name. I had expected to find notes, a single rose on the nightstand in the little room I now called my safe place, or perhaps to catch a fleeting glimpse of him emerging from the shadows within the closet. But he wasn’t there. His presence, once an inescapable part of my life, was now a hollow absence, and even his voice did not drift through my dreams. He was nowhere, and I felt his silence as an ache I could not quiet.

Even though it had only been a few days, my heart betrayed me with its yearning, and I often found myself with a hand pressed against the wardrobe’s wooden door, whispering my silent plea into the emptiness beyond, hoping he might feel my longing and come to me. I hadn’t realized how deeply I craved his presence, how I had come to rely on the silent pull of his world entwining with mine. Without him, the shadows felt colder, and I found myself straining to hear his whispers, to catch a glimpse of him lurking in the darkness.

So, despite the bustling preparations, a strange lull hung over me—a quiet, consuming absence. It was as though the light and dark in my life had dulled to shades of grey, leaving me trapped with only my thoughts. I had come to the Paris Garnier for solace, for the hope of a new beginning, yet I now found myself caught in the haze of memories I could hardly recognize as my own. The voice I once yearned to share with the world had drawn me into a whirlwind, bringing death in its wake, and thrust me into the lives of two men bound in equal allure yet marked by opposing forces.

When I first stood on that stage, desperate to escape the hunger and uncertainty of the streets, I had little notion of what awaited me. How could I have known that, within mere weeks, I would find myself embroiled in not one, but two murders carried out because of me? I’d been attacked, stripped of my innocence in ways I hadn’t imagined, and now found myself vacillating between light and shadow—a choice between two men whose paths and purposes seemed irreconcilable yet inexplicably entwined with mine.

A shudder ran through me as I considered Madame Giry’s words, reminding me of the danger of Erik’s world. How many others had been caught up in this tragedy? How many had felt this pull only to lose themselves entirely? And yet, I felt a spark of selfishness—a flicker of jealousy, even—at the thought of others who might have been drawn into his shadow, others who might have shared moments in the darkness with him. It was shameful, irrational, but there it was, mingling with the terror and the thrill, wrapping itself around my heart like a vine I could not uproot.

As the evening settled over the opera house, I found myself drifting back to my bedchamber, each step heavy with the weight of the day. The corridors seemed longer, quieter, as if even the walls knew what lay ahead. Tomorrow night would be the masquerade, and though the rest of the company bustled with excitement, my heart remained hollow, haunted by the choices looming before me.

When I reached my room, the door creaked open, and I paused on the threshold, allowing the familiar silence to wash over me. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, a small comfort in a world that had become anything but. In another life, this might have been enough—a simple room, a quiet evening. But that girl was gone now, lost to the secrets and shadows that had reshaped my heart. My bed, more than enticing after a such a long day, lay bathed in the soft glow of a single candle I had left burning on the table.

I gasped when my eyes brushed over it – a small box at the end of the bed.

I slipped out of my shoes and crossed the room, my fingers trailing along the wooden bedpost as I moved towards the box, my heartbeat quickening with both fear and excitement. It wrapped in deep crimson silk and tied with a delicate black ribbon. My fingers trembled as I undid the knot, pulling back the fabric to reveal the most exquisite mask I had ever seen. It was crafted from fine lace, interwoven with tiny crystals that sparkled like stars, and trimmed with black velvet. Beneath it lay a gown of black, rich and sumptuous, with a bodice embroidered in gold thread that shimmered like sunlight.

My heart skipped a beat. Erik.

There was no note, but I knew. I could feel his presence in every detail, every stitch. The gown and mask were a message, a whisper from the shadows, reminding me that he was there, waiting, watching. He had known I would go to the masquerade, known that I would be torn between the worlds he and Raoul offered. And now, he had given me his own piece of the night, weaving himself into the fabric that would cling to my skin, even as I tried to lose myself in Raoul’s light.

I held the gown close, pressing it against my chest, my pulse quickening as I felt the soft fabric against my skin. Erik had touched this, had chosen it for me. The thought was intoxicating, and yet, I felt the chill of fear creeping in. I had agreed to go with Raoul, to let him show me a world beyond the shadows, but Erik had already found a way to follow, binding himself to me in ways I could neither predict nor resist.

I slipped the mask over my face, staring at my reflection in the small mirror by my bed. The lace framed my eyes, turning my gaze into something darker, more mysterious. I hardly recognized myself, the woman staring back at me transformed into a creature of shadows and secrets, wrapped in a web of desires I barely understood.

How could I go with Raoul dressed in Erik’s gifts? How could I dance with one man, while my heart beat to the rhythm of another’s touch?

The memory of Erik’s lair clung to me, mingling with the warmth of Raoul’s embrace. I could still feel the press of his hands on my shoulders, the fierce urgency in his voice as he begged me to choose him. But how could I? I had promised Raoul I would go with him to the masquerade, yet every fibre of my being felt torn, as if part of me would always remain in the darkness below.

I turned away from the mirror and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, folding my hands in my lap. My gaze drifted to the wardrobe, and I felt the now-familiar pang of longing twist within me. Erik. I half-expected him to appear, to step from the shadows and adjust the mask on my face as he might his own. Sometimes I imagined him watching me, just beyond the veil of light, his gaze piercing through the darkness with an intensity that left me breathless. How often had I found myself wishing for him to come to me, despite the danger, despite the fear?

I sighed, the sound barely more than a whisper, and pulled the mask off, letting it rest on the nightstand. I leaned back and allowed myself to sink into the soft bedding. The silence of the room enveloped me, and I closed my eyes, hoping for some respite, some moment of clarity. But my thoughts only grew murkier, clouded by memories of him—of the music, the shadows, the unmistakable connection that lingered between us.

My heart ached with the weight of it all, the cruel irony of being drawn to two men whose worlds clashed so violently with my own. The candle flickered beside me, casting shifting shadows on the walls, and I found myself reaching out, as if my hand could grasp the very air where he might have stood.

A sudden knock shattered the stillness, and I sat up with a start, pulse quickening. I hadn’t expected a visitor, let alone at this hour, and I hesitated before climbing out of bed and crossing the room, a thousand thoughts swirling through my mind. Another knock, this time more insistent, and a voice—low, familiar, but carrying an urgency that set my heart pounding.

“Mademoiselle, it is I.”

I drew in a sharp breath, my hand hovering just above the door’s handle. There was something in his tone, a quiet insistence that held me in place for a moment longer. I opened the door slowly, and there he stood, the flickering light from the hallway casting a warm glow upon his features. His gaze, intense and full of unspoken words, met mine, and I felt the faintest shiver course through me.

“Raoul,” I began softly, but he raised a hand, his gesture commanding silence.

“Not a word, I beg you,” he murmured, his voice a mere whisper, but filled with an urgency that left me breathless. “There is something I must show you tonight. It cannot wait, and you must trust me implicitly. Do you understand?”

I nodded, a strange mix of surprise and curiosity rendering me speechless. I saw the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes, and he offered me his hand, his fingers warm and steady as they wrapped around mine. “Come then, but wrap yourself well,” he instructed, his voice now barely more than a breath. “It is bitter cold, and the night grows colder still.”

Without a word, I reached for a long coat, draping it around my shoulders as I felt Raoul’s gaze upon me, unwavering, intent. The world seemed to slow as I fastened the buttons, his presence lending a warmth to the room even as a chill seeped in from the open door. I glanced at him, and he nodded, guiding me gently out into the quiet corridor. His hand remained firm on mine, as though he feared I might vanish into the shadows if he released his grip. Perhaps I might.

We walked in silence, my footsteps falling in sync with his as he led me through the empty passages of the opera house, each turn more disorienting than the last. I knew these halls well, yet tonight, in the quiet embrace of the building’s slumber, they seemed different—endless, unfamiliar, and hauntingly beautiful. I dared not break the silence, for something in his gaze told me that words would shatter the fragile magic of this night.

At last, we ascended a narrow staircase, and I realized, with a start, that he was leading me to the rooftop. My heart quickened as we climbed, and soon, the air grew colder, the scent of fresh snow filling my lungs as we reached the final step. Raoul opened the door before us, and the night sky stretched out above, clear and infinite, the faintest dusting of snow falling like delicate lace upon the city below.

He turned to me then, a faint smile softening his expression, and for a moment, I was lost, caught between the beauty of the snow-laden world and the intensity of his gaze. “Look, (y/n),” he murmured, gesturing toward the sweeping view of Paris, shrouded in the quiet of the winter night.

I stepped forward, feeling the cold seep through my coat as the snowflakes landed upon my cheeks, melting into tiny, fleeting kisses of ice. The city stretched out beneath us, the lights twinkling like stars scattered upon the earth, and I felt a profound stillness settle within me, a peace I had not known in weeks. Raoul’s hand rested gently on my shoulder, and I turned to him, surprised by the softness in his eyes.

“Tonight, I wanted to remind you of this—of the beauty of the world above,” he said softly, his voice carrying a tenderness that warmed the chill from my bones. “You’ve been dwelling in shadows, lost to a world that holds you in its thrall, but this, (y/n)… this is yours as well. The beauty, the light, the life that exists beyond those shadows.”

I stared at him, the words catching in my throat as he took both my hands in his, his grip steady, reassuring. “I fear I may never be able to pull you from that darkness,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly, “but I wished to show you, if only for a moment, what it is you have outside of it. And I ask nothing in return—only that you remember.”

The snow drifted down around us, each flake a fragile reminder of the world that lay beyond Erik’s shadow. I closed my eyes, inhaling the crisp night air, and felt a soft calm settle over me, quieting the storm that had raged in my heart. Raoul’s presence, so steady and warm, grounded me in that moment, and for a heartbeat, I allowed myself to be fully present, to revel in the simplicity of the world he had brought me to.

I opened my eyes and found his gaze upon me, filled with a longing that stirred something deep within. He drew closer, his voice barely a whisper. “No matter where you go, no matter whom you choose, this will always be here for you—the beauty of the world above. And I… I shall always be here, waiting.”

His words, spoken with such quiet conviction, melted into the night, carried away on the breath of the winter wind. I stood there, hand in his, caught between the light he offered and the shadows that clung to me. The snow fell around us, each flake a reminder of the fleeting nature of time, and I knew that here, on the rooftop of the opera house, I had found a moment of peace, a pause in the tempest that would soon come. The night was his gift to me, a reminder of the beauty that lingered beyond the darkness. And as I stood there beside him, I felt, for a fleeting moment, the warmth of hope rekindled within my heart.

I stared out over the rooftop, snowflakes falling in delicate spirals around us, a soft silence descending over Paris. Raoul held my hands in his, his touch grounding me in a way that felt both comforting and strangely unsettling. The wind curled around us, carrying whispers from the world below, while I stood, caught between the light of his world and the shadows that still clung to my heart.

“Why have you brought me here, Raoul?” I breathed, the words escaping me almost unconsciously. I looked at him, searching his face, my heart trembling in the stillness. “What is this place, this quiet haven, where the world fades to silence?”

He looked back at me, his gaze unwavering, his eyes reflecting a tenderness that made my chest tighten. “I’ve brought you here, (y/n),” he murmured, “to show you that there is beauty beyond the shadows. I wanted you to see that you can leave that darkness behind.”

I shook my head, a feeling of unease mingling with the snow-kissed air. “I… I don’t understand. How can I leave it behind? I am haunted, Raoul… haunted by the shadows that bind me to him, haunted by his voice that still echoes in my mind. He will see me at the masquerade tomorrow Raoul – his eyes will find me there.” I let my voice drop to a whisper as I cast a look behind me, feeling a prickle begin to form across the back of my neck. “Those eyes that burn…”

Raoul’s hands tightened around mine, his expression filled with a desperation that mirrored my own. “Forget this waking nightmare,” he spoke, softly. “You don’t belong to him, (y/n). You’re free to choose—to leave this place of torment and come back to the light. He has no claim on you.”

I drew back, my voice trembling. “No claim? He has taken hold of my soul, Raoul. He haunts my thoughts, my dreams. I cannot escape him, not truly. I feel his presence even now, as if he watches, waiting for me to return to the shadows.” A creeping, cold realisation, intensified by the gentle snowflakes falling around us gripped me in its icy grip as the weight of the last few weeks became truly tangible. My eyes drifted back to the door we had emerged from, and a terror gripped my throat. Elise… Buquet… “My god, who is this man, who hunts to kill? I can’t escape from him – I never will.” The panic made my voice shrill, and a slight tremble look hold of my body.

“Whose is this voice you hear with every breath?” Raoul asked, a small annoyance taking hold of him. “There is no Phantom of the Opera,” he spat, holding onto my shoulders with a firm grip. “Not truly. He is just a man!”

A sharp anger flared within me at Raoul’s dismissal, the bitterness catching in my throat as I met his gaze, my own voice rising, raw and unrestrained. “Raoul, I've seen him!” I cried, feeling the words pour from me like a dam breaking, fierce and unstoppable. “Can I ever forget that sight? Can I ever escape from that face? So distorted, so deformed… it was hardly a face at all!” My words grew harsher, trembling with the force of the memory. “In that darkness… that darkness…” My voice shook, each word a plea he could not answer, a torment he could never fathom.

Raoul’s grip tightened, his expression one of pain, tinged with frustration, as if he, too, could feel the suffocating weight of the shadows pressing down upon us. But my words hung between us, suspended in the cold air, and I saw the hurt in his eyes, the helplessness that filled the silence. He could not understand what I had seen, nor the depth of fear that had rooted itself in my soul, bound to the very fabric of my being. Nor could he even begin to understand why I found myself torn between them both.

Yet, as I spoke, I felt another sensation rising, a ghostly echo of a different memory, gentler and sweeter, entwined with a melody that lingered like a soft caress. My anger wavered, and I drew a shaky breath, recalling the night Erik had first drawn me to him, his voice wrapping around me like a silken thread, pulling me into a world I had not known existed.

“But his voice…” My heart softened, the anger slipping away as a warmth, strange and bittersweet, filled its place. “His voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound… In that night, there was music in my mind…” I remembered the haunting notes, the way they had stirred something deep within me, a part of my soul I hadn’t known was there, a place that only Erik’s music could reach.

As I reflected on that night, I could feel the echo of his voice, each note resonating within me, igniting a longing that transcended fear. With Erik, there was a beauty in the darkness, a place where my soul could soar, unrestrained by the world I had known. “Through music, my soul began to soar… and I heard as I’d never heard before.”

My gaze softened, and I turned away from Raoul, staring out over the snow-covered rooftops, my heart torn between the comfort of his warmth and the cold, forbidden allure of Erik’s world. For all his deformities, all his darkness, there was a beauty underneath—a beauty that called to me, a beauty I could not fully explain. And in that music, in that strange, sweet sound, I had found a piece of myself that would forever linger, lost to his haunting melody.

Raoul’s hand fell away, and I could feel his frustration mounting as he spoke, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. “What you heard was a dream, (y/n), and nothing more. You’re chasing shadows, illusions woven from his music and his words. He has drawn you into a fantasy, one that will only pull you deeper into his darkness.”

I let his words settle over me, but I could not bring myself to turn, to face the look of pain I knew would be there. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed on the snow-covered rooftops, my voice quiet, touched with a sorrow I couldn’t shake. “Yet in his eyes… I saw all the sadness of the world, Raoul.” I felt my throat tighten, and I drew a trembling breath, the memory vivid in my mind. “Those pleading eyes… eyes that both threaten and adore. How can I forget them?”

I could feel him tense beside me, his silence filled with disbelief, a pained resignation lingering in the air between us. He couldn’t understand, could never understand the way those eyes haunted me still, even now, as I stood beside him. The memory of Erik’s gaze, so piercing, so filled with despair, remained with me, entwined with the lingering notes of his music, a part of my very soul. I was bound to him, drawn into his world of shadows, and even as I longed for the warmth of Raoul’s embrace, I knew I could not fully escape.

Raoul's voice drifted through the snow-laden air, soft and filled with a desperation that echoed in my chest.

“(y/n)...” he murmured, almost as if he feared he might lose me, even here, on this quiet rooftop. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out, trembling slightly as he whispered my name once more, “(y/n)…”

And then I heard it—a voice from somewhere in the shadows, lingering at the edge of my mind, slipping through the snowflakes that swirled around us. It was soft, barely more than a murmur, yet it pierced through the night with a terrible clarity.

“(Y/n)...”

My heart stopped, a cold dread flooding through my veins, leaving me both paralysed and utterly transfixed. It was him. I knew that voice as well as my own heartbeat. I felt a tremor rise within me, a mix of terror and something far more thrilling. My skin prickled, the hair on the back of my neck rising as if I’d been caught, as if I were a child standing on the threshold of some forbidden world, caught in the act of a terrible betrayal. I felt his presence, the darkness that wrapped around him curling through the air, finding me even here, exposed under the winter sky.

And yet, beneath the fear, there was a pull I couldn’t ignore, a magnetic force that seemed to reach into my very soul, urging me to come closer, to let myself fall into the shadows where he waited. It was as if his voice wove through me, laced with a danger that sent a thrill up my spine. Every inch of me felt alive, electrified, as though he had bound me with a single word, and no light could free me.

I turned, instinctively, my heart racing, my eyes scanning the darkness that loomed just beyond the rooftop’s edge. I couldn’t see him, and yet I felt him there, watching, waiting, his presence as tangible as the snow that fell around us. The night itself seemed to hold its breath, wrapping us in a quiet, suffocating embrace, and I was caught—caught between what Raoul offered and the shadows that beckoned, tantalizing and terrifying.

“What was that?!” I whispered, eyes wide.

Raoul’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, steady and warm, but the touch felt distant, faint. My heart hammered in my chest, torn between the fear and the thrill, drawn to the darkness with a longing I could not name. I swallowed, unable to shake the feeling that I was no longer here, no longer truly present. Erik’s voice had reached out and taken hold of me, and for that single, breathless moment, I was his—captured, bound, unable to escape.

 

I collapsed to my knees, the weight of it all pressing down on me, pulling me to the cold, snow-covered ground. My hand came up to cover my face, and I choked back a sob, feeling the sharp pang of sadness and anxiety constricting my chest, stealing my breath. None of this was fair—not on me, not on Raoul. How had I been swept into this strange world of shadows and pain, torn between two men whose paths should never have crossed mine? Why was Erik doing this? Why did he haunt me so?

The wind whispered through the rooftop, the cold biting into my skin, and I felt small, vulnerable, and utterly lost. A soft crunch of snow sounded beside me, and I looked up to find Raoul standing there, his face full of concern, his eyes reflecting the hurt and confusion I’d inflicted upon him. He reached out, his hand open, offering me his warmth, his support—everything he could give, even as he saw me trembling, bound to a world he could not understand.

For a moment, I hesitated, staring at his hand, feeling the shame rise within me. How could I take it? How could I accept his kindness, his comfort, when I was here on my knees, torn between him and the man whose voice had just stirred my very soul? I did not deserve his gentle touch, not after what I had said, what I had done. And yet, as I looked into his eyes, I saw a quiet resolve, a steadfastness that held me, and I found myself reaching out, my fingers slipping into his, even as my heart twisted with guilt.

He pulled me to my feet, steadying me, his hand warm and sure in mine. “(Y/n),” he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness that cut through my shame. “You do not have to face this alone.” He squeezed my hand, as if trying to pull me back from the edge of the abyss, to anchor me in the light he offered, to remind me of the life he wished to share.

I took a shaky breath, feeling the sadness swell once more. “Raoul, I… I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.” The words tumbled from my lips, thick with the sorrow that clung to me, weighing me down. “How can you stand by me, knowing… knowing how deeply I am pulled toward him?”

Raoul’s gaze softened, and he brushed a snowflake from my cheek, his touch gentle, forgiving. “Because I see the woman I love standing before me, lost in a nightmare she didn’t ask for. And I cannot leave you, no matter how far he tries to pull you away. I am here, (y/n), and I will not abandon you to the shadows.”

The ache in my chest deepened, the pain mingling with a faint, fragile hope. I looked at him, at the man who offered me light, even as I found myself slipping further into the darkness. His hand in mine was a lifeline, a fragile connection that held me back from the pull of Erik’s voice, and I clung to it, even as I felt myself slipping, torn between two worlds that neither should nor could coexist.

“Love?” I choked out. I felt my heart tremble as Raoul gazed at me, his expression softening as he reached out, his fingers gentle as he adjusted the hood of my gown, letting it fall back to rest on my shoulders, exposing my face to the quiet snowfall. His touch was tender, calming, and the sorrow that had overwhelmed me began to fade, replaced by the warmth of his presence.

“No more talk of darkness,” he murmured, his voice soft yet unwavering. He held my gaze, his words a balm that soothed the ache in my chest. “Forget these wide-eyed fears. I am here. Nothing can harm you - my words will warm and calm you.”

His hand brushed against my cheek, his touch light as a feather, and I felt a tear slip free, its warmth startling against the chill of the winter night. He wiped it away, his thumb lingering there, and his voice grew steadier, filled with a quiet conviction that wrapped around me like the embrace of the sun. “Let me be your freedom, (y/n). Let daylight dry your tears.”

I looked at him, my breath caught in my throat, my heart torn between the darkness that lingered within me and the light he held out like a gift. His eyes never wavered, and he held both my hands now, pulling me close, as though he could shield me from the shadows that haunted me.

“I’m here,” he continued, his words a promise that seemed to fill the night. “With you, beside you. To guard you and to guide you.”

I looked up at Raoul, my voice trembling as I spoke, “All I want is freedom… a world with no more night.”

The words lingered in the air, warm and sincere, but even as I heard them, a shadow crept over my heart. I felt Raoul’s grip tighten, his face softening with hope, and yet something inside me stirred, an uncertainty that tugged at the edges of my thoughts, twisting around my heart like a vine.

Did I truly want a world without Erik’s shadow? The question pressed itself into my mind, a whisper that sent a chill down my spine. There was a safety in Raoul’s embrace, a warmth that promised protection, solace, light. But would that light feel hollow without the thrill of Erik’s darkness? The haunting pull of his voice, the strange, sweet music that had called to me, awakening parts of my soul that had never before known such depth… could I really leave that behind?

“And you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me,” I continued gently, but my heart twisted as I spoke, caught between the shelter of Raoul’s love and the fire that Erik had ignited within me. I felt the conflict growing, an ache that spread through my chest, the thrill of danger woven with an undeniable, bittersweet longing. Could I bear to be hidden from him? Erik, who saw me as no one else did, who brought me to life in ways I had never dreamed… would I find peace in a world without him? Or would the light Raoul offered feel hollow, an escape that never quite reached the depths Erik had shown me?

I met Raoul’s gaze, seeing the hope that flickered in his eyes, the belief that he could pull me from the shadows. And yet, my voice faltered, uncertainty taking hold as I wondered whether I could ever truly be free from the pull of Erik’s world, or if that darkness had bound itself to me so deeply that it had become a part of me. He did not seem to notice as he twirled me, snowflakes coming to rest gently on my exposed hair with an icy kiss.

Raoul’s eyes searched mine, his expression a mixture of longing and desperation, as though he could sense the turmoil within me, the silent battle raging in my heart. He reached out, brushing a gentle hand against my cheek, his touch warm and steady, grounding me in the present moment, if only for an instant.

“(Y/n),” he murmured, his voice soft, his words filled with quiet strength. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight. Just promise me that you’ll try to let go of the shadows, that you’ll give the light a chance. That’s all I ask of you.”

I looked up at him, my heart aching as I met his earnest gaze, feeling the sincerity in his words. There was a comfort here, a gentleness that called to the part of me that longed for peace, for an escape from the torment that Erik’s world had brought me. Raoul’s love was pure, undemanding, and he offered it to me without hesitation, holding out a future of warmth and light, a world where I could be free from the fear that had gripped me for so long.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I tried to anchor myself, to imagine the life he promised—a life with no more night, no more danger lurking in the shadows. A life with Raoul always beside me, to hold me and to hide me, as he had said. And yet, even as I envisioned it, I felt the faintest echo of Erik’s voice, a lingering presence that whispered through the snow-laden air, reminding me of the depth I had found in his darkness, the way he had awakened my soul through his music.

Raoul’s hand remained on my cheek, a steady warmth that pulled me from my thoughts, and I forced a smile, leaning into his touch, allowing myself to find comfort in his presence, if only for tonight. “I’ll try, Raoul,” I whispered, feeling the weight of the words settle over me. “I’ll try to find that light with you.”

A soft, relieved smile crossed his face, and he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me, holding me tightly against him. I rested my head against his shoulder, closing my eyes, letting myself sink into the warmth he offered, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. He was a beacon in the cold night, a reminder that there was a world beyond the shadows that haunted me.

He held me like that for a moment longer, his breath warm against my hair, before he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s all I ask of you, (y/n). Just to try… to let the light find you.”

I nodded, my heart aching as I clung to him, feeling the pull of his words, the promise of a future unburdened by shadows. And yet, as the snow fell around us, I couldn’t escape the lingering thought that somewhere, in the darkness, Erik’s presence awaited me still, an inescapable shadow in my soul that refused to be forgotten.

I shivered, the chill of the night settling into my bones, and Raoul noticed, his hand sliding down my arm in a gentle, comforting gesture. He offered a soft, almost sheepish smile, his cheeks faintly flushed from the cold.

“We should get you back to your chambers,” he murmured, brushing a light dusting of snow from my shoulders. “Tomorrow is the ball, and you’ll need your rest.” He paused, searching my face, his voice softening. “Let me see you safely to bed.”

I nodded, feeling a pang of relief mixed with the sadness that clung to my heart. Raoul wrapped an arm around me, his warmth a welcome solace against the biting cold, and together we made our way back through the quiet corridors, the opera house still and dark, as if it, too, were preparing for the grand event awaiting us tomorrow night. His presence beside me was a steady comfort, guiding me back through the twists and turns of the familiar halls, each step leading me further from the rooftop, from the shadows that seemed to linger in the winter air.

When we reached my bedchamber, Raoul lingered in the doorway, his eyes gentle, his expression soft. He took my hand, pressing it briefly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles as if to reassure me once more. “Rest well, (y/n),” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Tomorrow, I shall be waiting for you.”

I managed a faint smile, my heart heavy yet comforted by his words. I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me, and leaned against it, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The silence enveloped me, and I made my way to the bed, the stillness pressing in, my thoughts a tangled web of light and shadow. The ache of tonight lingered, a reminder of the choice that lay before me, the choice I would face with the dawning of the masquerade.

With a final glance toward the door, I settled into bed. As sleep began to pull me under, I found myself drifting between them, caught in a world where neither Raoul’s light nor Erik’s shadow would fully release me.

***                                                  

I awoke with a gasp, my heart racing, the darkness of the room pressing down on me like a weight. A terrible feeling coiled through me, a dreadful chill that wrapped itself around my bones, tightening with each breath. I clutched the sheets, my pulse pounding, and I became acutely aware of a scent lingering in the air—roses, sharp and overpowering, mingling with the faint, familiar scent of parchment.

It was suffocating, thick and cloying, the sweetness of the roses tainted by something far more sinister, a faint smokiness that burned in my throat, as if laced with the remnants of a furious fire. I sat up, struggling to breathe, the scent flooding my senses, filling my mind with a foreboding that took root deep within me. It was as if Erik himself had left a piece of his presence here, hovering just out of reach, a silent spectre lurking in the shadows.

A tremor ran through me as I scanned the room, my eyes straining to pierce the darkness, half-expecting to see him emerge from the shadows, his eyes blazing, watching me with that possessive intensity that both terrified and thrilled me. But there was no movement, only the quiet hush of the night, and yet the scent persisted, a haunting reminder of the world I could not escape.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to calm, but the feeling did not abate. It slithered through me like a serpent, tightening its grip, and I could almost feel his presence, as if he were here, standing just behind me, close enough that his breath might have brushed against my skin.

The scent grew stronger, overwhelming, the roses and parchment mingling with that faint, bitter edge, and a cold sweat broke over me, each heartbeat a reminder of the tangled web in which I was ensnared. I drew in a shuddering breath, the air thick and heavy, pressing down on my lungs, and the terror and thrill of it left me rooted in place, uncertain if I should flee or surrender to the shadows that haunted me still.

With my eyes closed, the silence deepened, and then I heard it—his voice, that once beautiful, haunting melody now twisted, wrapped in streaks of red and furious fire. It rose through the darkness, creeping into my mind, filling the room with an intensity that burned like the very scent that lingered in the air. My breath caught, my heart racing, as the voice seemed to surround me, a lament mingled with fury.

The words washed over me, each one a strike against my soul, echoing through the stillness with a bitter, relentless ache.

“I gave you my music,” he sang, his voice resonating with a rawness that left me trembling. “Made your song take wing. And now, how you've repaid me: denied me and betrayed me.”

I clenched the sheets, his words piercing through me, searing and fierce, carrying an agony that felt like a knife twisting in my heart. His sorrow, his anger—both wrapped themselves around me, pulling me back into the shadows I thought I had left behind.

“He was bound to love you,” he continued, his tone darkening, heavy with a jealous rage, “when he heard you sing… (y/n)…”

Each word dripped with a bitter accusation, a reminder of the connection we had forged, the bond sealed in music that could never be undone. I felt the weight of his words pressing down, his pain mingling with my own, and I struggled to breathe, to escape the torrent of emotions that surged through me.

I bolted upright, my pulse hammering as I searched the shadows, the feeling of his presence so close, so overwhelming. I threw the sheets aside, slipping from the bed, and stumbled across the room, my fingers gripping the edge of the wardrobe door as I flung it open, the words spilling from me, breathless and desperate.

“Erik!” I called, my voice trembling, echoing into the darkness.

He appeared, swift and silent, his figure slipping from the shadows like a phantom from a nightmare. His gloved hand shot out, seizing my throat with a cold, unyielding grip. I gasped, my hand flying up to his, feeling the leather press against my skin, constricting, as his eyes bore into mine with a fury I had never seen, fierce and relentless. A small whimper escaped my lips, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away, even as he pushed me backward, forcing me onto the bed, the world tilting as I fell beneath his grasp.

The room around us faded, all sense of space and time slipping away as his grip held me captive. His presence was suffocating, oppressive, filling the air with an energy that crackled, raw and electric, and I could feel the heat of his rage radiating through me, searing my very soul. I was pinned, not just by his physical strength, but by the sheer force of his gaze, which bore down on me like a storm.

In the silence, our breaths collided, rough and uneven, mingling in the space between us. My chest heaved, but I felt frozen, my body unable to move, the cold terror that gripped me rooting me in place. His face was a mask of anger, the lines etched deep into his skin, his eyes wild and blazing, two dark pools of fury that seemed to see straight through me. It was a look of pure betrayal, of possessive anger, and beneath it, a sorrow so intense it clawed at my heart.

I felt his hand tighten, just enough to send a chill through my veins, to remind me of the power he held. My fingers instinctively grasped his wrist, desperate and pleading, yet the pressure only heightened, pressing down on me, a relentless reminder of the bond we shared—dark, inescapable, and fraught with a terrible, twisted intimacy.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. His eyes held me as firmly as his hand, a mixture of hurt and resentment swirling within them, and in that look, I saw everything—the pain, the anger, the loneliness that had driven him to this edge. It was as if he were baring his soul before me, exposing every scar, every wound, and demanding that I witness the depths of his despair.

I tried to speak, but my voice caught, swallowed by the overwhelming presence of him, the danger and allure that wrapped around me, pulling me deeper into his world. I could feel his breath, hot and heavy, mingling with mine, and I knew, in that terrifying silence, that I had crossed a line from which there was no return. I had become entangled in his darkness, bound to him as surely as he was bound to me, and there was no escaping it, no retreating from the path we had both chosen.

In that agonizing moment, we stared at each other, bound by a force that transcended words, a force that was as much a part of me now as it was of him. The betrayal in his eyes was raw, cutting into me like a blade, and I felt my heart twist, caught between fear and a strange, sorrowful longing. His gaze was relentless, unforgiving, and I realized, with a shiver of horror, that we were two sides of the same coin—both haunted, both broken, both trapped in a world that had no place for light.

At last, he broke the silence, his voice low, simmering with a terrible, dangerous quiet. The rage in his eyes never wavered, and each word struck me with an intensity that stole my breath.

“You will curse the day you did not do,” he said, his tone dripping with venom, “all that the Phantom asked of you.”

In that instant, something shifted, a darkness passing over him like a storm cloud, consuming what remained of the man I thought I had seen beneath the mask. The intensity in his gaze hardened, and the faint glimmer of vulnerability I’d glimpsed before vanished, swallowed by a cold, unrelenting rage. Erik, the man who had once revealed fragments of his soul to me in fragile moments, was gone. The Phantom had returned.

His grip at my throat tightened, the leather of his glove cold and unyielding, a stark reminder that he held my life in his hands. His face, once expressive, was now an unreadable mask, each muscle taut, his features set in a chilling resolve. There was no trace of the tenderness he had once shown, no hint of the man who had, with a single glance, unravelled my heart with his silent pain. In his place stood a force beyond mere mortal suffering—a being of shadows and vengeance, driven by a rage so absolute it seemed to seep into the very air around us.

I felt my body tremble beneath him, my heart racing as I looked into those eyes, which had once reflected the sadness of a wounded soul. Now, they blazed with a merciless fire, a furious certainty that left no room for hesitation or doubt. His gaze bore into mine, intense and unyielding, and I knew, with a shiver of dread, that the man who had once laid bare his suffering before me was gone, replaced by the ruthless creature who haunted the opera house, the Phantom of the Opera—a name spoken in whispers, feared, loathed, and pitied.

And as I lay beneath him, trapped by his weight and the raw power that emanated from him, I realized how foolish I had been to think I could ever truly understand him, or change him. I had seen glimpses, yes—moments when Erik, the man, had bared his soul to me, revealing the fragile beauty beneath his pain. But now, that delicate humanity was eclipsed, extinguished by the darkness that had always been his truest self.

The Phantom loomed above me, and I felt a chill seep into my bones, an icy reminder of the monster that lay hidden behind the man. His anger radiated outward, coiling around me like a serpent, and I understood, with a sickening clarity, that there would be no reasoning with him, no softening his resolve. I had betrayed him, in his eyes, and he would not forgive me. The tenderness, the raw vulnerability, all had been swallowed by a bitterness so profound it seemed to blot out any trace of the Erik I had known. What lay before me was a creature forged in pain, a man transformed by his own isolation, his soul darkened by a fury that would consume everything in its path—including me.

I stared up at him, a mixture of horror and a strange, aching sorrow twisting within me. For a fleeting moment, I had believed that I might reach him, that I could pull him from the shadows, but now I saw the truth. The Phantom was not merely a part of him; he was him. This rage, this darkness—it was the very essence of his being, the one part of himself he could not escape, no matter how desperately I wished otherwise.

And just as soon as he was there, he was gone, slipping back into the shadows as if he had never been, slamming the wardrobe shut with a deafening bang, leaving only the faint, lingering scent of roses and smoke in his wake. I lay there, gasping, my hand instinctively reaching for my throat, the ghostly chill of his grip still pressing against my skin. The darkness around me seemed to close in, the silence deafening, and I realized, with a shudder, that I was more alone than ever before.

As the silence swallowed me, a chilling certainty gripped my heart: he would return, and tomorrow, at the masquerade, his vengeance would find me in full.

Notes:

Loooong chapter. I felt like I wasn't incorporating enough of the Phantom's less desirable behaviours. I hope this captures it!

Chapter 19: The Prelude

Summary:

Preparing for a masquerade that evening, (y/n) discovers two gowns mysteriously placed in her wardrobe: a bridal white gown, symbolic of purity and Raoul’s world, and a dark, elegant black gown that speaks to the mystery and passion Erik embodies.

Perhaps it is time to make *the* choice.

Notes:

I hope you guys are ready for WAY more updates because I finally have more free time!

The dawn crept into my chamber, veiled and hesitant, casting a muted glow through the damask curtains that framed my solitary view of Paris. The faint morning light seemed dulled by a strange pallor, as though unwilling to intrude upon the secrets that lay within these walls. My fingers traced absently over my throat, brushing the tender place where Erik’s grip had left its ghostly chill, an invisible brand that had seared itself into my skin. Part of me wondered where that red scarf Raoul had gifted me to hide my throat had gone. Had Erik-… had The Phantom taken it?

Today, the masquerade awaited—a grand illusion of light and colour against the backdrop of this city that had known so much darkness, so many mysteries that whispered through the alleys and balconies. The word loomed in my mind, each syllable as heavy as iron, infused with a dread that seemed to coil tighter with each passing hour. I sat at the edge of my bed, the lace of my nightdress pooling around me, and watched as Paris stretched into the morning. The rooftops and spires lay bathed in soft light, tranquil and pure, as if the city itself were unsullied by the shadows I carried.

Far beyond my window, Raoul would be preparing himself, immersed in the hopeful belief that tonight could offer me freedom. He had brought me to the rooftop only hours ago, desperate to show me the life that waited beyond the veil of Erik’s world. I had clung to his words, to the promise he had offered, but even now, under the cold daylight, Erik’s hold upon me lingered, fierce and unrelenting. His presence clung to me like frost, sharp and unyielding, a reminder of the terrible, inescapable choice that awaited me tonight.

A sick, twisted feeling roiled in my stomach, tightening into an ache that pulled at the very centre of my being. How easy it would be to sink back into the pillows, to shut out the world and let the day pass unnoticed, my existence hidden beneath the comforting veil of darkness. I wanted nothing more than to bury myself, to escape any duty, any obligation that would drag me to the masquerade tonight. The thought of donning a gown, of stepping out into that whirl of masks and painted faces, filled me with a strange dread, a longing to retreat into obscurity, to become invisible, unburdened by the choices that lay ahead.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes, realizing with a strange sense of detachment that I had yet to ask anyone about the theme for the ball. I’d been so wrapped in my own turmoil, so drawn into the web of shadows and stolen moments, that even the smallest details of ordinary life had escaped me.

Creeping to the wardrobe, I pulled open its doors, expecting the familiarity of my gowns and costumes, the pieces that had become so much a part of my routine at the opera house. But as the doors swung open, my heart sank, the faintest gasp escaping my lips. The wardrobe, once filled with the comforting variety of nightgowns and simple dresses, now contained only two gowns. They hung there like relics, charged with an energy that felt both strange and uninviting.

The first was a gown of off-white, its fabric rich and delicate, adorned with intricate silver embroidery that shimmered faintly even in the muted morning light. The embroidery wound its way over the bodice and sleeves like silver vines, delicate and hauntingly beautiful, catching the light in a way that felt almost alive. I reached out, fingers grazing the fabric, feeling the weight and texture beneath my touch. The dress felt like Erik, not The Phantom, and for the briefest of moments, my heart swelled.

Unthinking, I pulled the sleeve of the gown to my face and inhaled deeply, searching for any trace that his hands had placed this here. Alas, it smelt of cloth and girlish performs. I sighed and stepped back. It was beautiful, too beautiful. Its design was achingly familiar, a subtle, refined version of the bridal gown Erik had shown me in the dark depths of his lair, an altered vision of the same haunting creation that had once symbolized his desire to bind me to him forever.

The second dress hung in stark contrast beside the ivory creation, a vision of dark elegance amidst the gleam of its golden counterpart. It was the one laid out for me the night prior, with the mask to match. Midnight black satin poured down from the bodice like liquid shadow, pooling into a wide, graceful skirt that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. The fabric glimmered faintly, an almost imperceptible shimmer woven into its depths, as though stars had been scattered across a night sky and captured in silk.

The bodice was fitted and adorned with fine, almost lace-like gold embroidery that curled in intricate patterns, reminiscent of gilded leaves and delicate filigree. The golden threads wound up from the waist and around the sleeves, casting a subtle glow that softened the gown’s otherwise dark, foreboding allure. It was a dress meant to command attention, its elegant lines demanding presence, while the rich blackness seemed to whisper secrets.

A deep neckline plunged in gentle curves, hinting at a certain vulnerability, but the lines remained structured, disciplined, as if to temper any impression of weakness. Along the hem, the golden embroidery continued, giving it an almost celestial quality, as if to remind any onlooker that while the gown spoke of darkness, it was balanced with light, a fragile harmony between shadow and gleam. I had not grasped the detail in the dress the night prior and was astonished viewing it now.

I reached out, hesitating, before letting my fingers brush against the dark satin of the second gown. The delicate embroidery caught at my skin like a whispered warning, and I drew back, the twisted ache in my chest growing tighter. I could feel the weight of this decision pressing upon me, the significance that draped itself over each fabric, each thread. A choice between light and darkness, one path gilded with the hope Raoul offered, the other steeped in Erik’s shadow.

A deep perplexity settled over me as I stared at the two gowns, each one imbued with a presence that seemed to fill the room, heavy with unspoken promises and quiet threats. My hand lingered on the edge of the wardrobe door, a faint tremor running through my fingers. Who had removed my gowns? Who had placed the white one?

Erik... it had to be. Yet, I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt, the eerie suspicion that his touch, while somehow present, did not entirely explain it. The opera house held many secrets, and while Erik’s shadows loomed large, I knew he was not the only one who moved unseen through its hallways. Still, these gowns seemed a message, as if someone else—someone intimately aware of my turmoil—had laid out the very choices that mirrored my divided heart.

I turned to where I had placed the elaborate mask down the night prior. In truth, it only matched one dress – the one it had came with. But that was before the rooftop, and the consequences that followed.

Shaking off the reverie, I knew I needed clarity, something to steady my unrelenting thoughts. Meg Giry would be the one to shed light, if anyone could. Her eyes missed nothing in the opera house; perhaps she could help me unravel the strange, unsettling mystery of these gowns. Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I resolved to speak with her before allowing myself to be swept away by the gravity of a decision not yet fully understood.

***

The soft hum of morning voices drifted through the common dressing room, mixing with the faint rustle of skirts and the clinking of hairpins as other women went about their preparations. The familiar space, filled with gilded mirrors and perfume-scented air, should have comforted me. The twang of dread tightened in my chest, cold and unrelenting, freezing me in place like a statue cast in porcelain. My gaze was drawn, as if by some dark magnet, to that place—the forbidden room, veiled in shadows and bearing an invisible weight that seemed to press upon my very soul. It loomed, a silent presence in the corner, its door half-hidden in the dim morning light that spilled through dusty windows.

It was there, outside that very room, that I had first encountered Elise. Her sharp, mocking voice and the terrible smile she wore lingered like a burn upon my memory, refusing to fade with time. The flickers of our brief, turbulent interactions returned with clarity—each word she had thrown my way, barbed and cold, echoing like the reverberations of a church bell. There was a cruelty to her presence, an edge that had never softened, and I could still feel the tension between us, as if it were a rope stretched taut, each exchange a pull that brought it closer to snapping.

The rope…

For the second time that morning, my hands crept up to my throat, fingers grazing the tender skin where The Phantom’s grasp had lingered, now mingling with the memory of Elise’s cruel ‘jape.’ The echo of that constriction tightened around me as the thought struck—a sharp, dreadful realization that it might have been that same rope that had taken her life, hanging her from the overhang like some macabre decoration, a cruel prop in the theatre of shadows that The Phantom commanded so well. I felt another tug in my mind as Elise’s voice echoed:

“They say he’s disfigured, that he wears a mask to hide his grotesque, deformed face. Some say he was burnt in a horrible accident. Others say he carved it himself, or that he was simply born that way; a monster from the moment he entered the world. And some say, mademoiselle, if he chooses you, you may only count down the remainder of your days before he comes into your bed while you sleep and strangles you with his magical lasso!”

No, Elise. Not the lasso; his hands.

“(y/n)?” It was Meg, her voice a quiet solace, filled with an understanding that reached beyond mere words. She stepped close, her eyes bright with concern as they took in my frozen form. Her hand, warm and steady, found its way to my arm, anchoring me back to the present with a kindness that wrapped around my heart like a balm.

“Meg…” I managed, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t expect to see that room again. I suppose… I suppose the memory just…” The words tangled on my tongue, slipping away as the dread lingered, unwilling to release me so easily.

She nodded, her gaze lingering on mine, perceptive and gentle. “The opera house has its ghosts, doesn’t it?” Her voice held a quiet reverence, as though she, too, felt the weight of unseen eyes. “But memories like that—they don’t deserve to hold you back. They’re shadows, nothing more. You don’t have to carry them alone.”

Her words settled over me, a gentle warmth that pushed back against the chill, and I offered her a faint smile, grateful for the lightness she offered amidst the oppressive weight of the Opera House. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to shake off the shadow of that haunting memory, and turned to Meg with what I hoped was a casual air.

“Meg,” I began, “do you happen to know the theme for the ball tonight?”

She tilted her head, a quizzical look crossing her face as though I had asked her something rather obvious. “You mean, you don’t know?” she replied, a flicker of surprise in her tone. “I would have thought, with Raoul being the one to select it…”

A hint of a smile played at her lips, a warmth that softened the question, but I felt my cheeks warm nonetheless. “Ah, yes, I must have… missed it,” I replied hastily, hoping she wouldn’t press further.

“Well,” she continued, accepting my reply but with a slight narrowing of her eyes, “it’s black, gold, and white. Raoul chose it—refined yet elegant. It has a sense of the timeless, he said. A softer contrast than what we’re used to here, I think.”

I nodded, her words planting an unexpected pang of guilt within me. Perhaps he had assumed I’d know, that his choice of theme would naturally reach me without words, as though something essential between us might convey the message. The thought tugged at me with a strange tenderness, a quiet reminder of the careful attention Raoul had woven into every detail of tonight.

“That reminds me, Meg,” I ventured, casting a furtive glance toward her, “did you… or anyone else… leave any gowns in my wardrobe? A white one appeared… and last night, a black one too. I don’t recall asking for them.”

I saw her expression shift, eyebrows lifting with a spark of curiosity as she considered my question. “No, not I,” she replied thoughtfully, crossing her arms. “But if they match the colours of the theme… perhaps Raoul arranged them for you?” Her voice softened, carrying the slightest hint of intrigue. “He would know what suits you, after all.”

The notion sent a warm ache through me. Had Raoul left those dresses in my room, hoping to guide my choice, to coax me toward his world? A gift, perhaps—a wordless gesture that might draw me back into the light. But even as the thought lingered, a shadow brushed against it, a silent uncertainty that kept Erik’s presence vivid in my mind. The black gown, intricate and alluring, held a darkness that felt familiar in a way only Erik’s touch could have inspired. I gave her a faint, uncertain smile, my mind racing with questions.

I shifted uneasily, glancing down at my hands as they fidgeted with the lace trim of my sleeve. “Meg, if you were me,” I began softly, “which gown would you choose for tonight?”

She looked at me, her eyes thoughtful as she considered the question, then a delicate smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Oh, that depends,” she murmured, a hint of playfulness in her tone. “The white and silver—it's angelic, almost otherworldly. A vision of purity, like a light in the darkness,” she said, her voice lilting as though she pictured it upon me. “It would turn heads, certainly.”

A small laugh escaped her, but her gaze softened as she continued, “Then again, the black and gold… it has a mystique about it. An air of mystery and elegance—something a little… dangerous, even.”

The words hung between us, and I felt a flutter of both fear and fascination. I knew, as Meg did, that each gown carried a message, and choosing one felt like choosing between worlds, between paths that diverged under the weight of shadow and light.

“If it were me,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper, “I would choose the one that made me feel like myself.” She placed a gentle hand on my arm, her touch warm and grounding. “Whichever that may be.”

***

A few hours later, I sat before the looking glass, my heart a wild, restless beat against my ribcage, thrumming with a nervous energy I could scarcely contain. The dressing room was filled with the faint scents of powder and rouge, mingling in the warm air, and my reflection—a pale face framed by pinned curls—seemed almost foreign, as if I were looking upon a stranger.

The light layers of face powder gave my skin a porcelain glow, a haunting softness. A faint rouge tinged my cheeks, a flush that spoke of life, though my stomach twisted with the tremors of anxious dread. I had brushed my lashes with a dark pomade, just enough to bring attention to my eyes, which now seemed too wide, too revealing, capturing every flicker of the candlelight that danced upon the glass. My lips were touched with a hint of tint, a shade of berry that stood in contrast to my pale skin, yet the effect was delicate, restrained—a look that suited the ball’s grandeur yet only deepened the intensity of my expression, the quiet fear lingering there. I stood, brushing loose powder off my sleeves, and made my way back to my room.

The hallway seemed to stretch out in an eerie quiet as I returned to my chamber, my heart pounding with a steady, insistent beat that matched my hesitant footsteps. Each step brought me closer to the inevitable—my choice of gown, of who I would allow myself to become tonight. It was as if the opera house itself held its breath, waiting with a patience I could not summon within myself.

Once inside, I slipped out of my simple morning dress, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap. I could feel my pulse quicken, anticipation clawing at my thoughts as I made my way toward the wardrobe, its doors looming before me like a pair of gates to some forbidden, fateful realm. My hand trembled as I reached out, curling my fingers around the handle. I took a slow breath and pulled the doors open, half-expecting to find him waiting within, his piercing eyes watching, his presence heavy in the shadowed corner.

But there was no sign of him. The space was empty, silent, yet the two gowns hung there like silent sentinels, demanding my decision.

I stood there for a moment, staring at them, feeling the weight of that choice settle heavily upon my shoulders. It wasn’t his presence that sent a shiver through me, but the realization that these dresses—these pieces of fabric and silk—were a physical embodiment of my indecision, my divided heart. Each gown seemed to hold a whisper of promise, a glimpse of a future yet to be determined, and the choice between them loomed as vast and terrible as the shadows that haunted my every step.

In the glimmer of the afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the black gown seemed to ripple with darkness, whispering to me of mystery, of secrets, of power that lay beyond the boundaries of ordinary life. It was The Phantom’s world—the lure of shadows and passion, a place where my soul might soar amidst the forbidden beauty he had shown me.

And beside it, the white gown, like a beacon of purity, promised peace, light, perhaps even innocence restored—a chance to stand with Raoul in the world he had offered, free from the darkness and danger that had already claimed so many pieces of me. A future with hope, with love untouched by fear, unburdened by the shadows that clung to my heart.

My hand hovered over the white gown, trembling with a strange reluctance. It seemed to glow in the faint light, its delicate silver embroidery catching each soft glimmer that spilled from the window—a vision of serenity, of innocence. And yet, as I looked at it, a small ache grew within me, a quiet voice that murmured of an emptiness I could not define. The white gown was beautiful, yes, and it held a promise of light, of the peace Raoul had shown me on the rooftop. But as I reached for it, something within me resisted, a force that pulled me back, whispering that such light might never fully reach the hidden depths of my heart.

With a sigh, I drew my hand away from the white gown, the fabric slipping from my fingers as if it, too, released me. I turned instead to the black gown, feeling its presence like a dark, steady heartbeat, powerful and undeniable. Its rich fabric seemed to drink in the light, the golden embroidery glimmering faintly like fireflies in the night, subtle yet unyielding. My pulse quickened as I reached out, fingertips grazing the dark silk. A chill shot through me, mingling with an intense thrill that sent my heart racing in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

The fabric was soft under my touch, yet heavy with promise, with secrets I could barely fathom. As I lifted it from the wardrobe, a strange feeling swept over me—a bittersweet mix of defiance and surrender. I was choosing Erik’s world, allowing myself to step into the darkness he had woven around us both, drawn by the beauty I’d glimpsed within it. I could feel his presence here, as though he were guiding my hand, watching as I embraced the allure of his shadows.

The gown draped across my arms like a velvet shroud, its weight both grounding and liberating. It was as though I were wrapping myself in his voice, in the melodies that haunted my dreams, letting them seep into my very soul. I felt a pulse of fear, but there, too, was an intoxicating thrill, a desire to step beyond the threshold, to be enveloped in the mystery and danger that awaited me. The shadows had long whispered to me, calling my name, and now, dressed in this black gown, I was ready to answer them.

With a steadying breath, I took the mask from its place, feeling the smooth, cool surface beneath my fingertips, the intricate filigree design catching faint light like threads of spun gold. I lifted it carefully, adjusting the silk ribbon behind my head, letting the mask settle over my eyes with a deliberateness I imagined Erik himself might use. I allowed my hands to linger for a moment, smoothing it into place, feeling a strange connection in the simple act, as if I were somehow embodying a piece of his world, carrying a part of him with me.

As I looked into the small mirror, a pang of sadness tightened in my chest, a sharp ache that caught me off guard. The events of the night before came rushing back—the desperation in his grip, the anguish in his gaze, the unspoken words that had hung between us like a shroud. My heart twisted, a silent yearning hidden beneath the layers of defiance and fear. Had he felt the same pull that had haunted me, the quiet, undeniable bond that had woven itself around us both?

I had chosen this dress, this mask, with him in mind. It was a silent message, a whispered confession that perhaps even I was afraid to voice. In the shadows, he had shown me beauty; in his darkness, I had found something haunting, something alluring. Perhaps, wearing this gown, he might see that I still wanted him, that, despite my fear, I even needed him. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, filling me with a bittersweet anticipation. Tonight, I would step into his world—and hope he would find me there, waiting, hidden beneath the mask.

A sudden chill prickled over my skin, pulling me from the brief warmth of my reverie. The fear crept in slowly, insidiously, as if it had been waiting in the corners of my mind, lingering just out of sight. My breath hitched, the weight of what I’d done settling heavily upon me. I had chosen this gown, this mask, with him in mind, and yet… the thought of actually facing him, of meeting that intense, piercing gaze, sent a wave of dread washing over me.

I remembered the look in his eyes, the way they had burned with both anger and something far more dangerous—a need, a hunger that went beyond mere affection. The memory of his hands around my throat, the cold press of his gloved fingers, resurfaced, and I felt my heart hammer against my ribs, each beat echoing in my ears. What would he see tonight when he looked at me? Would he feel betrayed? Would he see me as his, as bound to his world, or as a mere intruder, foolishly donning his shadows without understanding their weight?

My hands trembled, and I wrapped my arms around myself, the dark satin of the gown enveloping me like a shroud. The thrill of venturing into his world now mingled with a visceral fear, a pulse of terror that warned me I was stepping into something far deeper, far more dangerous than I had prepared for.

This dress spoke to something hidden within me, something that trembled and twisted, longing to surface. And yet, as I chose Erik’s world, as I let the darkness envelop me, Raoul’s image crept into my mind—a reminder of the quiet, unspoken promise he’d held out for me. The rooftop moment, his words of devotion, his steadfast gaze. My heart ached as I imagined his face tonight, filled with anticipation, hoping to find me radiant, free of shadows.

I swallowed back a sudden pang of guilt. How could I allow him to escort me tonight, to stand by my side, unaware of the turmoil I kept hidden? I was playing a part—a masked lady dressed in black, veiled in secrets he could never understand. Raoul, who represented light, freedom, hope. I couldn’t bear to dim his joy with the weight of my divided heart, yet here I stood, allowing myself to slip further into a world he tried so desperately to pull me from.

A gentle sadness settled over me, mingling with a faint whisper of regret. What did he see when he looked at me? Could he feel the part of me that Erik had claimed—the part that answered to darkness even as it reached for light? The thought made my pulse quicken with both fear and longing. I had chosen the darkness tonight, but my heart, like my loyalties, remained perilously divided.

Straightening, I gave myself a final look, noting the way the mask cast shadows across my features, lending me an air of mystery, even to myself. Outside, the last echoes of sunlight were slipping below the horizon, blanketing Paris in a quiet, solemn dusk. A chill trickled down my spine as I turned to leave, the weight of this night pressing down on me as I stepped toward my fate.

Chapter 20: Masquerade

Summary:

The night of the masquerade unfolds in a shimmer of light and shadow. (Y/n), draped in her gown of black and gold, moves through the opulence of the Opéra Populaire, her hand in the Vicomte's as they drift among masked figures and glinting chandeliers. Laughter swirls around them, yet a lingering unease stirs within her—an awareness of unseen eyes watching from the darkness beyond the glow. Tonight, secrets dance as freely as the revellers, and (y/n) finds herself pulled deeper into the shadows, uncertain of what the night will reveal.

The grand facade of the Opéra Populaire rose above me, a looming monument to splendour and shadows, its marble columns and gilt archways illuminated by gaslights. I waited upon its steps, shrouded partially by the column's shadow. I wondered if this was how he felt, lurking unseen in his own realm, ever watchful yet hidden. A small, almost giddy smirk crossed my lips as I mused over it. Tonight, I was no ingénue—I was a Fantômette, an apparition with secrets of her own.

As if conjured from my thoughts, I saw Raoul. He moved through the throngs of guests like a vision, cutting a striking figure in a black tailored suit embroidered with delicate gold, his attire a perfect, almost unsettling mirror to my own. The gold thread shimmered against the dark fabric, the delicate embroidery curling around his lapels, cuffs, and waistcoat in intricate patterns that caught the light and seemed to come alive. He looked dashing, every bit the Vicomte, yet something more tonight—a mysterious figure commanding both admiration and intrigue.

I felt my breath hitch as I took him in. His brown hair, gleaming under the amber glow of lanterns, was impeccably styled, framing his chiselled face in a way that made him look both noble and roguish. Even the mask he wore, a black and trimmed in fine gold filigree, added to his allure, concealing his expression and lending him an enigmatic air.

He stood there, utterly unaware of the effect he had on those around him, and a smirk tugged at my lips as I saw I was not the only one charmed by his allure. Women of all ages, clad in a kaleidoscope of gowns—silk, velvet, and lace in every shade of gold, silver, ivory, and obsidian—hovered nearby, whispering and casting him longing, coquettish glances from behind their masks. Their laughter rang like bells, light and silken, as they vied for his attention. A pang of unease settled in my gut, twisting like a thorned rose. It was absurd to feel possessive, I knew that, but the sight of them, drawn to him as if by some magnetic pull, stirred something in me.

Raoul’s eyes swept over the crowd, calm and self-assured, though I saw the way his gaze sharpened the moment it found me. He inclined his head, and a faint smile softened his expression as he started toward me, his stride measured, and I felt as though the world fell away, leaving only him and me; two figures drawn together by a thread of destiny.

“Mademoiselle,” Raoul spoke as he approached me. “Hiding in the shadows?”

I blushed and gestured for him to join me in the darkness, if only for a moment. He raised an eyebrow, and his lips briefly pressed into a line, before he smiled and moved to stand next to me.

“Vicomte,” I finally acknowledged, curtseying.

The steady clopping of hooves on cobblestone drew my gaze to the street below, where a sleek carriage, pulled by two majestic black horses, came to a halt at the base of the Opera House. A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd as the doors opened, revealing Messieurs Firmin and André, their arrival exuding a theatricality only they could muster. Each emerged with a flourish; Firmin dressed in rich cream suit, his accompanying lady matching him so. André dressed in a rich, dark suit, and the woman attached to his arm – far younger than André ought to be consorting with – shone like onyx.

As they strode up the steps, their voices rang out, jovial and booming, carrying easily above the excited hum of the masqueraders gathered at the entrance. Firmin clapped André on the shoulder, his laughter echoing as they exchanged quips, clearly relishing the attention that trailed them. They paused with casual elegance, acknowledging the crowd with slight bows, their air a blend of pomp and jest as though the evening were but a play, and they its central stars. A young servant rushed forward, offering the manager’s sparkling white wines. They both took a glass, although it appeared they had already had their fair share on the carriage ride over.

"Messieurs!" I called, my voice threading through the lively chatter as I stepped forward, allowing the light to catch the gilded embroidery of my gown. The two managers turned, their expressions brightening as they noticed me emerge from the shadows.

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" Firmin exclaimed, his eyes glinting with a mix of admiration and curiosity. He gave an approving nod, his gaze sweeping over my gown, taking in the intricate gold embroidery against the deep black fabric. "A vision, truly—a striking choice of attire for tonight."

André chuckled, tilting his head as he regarded me with an air of easy familiarity. "Quite the masquerade spirit, indeed! What an enchanting ensemble. I daresay, you might have outdone even the Vicomte," he said, with a sly grin that prompted a brief, faintly possessive glance from Raoul, still at my side.

I inclined my head gracefully, a playful smile touching my lips. "You are too kind, monsieur. Tonight looks to be the most exquisite. You and the Vicomte have truly outdone yourselves.”

“Dear André, what a splendid party!” Firmin agreed!

André’s grin widened, and he swept a grand arm across the bustling scene. "The prologue to a bright new year!"

Firmin nodded and smiled jovially, "Quite a night, I’m impressed."

"Well," André added, his voice filled with self-satisfaction, "one does one's best!"

Together, they lifted their glasses higher, a glint of amusement dancing between them as they looked upon the crowd, their voices merging in a toast. "Here’s to us!"

"A toast before the city!" Andre laughed and downed his wine.

"What a pity that the Phantom can't be here!" Firmin added with an exaggerated sigh before turning and winking at me.

Their laughter rang out, echoing across the steps with a bold, carefree irreverence. The casual mention of him, the way they dismissed him with light-hearted disdain, sent a cold jolt through my chest. They moved on, blissfully unaware of the tension that coiled within me at that very word. I forced a smile, keeping my face serene, but inside, my pulse quickened with a nervous thrill, my gaze flickering involuntarily to the shadows beyond the golden lights, where the faintest trace of him might still linger, watching.

"They mock what they don't understand," he said, a hint of frustration threading through his words. His gaze shifted to mine, and I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes. "They treat him like a mere tale, a ghost story for amusement. But you and I both know he’s far more than that."

Raoul’s hand found mine, his grip reassuring, grounding me amid the swirl of my unsettled thoughts. “Tonight, don’t let him haunt you," he murmured. "The masquerade is meant to be a night of freedom—of liberation.”

Raoul lifted my hand, his warm lips brushing the back of my hand, his voice low with affection. “I knew you would find the dress,” he murmured, pride and warmth lacing each syllable. “When I saw it, I knew there could be no other. I had it delivered to your dressing room last night—it was always meant to be yours.”

His words seemed to echo, hanging in the cool night air as my world tilted. Raoul had chosen this dress? My heart stumbled, faltering as I forced myself to stay still, my face serene, even as my mind whirled, each thought stumbling over the last. I had worn this gown with Erik in mind—convinced, beyond reason, that the Phantom himself had selected it. Every fold of satin, every delicate stroke of gold thread across the black fabric had seemed imbued with his presence, his invisible hands guiding each stitch, each curve crafted to fit me with his dark, consuming devotion. I could have sworn the fabric held his energy, whispering of the hours he might have toiled over it, envisioning me draped in the shadows he loved.

Yet now, the truth began to surface, soft as dawn breaking through fog, piecing together the scene I had overlooked. Of course, I should have realized—the white gown, that refined version of the bridal dress he had shown me in his lair, that pure, spectral vision which called to me like an apparition of desire and pure obsession—that was Erik’s gift. It was a gown that spoke not of mystery, but of vulnerability; not merely of allure, but of a devotion stripped to its essence. In this dress, he had offered not his mastery but a kind of reverent worship, laid bare in threads of white and silver. It was Erik, truly Erik, beyond the Phantom’s mask, beyond the darkness, a man whose heart, fragile and intense, had borne itself to me in quiet, terrified surrender.

And now, a startling realization struck me anew—he had seen Raoul’s choice. Erik had returned to my dressing room, his gaze likely lingering over every detail of the black gown, understanding it as Raoul’s well-meaning yet superficial attempt to honour what he thought my heart desired. But Erik had known better; he had seen this dress as Raoul’s inadequate grasp of my own descent into the shadows, of my complicated longing for the darkness that only Erik embodied. He had then placed his gown—my gown—beside it, as if daring me to look beyond the Phantom’s shadow, to see him, Erik, standing vulnerably, waiting to be acknowledged in the light.

He had left it there, silently urging me to choose, leaving me with a choice heavy with the meaning of two worlds. It felt now, in hindsight, like a test of my heart’s truest desire… or perhaps even a plea, a final entreaty that I might recognize the depths within him that went beyond myth and darkness.

And I hadn’t.

As the realization hit me, the noise of the masquerade faded into a dull hum, my focus narrowing only to Raoul, who stood there, entirely unaware of the silent turmoil his words had unleashed. He reached out, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he took my hand, his fingers warm and steady, grounding me in a way that felt both comforting and constricting.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with pride. His eyes searched mine, eager for approval, oblivious to the conflict that roiled beneath my mask.

I forced a smile, though I felt its falseness, an empty curve upon my lips. “Yes,” I replied, the single word slipping from me with a weight I hadn’t intended. I wanted to say more, to express some sliver of the emotions whirling within me, but the words died on my tongue. How could I tell him that this dress, beautiful as it was, had felt like a gift from Erik? That in choosing it, I had believed myself stepping into Erik’s world, answering a call he alone could understand?

He gave a slight, almost conspiratorial nod, as if this night, this grand masquerade, was a victory for him, a step toward the life he envisioned for us. “Good,” he murmured, drawing me a bit closer, his gaze lingering with an affection that might have stirred my heart if it weren’t already lost to someone else.

He lowered his voice, his tone one of quiet sincerity. “Tonight, I wanted you to feel... cherished, adored,” he said, the words almost reverent. “I know how hard things have been lately, but tonight, you are the center of this world, the very heart of it. Just as you are to me.”

My heart ached with the weight of his words, filled with a pang of guilt that tightened like a vise. I could feel the earnestness of his love, his belief that this night, this grand gesture, could somehow erase the shadows that haunted me. And yet, I was here, wrapped in a dress that was meant to honor his love, while my thoughts, my very soul, lingered with Erik.

I swallowed, a flicker of sorrow crossing my expression as I placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you, Raoul,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I looked up at him, trying to see the man who had once been my solace, my light. “I know you’ve done so much… and you’re so good to me.”

But even as I said it, I felt the distance between us like a chasm, widening with each passing moment. Raoul saw the world in light and order, in futures woven from hope, but mine had become entangled in shadows and secrets that defied such simplicity.

He seemed to sense the hesitation in my voice, his gaze searching my face with a slight frown. “Are you all right?” he asked gently, his brow furrowing with concern.

I hesitated, casting a glance down to where his hand held mine, steady and reassuring. The truth burned within me, twisting with a longing I could neither express nor deny. “Yes,” I managed at last, my voice a fragile murmur. “I’m just... overwhelmed, that’s all.”

Raoul’s expression softened, his eyes warm as he lifted my hand, pressing it to his lips in a tender, chivalrous gesture. He spoke, softly at first, as if to see if I’d remember. “Let me be your freedom,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, wrapping around me like a promise. “Let daylight dry your tears.”

His words, laden with sincerity, stirred the memory of our rooftop conversation, a moment both tender and desperate, where he had tried to bind me to a vision of safety and love beyond these shadows.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice fierce with conviction as he held me close, “with you, beside you. To guard you and to guide you.”

The earnestness of his devotion had moved me then, had cast a warm glow over that moonlit terrace, filling me with a fragile hope I had clung to in his presence. But now, as I stood beside him dressed in this gown I’d thought chosen by Erik, that promise felt more tenuous, as if something darker hovered just beyond my reach, always ready to pull me back.

“Thank you, Raoul. You have always been… that… for me.” I replied, my heart heavy with the weight of unspoken words. He smiled, wide and boyish.

As Raoul guided me into the grand foyer of the Opéra Populaire, I felt an odd duality between the warmth of his hand and the lingering pull of shadows that seemed to cloak my heart. The vast space before us unfolded like a dream—an opulent tableau of light and mystery. Chandeliers bathed the scene in a golden glow, their countless crystals catching and refracting the flickering light, scattering delicate patterns across marble floors and gilt walls. The masked revellers swirled in a symphony of motion, their laughter and voices weaving through the music that poured from an unseen orchestra, each note more uplifting than the last.

Shades of black, white, silver, and gold dominated the scene. Women in gowns adorned with lace and pearls glided across the floor like spectres, their elaborate masks adorned with feathers, beads, and jewels, obscuring their identities yet somehow baring the raw, almost fevered thrill of the night. Men in finely tailored suits, faces half-hidden beneath intricate masks, moved among them with grace, exchanging glances and murmured words. The air seemed charged, alive with a palpable electricity that hinted at secrets, at desires veiled and only half-concealed beneath the guise of revelry.

Raoul’s arm around mine felt grounding, as if he sensed my unease amid the swirling figures. His gaze scanned the room, clearly pleased with the evening, his chest rising with pride at the opulence and festivity. I wanted to share his joy, to let the splendour of the masquerade sweep me away. And yet, even as we descended the grand staircase, I felt that familiar twinge of unease, my eyes drifting toward the shadows that lingered in the hall's farthest corners, as if some part of me waited for him—Erik—to emerge from the depths, watching and waiting.

As we moved deeper into the crowd, I took in the masked faces around us. Some were intricately crafted, full masks that concealed the wearer entirely, while others were delicate, barely covering the upper half of the face, leaving lips parted in soft smiles or mischievous smirks. There was a strange beauty to it, this sea of unknowns, yet within it, I felt an unnerving isolation, as if my own mask was just another layer separating me from my own heart.

Raoul leaned closer, his voice a gentle murmur as he guided me through the throng. “Look around,” he said, his eyes crinkling in amusement beneath his mask. “Isn’t it magnificent? I wanted you to feel a part of it tonight. To be the brightest star in this world.”

I forced a smile, my heart warring between the warmth of his words and the strange melancholy that stirred within me. “It is magnificent,” I replied, my voice softer than I intended. “Truly, Raoul, you’ve… outdone yourself.”

His fingers tightened slightly around mine as he led me toward the centre of the grand ballroom, where couples whirled in time to the music, the gowns and suits a blur of motion and elegance. I glanced around, and for a fleeting moment, the masked faces began to feel like painted phantoms—beautiful yet hollow, empty vessels concealing emotions I dared not contemplate.

A chill prickled at the base of my neck, and despite the crowd’s warmth, I felt a tremor of cold, the hairs on my skin rising as if sensing a presence just out of reach. My gaze flickered instinctively to the darker recesses of the room, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of him—the shadow, the whisper of a presence that had woven itself into the very fabric of my being.

Raoul seemed to notice my distraction, his hand coming to rest lightly at my waist as he whispered, “Stay with me, please. Tonight is for us, for you. For a future without shadows.”

I turned to meet his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes unclouded by the mask he wore. And yet, even as he spoke, I could feel the intangible weight of the mask I myself wore, one I could not remove even if I wanted to.

Before I could reply, the music shifted, sweeping into a familiar tune that stirred the crowd like a spark to tinder. It was the song of the evening, "Masquerade," the anthem of this night of hidden identities and veiled desires. The very first notes ignited a ripple of excitement, and in an instant, the masqueraders moved into a practised rhythm, their bodies swaying and spinning in time with the unseen orchestra. Laughter mingled with the rising melody, and voices lifted in gleeful abandon, creating a chorus that reverberated off the marble walls.

The energy in the room swelled, and before I knew it, a hand from the crowd had spun me away from Raoul, the press of people flowing around me, guiding me through the steps with a gentle but insistent push. The dancers fell into a synchronized pattern, their movements weaving together like threads in a tapestry. Colors whirled, masks flashed in the gaslight, and I found myself swept along in the dance, the tempo quickening as if the very air had come alive with its own pulse.

At first, I resisted, straining to find Raoul’s face amidst the sea of strangers, but soon the infectious joy of the crowd overtook me. I felt a burst of exhilaration as I joined in the song, my voice blending with those around me. “Masquerade!” I sang, the word ringing out with newfound confidence. Each syllable seemed to release a weight from my chest, as though, for this moment, I could let myself dissolve into the crowd, a faceless figure among many, free of the burden of my choices.

“Masquerade! Paper faces on parade!” The crowd’s voices rose in jubilant harmony, the dancers spinning and stepping in sync, their feet a thunderous cadence that echoed through the ballroom. Laughter and song cascaded through the hall, and I felt myself swept up in it all, my feet light as they moved to the rhythm, my own laughter spilling out in response to the jubilant chaos around me.

“But who can name the face?” I sang out, raising my voice above the din, and the crowd answered with a delighted cheer, the laughter swelling, as though each of us rejoiced in the anonymity, the thrill of being anyone and no one in this mad swirl of music and masks.

The dancers moved with an almost feverish energy, their steps growing bolder, faster, as couples twirled and parted, rejoining in a flurry of skirts and cloaks. Gowns in black and gold mingled with glistening whites and silvers, each figure blurring into the next as we all became part of a grand, pulsing entity, a living tapestry of secrets. The air felt thick with excitement, charged with a gleeful abandon that was both freeing and strangely haunting, as though at any moment, one of these masks might slip, revealing the true face beneath.

The crowd spun me back, and I stumbled into a cluster of familiar faces gathered at the edge of the ballroom, their voices rising above the music with exuberance and laughter. Madame Giry and Meg exchanged glances, both aglow with the thrill of the night. Madame Giry’s eyes, sharp as ever, softened slightly as she observed the scene with a rare smile, while Meg twirled with lightness, her laughter a bright note in the revelry. I approached them, and grabbed Meg’s hands in an excited, almost childish glee.

“What a night,” Madame Giry exclaimed, her voice carrying a quiet satisfaction.

“What a crowd,” Meg echoed, her eyes alight with excitement as she took in the bustling throng, squeezing my hands in return.

Across from us, André and Firmin shared a pleased glance, their glasses raised high.

“Makes you glad,” André chimed, his grin wide as he looked over the thrumming ballroom.

“Makes you proud,” Firmin added, his voice resonant, and they both chuckled as they swept their arms to gesture at the splendour around us.

“All the crème de la crème,” Firmin proclaimed.

Carlotta, resplendent in an overly golden gown, swept a gloved hand across her chest, adding, “watching us…and watching them!” She cast a look over her shoulder at the onlookers, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

The laughter and chatter around me flowed like a river, but my attention wavered as I found myself face-to-face with Carlotta. I hadn’t seen her since the night of the attack, the night Buquet had rendered me voiceless with his cruel, desperate assault. The memory lingered like a phantom pain in my throat, and I felt an involuntary chill. She stood before me, resplendent in a gown so garishly golden it bordered on satire, a look of barely concealed contempt flickering in her gaze as she swept her eyes over me.

There were no words exchanged, but her gaze spoke enough—a gleam of satisfaction, perhaps, or a smugness that made my stomach twist. The triumphant smile never wavered from her painted lips as she shifted her attention, tossing her hair and glancing coquettishly at a masked gentleman nearby, hoping to ensnare his attention with her fluttering lashes and exaggerated gestures.

Beside her, Piangi, matching her opulence in his own gaudy gold attire, was nearly as dazzling in his adoration as he clung to her arm. He fawned over her with a theatricality that matched the gleam of their garb, leaning in close as if to stake his claim over her attentions. Together, they presented a picture of ostentatious joy that felt out of place amidst the subtler elegance surrounding us.

Madame Giry and Meg seemed unaffected, their smiles knowing as they shared a glance and continued with their toast. “And all our fears are in the past!” Madame Giry declared, her voice carrying a subtle conviction.

With a dignified air, André and Firmin raised their glasses again, André’s voice heavy with satisfaction as he intoned, “Six months…”

“Of relief,” Piangi chimed in, his hand squeezing Carlotta’s as they sighed together, leaning into one another as if they were two parts of a grand tableau.

“Of delight,” Carlotta added, her smile radiating as she clung to him, their faces flushed with an almost forced merriment that seemed a shade too bright.

Firmin and André joined in, lifting their glasses higher as their voices rang out together. “Of Elysian peace!”

The crowd cheered, and Meg and Madame Giry exchanged a contented glance. They sang in unison, voices lilting as they sighed, “And we can breathe at last!”

Carlotta threw her head back, her voice ringing out triumphantly. “No more notes!”

“No more ghost!” Piangi added with dramatic flourish, spilling his drink as he raised his arm in an exaggerated sweep.

Madame Giry lifted her glass, her eyes flickering with a hint of something unreadable. “Here’s a health…”

André nodded solemnly, “…here’s a toast…”

“To a prosperous year,” Firmin proclaimed, his voice rich with satisfaction.

I found myself reaching for a glass from the nearby table, where an array of wines lay glimmering beneath the chandeliers, each one casting a ruby or amber glow, a temptation for the revelers drawn like moths to the light. I lifted my glass slightly, murmuring almost to myself, “To our friends who can’t be here.” The words drifted softly into the air, a quiet offering swallowed by the clinking of glasses, laughter, and the lively music that swirled around me. Though sincere, the sentiment slipped unnoticed into the oblivion of the crowd—a note lost in the chaotic melody of the evening.

And yet, the toast lingered with me, hovering at the edges of my thoughts. For a fleeting moment, I imagined Elise: her sharp eyes, that mocking smirk never far from her lips. Despite our brief, tense interactions, she remained an unmistakable shadow, a haunting presence that refused to fade. The memory of her—of her voice, taunting and twisted—drifted through my mind, a reminder of the spectres lingering in these halls. The night of her death felt impossibly distant, but here, in this vast ballroom filled with hidden faces, it was as though her ghost flitted among us, concealed beneath a mask like the rest.

It was then that I felt Raoul’s presence emerge from the throng, steady and warm—a soft glow of familiarity against the overwhelming tide of strangers. His figure cut a striking silhouette against the sea of black, white, and gold, his effortless grace threading him through the crowd until he reached me. The corners of his mouth lifted in a subtle smile, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes that contrasted with the otherwise sombre night.

He raised his glass toward me, his voice laced with quiet humour as he proclaimed, “And what a masquerade!”

Our glasses met with a gentle clink; the sound delicate against the cacophony surrounding us. In that brief instant, as our eyes locked, everything else faded. His gaze held me, grounding me amidst the swirling night, his warmth pushing back the cold knot of unease that had been untangling and reforming within me throughout the evening.

Raoul’s smile widened, a spark of playfulness lighting his expression as he raised his glass a little higher. “Come now,” he said with a grin, “we don’t have all night. Down it quickly!”

Caught up in his energy, I let out a soft laugh, tipping the glass back and finishing it in one swift motion, the rich taste of wine warming me as I set the glass back on the table. Raoul’s hand found mine instantly, his grip firm yet gentle, drawing me toward the centre of the dance floor as the music swelled, inviting us back into its embrace.

The rhythm of the masquerade swept us up, spinning us among the dancers, our footsteps falling into a rhythm that felt both practiced and exhilaratingly new. His hand rested lightly on my waist as we turned, his gaze never leaving mine, grounding me even as the world spun around us. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his face, accentuating the gleam in his eyes, the mask lending him an air of mystery that only heightened his charm.

The music dipped to a softer note, and for a brief moment, the movement around us seemed to slow. Raoul's hand lingered at my waist as he drew me closer, his gaze intent, warm yet searching. His face moved toward mine, and I felt his breath, soft and inviting. I knew his intent, could see the tenderness in his eyes, the quiet hope in his expression as he leaned in, closing the space between us.

My heart raced, and before his lips could brush mine, I placed a hand on his chest. “No, Raoul,” I whispered, my voice just above a murmur. “Please don’t… they’ll see.”

He paused, his lips a mere breath away, his eyes holding mine with a mixture of surprise and frustration. “Well then,” he replied softly, a trace of defiance in his voice, “let them see. It’s a kiss, not a crime.”

I felt the words catch in my throat, the protest I wanted to voice dissolving as he looked at me, his gaze unwavering, his fingers brushing gently over my hand. But I said nothing, the silence between us thick with all the unspoken fears, the secrets that hung in the air like smoke.

He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “(y/n)… what are you afraid of?”

I lowered my gaze, the weight of his question pressing on me, filling me with a sense of longing mingled with unease. “Let’s not argue, Raoul,” I murmured, feeling the walls close in around me, knowing that he deserved more than this, more than I could give in that moment.

He studied me for a heartbeat longer, his expression softening as he nodded. “No, you’re right,” he said gently, his voice carrying a note of surrender. “Let’s not argue.”

The music began to build once more, the melody rising, urging us forward into the dance, but the air between us felt heavy, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us like a shroud. I looked up at him, my heart aching with the truth that I dared not speak.

“You will understand in time,” I said softly, offering him a small, hesitant smile, hoping that he would see my intent, even if I could not voice it.

He looked at me for a moment, the intensity in his gaze unwavering, but he nodded, accepting my words even as they left us both in silence. And as the dance resumed, I felt the ache within me deepen, a silent hope clinging to the knowledge that, somehow, he might come to understand.

Despite the unease between Raoul and me, we continued to dance, swept along by the grand crescendo of voices that filled the gilded ballroom, echoing from the marble columns to the vaulted ceiling high above. The melody lifted, and in that final flourish, I surrendered to the revelry, allowing the music to carry me into its embrace. For a brief, brilliant moment, I felt weightless, liberated from all else as my voice joined the others:

"Masquerade!
Grinning yellows, spinning reds
Masquerade!
Take your fill—let the spectacle astound you!”

Yet just as the jubilant notes hung in the air, filling the room with a heady, exultant fervour, a discordant note cut through the song, sour and jarring. It was as if some invisible hand had struck a rotten chord, dragging the room down from its heights in a single, sickening moment. The instruments wavered, their tones twisted, sharp with an undercurrent that felt wholly unnatural.

All around me, the glittering chandeliers seemed to lose their warmth, casting an eerie pallor over the crowd. The golden candlelight, once so bright and inviting, dimmed to a muted, ghostly glow, flickering uncertainly. An unmistakable sensation washed over me—the dreadful, visceral awareness of unseen eyes fixed upon me, intent and unyielding. It was as though the very atmosphere had thickened, laden with something dark and immense, hovering just beyond the edges of my vision.

The candles trembled violently, their flames whipping as if seized by a sudden gust, and then, one by one, the lights began to die, just like they had the first time he had entered my dressing room. Each flame winked out, swallowed by shadows that seemed to spread of their own volition, creeping along the walls like ink bleeding into paper. The walls seemed to close in, the costumes a mere shadow of their former grandeur, swallowed by a darkness that felt almost sentient. The ballroom chilled, the laughter and warmth of the evening sucked away, leaving only an eerie silence that pressed down upon us all. A biting cold settled over me, one that clung to my skin, raising goosebumps and turning my breath to a faint, visible mist.

He was here.

Notes:

I love reading your comments! Sometimes when I read the comments it makes me write a new chapter even though I should be sleeping, haha!

This chapter was super fun to write, felt like I was finally pulling some strings together.

Chapter 21: Why So Silent?

Summary:

The Phantom finally reveals himself to the Opéra Garnier...

The ballroom held its breath, the once vibrant tapestry of masked faces now tinged with dread As the shadows thickened, gathering like a storm about to break, a figure emerged atop one of the grand staircases—a silhouette both elegant and menacing, draped in the unmistakable finery of Parisian couture yet charged with an aura of something far darker. He began his descent slowly, each step measured and precise, as if drawn along by a ghostly cadence known only to him. The hem of his blood-red cloak whispered against the marble steps, embroidered in a delicate filigree that shimmered like veins of molten fire. These faint glimmers flared and faded in turn, casting ghostly shadows that trailed in his wake like a phantom entourage.

My breath stilled at the sight, and a strange ache seized my heart—a mingling of terror and something unsettlingly close to awe. Around me, the crowded room seemed to dissolve, its kaleidoscope of masks and laughter fading to a distant hush. My gaze was riveted to him alone. It felt as if I, too, was bound to that silent rhythm, drawn into his orbit with each step he took. A shiver ran through me, and I felt like I was seeing him again for the first time. All traces of Erik had vanished. This was truly the Phantom of the Opera.

He paused midway down the staircase, his gaze sweeping over the room with a predatory intensity. Beneath the hollow stare of his skull-like mask, his eyes moved over the crowd, a calculating glint in their depths as he lingered on each face. There was a detached curiosity to his scrutiny, a look that suggested he intended to peel back each mask one by one, exposing the carefully guarded secrets hidden beneath. His hands, encased in black gloves, rested lightly on the hilt of an ornate sword—a weapon of elegance and lethality, glinting ominously beneath the crimson cloak, their grip commanding yet restrained. Under his arm he carried a thick, leather-bound book.

In his presence, the grandeur of the Opéra Populaire seemed to wither; each figure in the room, no matter how grandly attired, shrank beneath the weight of his gaze. And yet, no one dared look away, least of all me. Even the chandeliers above appeared to dim, their golden glow hesitant to illuminate this spectral figure any further. It was as though he drew shadows to himself, cloaking him in an aura of quiet dread that seemed to stifle the very air in the room.

As he moved forward, the layers of his costume seemed to ripple and shift like shadows come to life, casting eerie patterns across the floor. My heart thudded against my ribcage; each beat a resounding echo that seemed to grow louder in the vast, trembling silence of the Opéra Populaire. This was no masquerader, no guest veiled in fabric and folly—this was Death incarnate, a spectre risen from shadowed depths to exact his vengeance.

For the first time, Erik was no mere phantom to the crowd before him. He was flesh and bone, undeniable, and terrifyingly real. My breath caught, my gaze shifting to Raoul, who stood transfixed, his expression a mixture of shock and dawning horror. Here was the man who had woven himself so tightly into my life, the very one Raoul had tried so desperately to protect me from. But this was no ordinary man—no glimpse of humanity softened his presence now. This was the Phantom, resurrected and terrible, the tenderness I had once touched buried beneath the glowering mask of his skull.

Every movement he made seemed to ripple through the room, his silence a threat, his gaze a silent condemnation. My spine shivered under the weight of it, my hands trembling as I remembered the last time he had touched me, his fingers cruel and cold, possessive and unyielding, demanding a loyalty I had dared to stray from. His gaze swept the room, and though it had yet to settle on me, I felt his attention like a cold wind, a force that would pierce through all pretence, expose every frailty.

And in that terrible, silent moment, I was no longer afraid of him merely as a man. I feared the ruin he might bring, the dreadful force that cloaked him now. I feared what disaster would follow when he beheld me, not as the vision he had created, but as someone bound in another’s colours. I stood in his path, shivering not at his wrath alone, but at the devastation that would unfold when he saw the depths of this transgression, this betrayal so plainly written upon me.

He came to a stop at the foot of the staircase, his gaze fixing on the managers, who stood frozen, their usual bravado dissolved into a pallid unease. With a slight tilt of his head, a mocking smile twisted beneath his mask, a wordless taunt hanging heavily in the silence as he regarded them.

“Why so silent, good messieurs?”

The words dripped with disdain, a velvet-coated challenge that sent a shiver rippling through the crowd, his voice twisting the quiet tension into something darker. The managers stared at him, mouths agape, their faces drained of colour as they grappled with the impossible reality of the Phantom’s presence. Their eyes darted nervously, seeking some anchor amidst the horror—a reassurance that this figure, this dark apparition, was merely a grotesque masquerader in costume. But even they could not deny it: this was no ordinary guest. This was him.

The crowd seemed paralysed, each masked face a tableau of fear and awe, as though Erik's presence had cast a spell over the room, binding every gaze to his. His disdainful smile widened beneath the mask, and he surveyed the crowd with an almost amused contempt, savouring their terror.

Erik’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, his skeletal mask tilting ever so slightly as he looked down upon the managers, the mocking glint in his eyes hardening to something sharper, more lethal. The crowd held its collective breath, each figure still as stone, ensnared by the terrible gravity of his presence.

“Did you think that I had left you for good?” His words dripped with venom, slipping through the silence like a poisoned blade. The managers’ faces blanched, their eyes wide with a terror they could scarcely contain. His gaze shifted from Firmin to André, as though weighing their worth and finding them wanting.

“Have you missed me, good Messieurs?” His tone twisted the question into something darkly intimate, almost mocking, as though their fear were a private joke shared only between him and them.

“I have written you an opera!”

The weight of his declaration hung in the air, chilling the room further, an unspoken menace behind every syllable. I felt a shiver of dread pass through me, my heart beating painfully in my chest as his gaze flicked briefly over the crowd before settling on me again, lingering on the gown I wore—a dress that was not his choosing, each thread a silent confession of betrayal. The terror of what he might do—of what fury might be unleashed upon this place—gnawed at me, tightening around my chest like a vice as I held his gaze, helpless to look away.

“Here, I bring the finished score. Don Juan Triumphant!”

He threw the thick, red book to André, and the bewildered manager caught it almost absent-mindedly, never taking his eyes off the Phantom. The silence between his phrases was almost palpable, dense and strained; I yearned for him to speak with less theatrics. And yet, his voice rang out once more, smooth as silk yet laced with unmistakable venom, his words carving through the fragile air of the ballroom.

“Fondest greetings to you all!”

As he spoke, he drew the ornate sword from its sheath, the blade glinting ominously in the dimmed light. The sound of steel slicing through the stillness sent a collective gasp rippling through the crowd. The sharp ring of the weapon seemed to echo in their bones, its gleam a promise of both beauty and violence. A flurry of whispers spread like wildfire among the guests, their retreat as subtle as it was inevitable, each step taken backward a concession to the command he exuded.

I stood frozen, the crowd’s movement forming a widening circle around him, yet I held my ground. My pulse thundered in my ears, and though my heart screamed for flight, my feet remained rooted to the polished marble. I was caught in his force, unable to yield, as though some invisible power tethered me to him, defying both reason and the primal instincts of fear.

“A few instructions,” he continued, his voice laced with dark amusement, the words dragging the room into an even deeper silence. “Just before rehearsal starts.”

He turned, his movements fluid and deliberate, the blade an extension of his will as he brandished it with a flourish that was both theatrical and menacing. The blade caught the faint glow of the chandeliers, its reflections dancing on the walls like restless spirits, as if they too were bound to him. His gaze shifted suddenly, snapping toward Carlotta with such ferocity that the colour drained from her face. Her confident posture wilted under the weight of his stare, her fan trembling in her gloved hand. His blade rose, its point extending toward her like an accusatory finger.

“Carlotta must be taught to act,” he hissed, the single word coiled with venom, “not her normal trick of strutting ‘round the stage.”

Carlotta’s eyes widened, her carefully composed facade crumbling into a mask of pure horror. Her lips parted, but no words came—only a strangled sound, somewhere between indignation and fear. The tip of Erik’s sword hung in the air, inches from her chest, its presence as chilling as the man who wielded it.

The crowd whispered again, their murmurs swelling in a tide of speculation and unease. Yet no one moved to defend her, no one dared to challenge the man who had turned the masquerade into his stage, a living embodiment of every ghost story whispered in the darkened corridors of the Opéra Populaire. The terror that had rippled through the crowd encased me as well, but deeper still was an ache, a painful knowing of the wrath that was as much his as it was deserved by those who had scorned him.

With a wicked grin, he sliced through the ornate headpiece she wore as an accessory to her golden dress. Carlotta staggered back, clutching at Piangi’s arm for support. Her expression was aghast, her grandiose composure shattered. She was no longer the diva; in this moment, she was a woman exposed, trembling beneath the weight of a man who wielded not only a blade but the power of her deepest fears. Piangi, suddenly spurred to action, pushed himself in front of Carlotta in protest.

Erik’s grin twisted into something feral as his blade flashed in the dim light, cutting a sharp arc in front of Piangi, who stumbled backward, his bravado melting under the Phantom’s unyielding presence. The sharp tip of the sword hovered mere inches from Piangi’s chest, its polished edge catching the flicker of candlelight as though eager for blood.

The crowd collectively recoiled, whispers hissing through the room like a thousand serpents. Piangi’s trembling hands rose in a feeble gesture of defense, but Erik stepped closer, his movements unhurried, his disdain palpable.

“Our Don Juan must lose some weight,” Erik intoned, his voice rich with mockery, each word curling like smoke in the air. “It’s not healthy in a man of Piangi’s age.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Erik leaned in ever so slightly, the sword’s tip pressing gently against Piangi’s decorative waistcoat. The crowd flinched as one, expecting the blade to pierce flesh, but Erik’s movements were precise, calculated—a master performer on his stage.

Piangi froze, his face a mask of terror, his cheeks flushed crimson beneath the gilded veneer of his costume. Erik poked him once with the blade, just enough to emphasize his point, the slight pressure causing Piangi to stumble backward.

The sardonic amusement in the Phantom’s eyes burned brighter as he regarded the trembling tenor with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction. He pulled the sword back with a theatrical flourish, the blade singing softly as it moved through the air. The crowd murmured anew, their fear swelling with every calculated move he made. Even Carlotta, whose hand clutched Piangi’s arm for support, seemed too stunned to speak, her painted lips parted in silent indignation.

Erik turned his back on them both, dismissing them as if they were nothing more than pawns in his grand game. His sword hung at his side, still unsheathed, an extension of his will as he pivoted to face the managers once more. The tension in the air was suffocating, every eye fixed on him, awaiting his next move with a mixture of dread and morbid fascination.

“And my managers,” he began, his voice low and silken, yet it carried an edge sharp enough to cut. He took a step toward them, the click of his boots against the marble floor echoing in the silence, “must learn…” He paused, savouring the anticipation that coiled through the room like a serpent about to strike.

“That their place…” His gaze swept over Firmin and André, pinning them in place with a glint of contempt beneath the hollow eyes of his mask. The managers seemed to shrink under the weight of his words, their faces pale and glistening with fear.

“…Is in an office,” he spat the word as though it were an insult, “not the arts!” His sword rose suddenly, slicing through the air with a wicked flourish that made the crowd collectively flinch. The blade caught the light of the chandeliers, its glint a sharp, fleeting reminder of the peril he commanded.

André made a feeble attempt to straighten his posture, his mouth opening as though to protest, but no sound emerged. Firmin merely stared, his lips trembling as if he were on the verge of pleading. The power dynamic had shifted entirely, the managers reduced to little more than trembling schoolboys in the face of Erik’s unrelenting authority.

He turned his gaze briefly to the crowd, as if daring anyone to challenge his claim. No one did. The guests, masked and trembling, held their breath as Erik lowered his sword slightly, its tip grazing the floor with a whisper of steel against stone. His movements were measured, his dominance absolute, and his declaration hung heavy in the air—a judgment rendered, with consequences yet to unfold.

Erik sheathed his sword with a deliberate flourish, the metallic scrape reverberating in the suffocating silence. The crowd flinched as one, their collective breath held, but his attention was no longer on them. His gaze turned to me, sharp and unrelenting, and though he addressed the room, every word was for me alone. The oppressive stillness seemed to tighten as he began to speak, his voice smooth and dark, curling around me like smoke.

“As for our star, Miss (y/n) (l/n)… No doubt she’ll do her best—it’s true, her voice is good.” His words, though outwardly flattering, dripped with mockery. The room shifted uneasily, the crowd’s murmurs falling to nothing as his focus pinned me in place. My heart thundered, each beat resounding in my ears as I felt his gaze rake over me, lingering on the gown I wore—the gown that was not his.

His eyes darkened beneath the hollow sockets of his mask, his expression flickering with a twisted amalgam of anger, sadness, and absolute betrayal that pierced me more effectively than any blade. Though the mask obscured his features, I could feel his emotions radiating toward me, a torrent of feeling that churned the air between us. My stomach twisted in knots as I recognized the silent accusation in his stare, a damning acknowledgment of the choice I had made.

“She knows, though,” he continued, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper that sent a shiver down my spine, “should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn…” His pause was deliberate, laden with meaning, and though his words were meant for the crowd, his gaze never wavered from mine. He was speaking to me, and only to me, his tone an intimate blade, sharp and precise.

“If pride will let her…” The faintest trace of a smile curled beneath the skeletal mask, mocking and cruel, as though daring me to deny him. His eyes burned into mine, searching, demanding, as his voice rose once more. “Return to me,” he said, the words both a command and an invocation. “Her teacher.”

His final words hung in the air, lingering like a ghost’s touch, their weight pressing down on me with unbearable force. “Her teacher,” he repeated, the phrase wrapping around me with a terrible familiarity, each intonation drawing me deeper, back into his shadow. I felt the crowd's gaze shift toward me, their whispers rising like an oppressive wave, but I was deaf to their judgment, my entire being consumed by his presence.

In that moment, I could not speak, could not move. The gown clung to me like a shroud, its betrayal magnified under the heat of his scrutiny. I was exposed, stripped bare by the force of his gaze, and though fear gripped me, it was not for myself. I feared what would come next—what disaster might unfold under the Phantom’s wrath, and what remnants of Erik, if any, might still linger beneath the mask.

A soft moment passed between us, the weight of the room dissolving into silence as I met his gaze. The chaos, the fear, the venom in his words—all faded into a strange stillness that seemed to envelop only us. Despite the crowd, despite the mask, it felt as though we were alone. His pull, that magnetic force I could never fully resist, gripped me once more. My breath hitched as I felt my heart lean toward him, a familiar ache blooming in my chest.

Almost without realizing it, I took a slow, tentative step forward. Then another. My feet moved with a will of their own, drawing me closer to the man who stood at the centre of the storm. I looked up at him where he stood, towering on the steps, cloaked in shadows and crimson. My gown felt heavier with each step, the weight of its betrayal a chain I could not shake, yet I kept moving.

His head tilted slightly as I approached, his gaze softening—not for the crowd, but for me alone. He began to descend, his movements slow and deliberate, each step a stark contrast to the anger that had blazed through the room only moments ago. The blade at his side no longer seemed a threat but a forgotten accessory, his focus entirely on me. Every movement was careful, restrained, as though he feared to frighten me, as though he feared I might flee again.

Closer. Closer still. My heart thundered in my chest as we neared each other, the distance between us narrowing with each hesitant step. The air seemed to thrum with unspoken words, and my mind raced with the things I wanted to say—needed to say—but my voice remained trapped, my lips parted but silent.

We stood inches apart now, the tension between us taut as a string. My pulse quickened, but not in fear. In his presence, I felt the ache of familiarity, of belonging. For a fleeting moment, the Phantom melted away. The mask no longer seemed so harsh; his eyes no longer so cold. I saw him—Erik, the man I had once glimpsed in the quiet of his lair, the man who had borne his soul to me in trembling, fearful notes.

The chaos of the masquerade faded further; its edges blurred by the soft, magnetic pull of him. The air between us felt charged, not with dread but with something warmer, something I could almost grasp. My heart ached with the realization that, even in the shadow of his fury, even in the midst of all he had done, it still felt good to be near him.

For that one, fragile moment, I thought I saw him again. Erik—not the Phantom.

And as he looked into my eyes, still shrouded by the mask that matched the dress I wore—a dress he had not chosen—his expression twisted once more. Beneath the skeletal facade, I could see the storm raging within him, a flicker of anger, sadness, and betrayal that cut deeper than any blade. The moment of softness between us shattered, replaced by something raw and consuming.

His voice, low and seething, carried across the silence that had fallen upon the room.

“Your chains are still mine. You belong to me!”

The words struck me like a physical blow, the possessive claim ringing in my ears, reverberating through the very air around us. Before I could respond, before I could reach for him or recoil, he moved.

With a sudden, violent motion, he reached forward and tore the mask from my face. The cold air kissed my bare skin, and I felt the weight of the room’s collective gaze descend upon me. Time seemed to slow in that moment as we locked eyes, and a memory that seemed like a lifetime ago played out between us.

That night—the night I had ripped the mask from his face and witnessed what lay beneath. It had been an act of impulse, of desperate curiosity, and one I had not understood until now. How he had screamed and yelled, his voice tearing through the quiet like a wounded animal. His calm, meticulous demeanour, the one that cloaked him so effortlessly in control, had cracked wide open, revealing the raw, vulnerable man beneath.

I remembered the way he had turned from me, his hands trembling as they clawed at the air, trying to cover what could not be unseen. His shoulders had heaved, his breaths ragged, as though I had stripped away more than his mask. I had torn down the one thing that allowed him to face the world—or what little of it he dared to confront. And yet, amidst the fury and shame, there had been something else, something that lingered in his voice as he turned back to me, his pain laid bare.

"Fear can turn to love," he had pleaded, his voice cracking like fragile porcelain. His eyes, so often veiled in shadows, shone with an unguarded vulnerability that struck deeper than his words ever could. "You'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster… This repulsive carcass, who seems a beast, but secretly dreams of beauty."

His words had been a plea, not for forgiveness, but for understanding. He had begged not for mercy, but for the chance to be seen—not as the Phantom, but as Erik, the man who loved beauty because he had never been allowed to possess it himself.

Now, standing here, I understood how he must have felt. The ripping away of the mask was not just an unveiling; it was an undoing. It was a betrayal of the fragile trust he had placed in me, and it had cut him deeper than any blade. For the first time, I realized what I had taken from him that night—more than dignity, more than pride. I had taken the illusion of safety, the one thing that allowed him to exist in a world that refused to see him. And I had done it without thinking, without understanding the weight of what I was doing.

And then time caught up - my breath caught as Erik’s eyes lingered on my exposed face for a fraction of a second, his fury giving way to something unspoken, something too fleeting to name. Then, as if the sight of me had become too much, he turned sharply, his crimson cloak swirling behind him in a dramatic arc.

The crowd gasped as Erik seemed to dissolve into chaos. A cloud of sparks, a burst of searing heat, and a flame—brief but blinding—engulfed the space where he had stood. For a moment, it was as though the very air combusted in his wake, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of smoke and the echo of his departure.

I stood frozen, my bare face exposed. Around me, the ballroom erupted into chaos, the stunned silence shattering like glass as yells and frantic screams filled the air. Guests stumbled over one another in their haste to retreat from the spot where Erik had vanished, their masks and finery jostling in a swirl of fear and confusion. My pulse thundered in my ears as I stood rooted to the floor, staring at the space where he had been, trying to piece together what had just happened, what I had lost—or perhaps, what I had never truly held.

Chapter 22: Notes.../Twisted Every Way

Summary:

The manager's dissect Don Juan Trimuphant and explore all it's implications.

In the far corner of the room, half-shrouded by the heavy drapes of a nearby window, I lingered silently, an unwilling observer to the managers’ frantic exchange. The shadows pooled around me, their cool embrace offering little comfort as my eyes remained fixed on the score that lay sprawled across the desk, its presence as unsettling as the man who had left it behind.

The heavy, crimson-bound manuscript lay open on the cluttered desk, its pages meticulously inked with haunting melodies and detailed annotations. The air was thick with tension, the shadows of the room flickering as the gas lamps sputtered faintly, their light struggling against the oppressive gloom left in the Phantom’s wake. The managers huddled together in the office, their faces pale and glistening with sweat as they rifled through the freshly delivered score of Don Juan Triumphant.

“Messieurs,” I began, but André’s angry intonation cut me short.

“Ludicrous!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger at the open score, his brow furrowed as he scanned the notes. His lips moved silently for a moment before he burst out, his voice shrill with indignation as he threw his hands in the air. “Have you seen this score?!”

Firmin, seated across from him, sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as if to stave off the headache that had been building since the Phantom’s dramatic exit. “Simply ludicrous!” Firmin echoed, his voice laced with a sense of resignation and frustration.

“It’s the final straw!” André continued, his voice climbing with each word.

“This…” Firmin replied, as he too pointed a weary finger at the cursed book, “…is lunacy. But you know my views.”

“Utter lunacy,” André yelled as he slammed his hand down on the desk, causing an inkpot to topple over and pool on the floor near Firmin.

“But we daren’t refuse…” Firmin sighed, leaning forward to pick up the spilled pot, placing it down on the table before his eyes caught sight of a small extra piece of parchment rolled into the score.

André scowled, pacing the room as his agitation grew. “Not another damned lasso,” André growled, the word striking a sharp pang of memories through my mind.

“Look, my friend…” Firmin spoke, plucking the note from the pages and holding it up for all in the room to see. “… for our review.”

André bristled, taking the note from Firmin’s hands with a haste that made him flinch. He took a deep breath before holding the night close to an oil lamp and speaking:

"Dear André,
Re my orchestrations:
We need another first bassoon.
Get a player with tone—
And that third trombone
Has to go!
The man could not be deafer.
So please, preferably one
Who plays in tune!"

André snorted, throwing himself back into his chair with a dramatic flair. “More lunacy!” he declared, gesturing toward the score as if it were a living insult. “Does he think we have musicians lining the streets, ready to perform at his whim?”

Firmin grimaced, flipping to another page and running his finger down the notes scrawled there. “It seems he’s turned his attention to the chorus as well,” he muttered, before reading aloud:

"Dear Firmin,
Vis-à-vis my opera:
Some chorus-members must be sacked.
If you could, find out which
Has a sense of pitch—
Wisely, though,
I’ve managed to assign
A rather minor role to those
Who cannot act!"

André’s laughter was bitter as he slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. “He has the gall to dictate casting now? What next, I wonder? Will he write our ticket sales announcements for us as well?”

Firmin, however, did not laugh. His expression was grave as he placed the open manuscript carefully on the desk, his fingers lingering on its edges as though it might combust under his touch. “André,” he said quietly, his tone carrying a weight that silenced his colleague. “You know as well as I do—we have no choice in the matter. The Phantom does not ask. He commands.”

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the faint, uneasy creak of the gas lamps. Firmin leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the open score, and sighed again, the sound heavy with resignation. “Let us hope,” he muttered, “that his demands for orchestration do not extend to another… demonstration of his displeasure.”

André shuddered, and the memory of Elise and Buquet flickered vividly in my mind. “God help us,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the two men sat in silence, their eyes locked on the crimson book that seemed to pulse with an ominous life of its own, the room around us all feeling colder, darker. I tried again to speak.

“Messieurs – “

“Outrage!” Carlotta’s shrill, angry voice soared through the moment of silence, accompanied by the slam of the manager’s door into the wall. She stormed into the room like a tempest, her dramatic entrance complemented by the sharp click of her heels against the wooden floor. Gone was the ornate headpiece she had worn earlier, the sliced remnants no doubt a reminder of the Phantom’s earlier intrusion. Her face was flushed, her painted lips set in a theatrical pout, and her hands fluttered in indignation as she addressed the managers with all the flair of a prima donna scorned. Firmin looked up from the score with an exasperated sigh, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the entire Opéra Populaire now rested squarely on him. “What is it now?” he asked, his tone weary.

“This whole affair,” Carlotta cried, gesturing wildly as she advanced further into the room, “is an outrage!”

André pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience clearly fraying. “Now what’s the matter, Signora?” he asked, his voice sharp with irritation.

“Have you seen the size of my part?” she demanded, jabbing a manicured finger toward the open score as though it had personally offended her. Her voice trembled with a mix of indignation and despair, her dramatic flair undimmed even in her outrage.

“Signora, listen…” André began, attempting to placate her, but before he could continue, Piangi lumbered in after her, his own face flushed with frustration.

“It’s an insult!” Piangi declared, brandishing a copy of the libretto as though it were evidence in a trial.

Firmin threw his hands up in disbelief. “Not you as well!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch.

“Just look at this!” Piangi bellowed, thrusting the libretto toward Firmin. “It’s an insult!”

“Please, understand…” Firmin tried again, but the tension in the room was mounting, the air thick with Carlotta and Piangi’s shared indignation.

“Signor! Signora!” André interjected, raising his voice to cut through their protests.

Carlotta was undeterred. “The things I have to do for my art!” she exclaimed, clutching at her chest as though the very thought of it might bring her to fainting.

Piangi chimed in, shaking his head with exaggerated sorrow. “If you can call this shi-… gibberish… ‘art’!” he said, his tone dripping with disdain.

The air in the room seemed to ripple with tension, each voice rising to meet the other in a cacophony of protest, frustration, and frayed nerves. My presence, half-shadowed by the window’s drapes, had been all but forgotten amidst the managers’ heated discussions and Carlotta’s theatrical fury. The weight of everything that had transpired—Erik’s chilling display, his damning words, and the mask he had so violently ripped from my face—pressed heavily upon me, my chest tight with a suffocating mix of dread and guilt.

I took a step forward, willing my voice to cut through the storm of their argument. “Messieurs!” I called, louder this time, my voice trembling yet resolute. But even as the word left my lips, the door to the office swung open with a force that made it shudder on its hinges.

Raoul.

The sudden shift in the air was palpable, the heated argument falling momentarily silent as all eyes turned to him. His presence commanded attention, his movements precise and controlled, but his expression—oh, his expression—betrayed a quiet fury I had never seen before. His jaw was set, his blue eyes fixed on mine with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver through me. The sight of him, usually a source of comfort, now unsettled me, his restrained anger a stark contrast to the chaos around us.

Our gazes locked, and for a moment, the room fell away. I wanted to speak, to explain, to reassure him that I had not chosen any of this, but the words caught in my throat. His anger wasn’t directed outward; it was quiet, simmering, and I realized with a pang that it was not merely the Phantom’s actions that had unsettled him. It was me. He was furious with me.

I swallowed hard, my breath quickening as his gaze bore into mine, unyielding and unrelenting. The Raoul I knew—the charming, chivalrous Vicomte—seemed absent in that moment. In his place stood a man grappling with something deeper, something darker. I felt the weight of his disappointment, his confusion, and though he did not speak, his eyes said everything.

Carlotta, of course, wasted no time in breaking the silence, her shrill voice cutting through the charged air. “Ah! Here’s our little flower!” she exclaimed, her tone laced with venom as she turned to me, her fan snapping shut with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Firmin, ever the opportunist, seized the moment to pivot the conversation. “Ah, Miss (l/n)!” he said, his tone forced jovial. “Quite the lady of the hour!” He gestured toward me with a flourish, as though presenting a prize, his smile thin and strained.

André joined in, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm. “You have secured the largest role in this Don Juan!” he declared, though the words carried none of the pride they might have under different circumstances.

Carlotta’s eyes narrowed, her disdain sharpening into a pointed accusation. “(y/n) (l/n)?!” she spat, her voice rising with incredulity. “She doesn’t have the voice!”

Firmin held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Signora, please!” he said, though his exasperation was clear.

But before Carlotta could launch into another tirade, Raoul’s voice cut through the room, steady and low, each word weighted with purpose. “Then I take it you’re agreeing,” he said, his eyes not leaving mine. His tone was measured, but the undercurrent of his anger rippled just beneath the surface, palpable in every syllable.

Carlotta turned to him, her expression twisting into one of outrage. “She’s behind this…” she hissed, her words dripping with accusation.

André interjected hastily, his tone bordering on desperation. “It appears we have no choice,” he muttered, his gaze darting nervously between Raoul and Carlotta.

“She’s the one behind this!” Carlotta shrieked, her voice rising to a fever pitch as she pointed an accusing finger at me. “(y/n) (l/n)!”

Her words hung in the air, each one a dagger aimed at my already burdened heart. The weight of the room’s attention turned fully toward me now, their gazes heavy with judgment, suspicion, and a palpable unease. My breath caught as I tried to summon the strength to speak, to defend myself against the tidal wave of accusations and the quiet fury radiating from Raoul.

“How dare you!” I finally managed, my voice trembling with both anger and desperation as I stepped forward, my fists clenched at my sides.

Carlotta’s eyes blazed, and her voice rose to match mine, each word cutting like a shard of glass. “I’m not a fool!” she hissed, her tone dripping with venom.

“You evil woman!” I shouted, my composure cracking under the weight of her accusations. “How dare you!”

Carlotta laughed, sharp and scornful, her eyes narrowing with disdain. “You think I’m blind?” she retorted, her tone mocking.

“This isn’t my fault!” I cried, the words spilling out in a rush of desperation as I took another step forward, my voice breaking slightly under the strain. “I don’t want any part in this plot!”

Firmin, clearly unnerved by the escalating tension, raised his hands in a feeble attempt to restore order. “Miss (l/n), surely…” he began, his tone placating.

“But why not?” André interjected, his impatience breaking through as he gestured toward me.

Piangi, who had remained relatively quiet amidst the storm, turned to Firmin with a look of exaggerated confusion. “What does she say?” he asked, his voice loud enough to rise above the din.

Firmin sighed heavily, rubbing his temple as though the weight of the situation was physically bearing down on him. “It’s your decision,” he spoke, his voice heavy with resignation. “But why not?”

Carlotta’s shrill voice cut through the air like a whip. “She’s backing out!” she cried, her fan waving wildly as she turned to the managers for support.

André turned to me, his expression hardening. “You have a duty,” he said, his voice sharp and unyielding.

I shook my head vehemently, the pressure of their expectations and the Phantom’s shadow looming heavy in my chest. “I cannot sing it!” I shouted, my voice rising above theirs. “Duty or not!”

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with disbelief. All eyes turned to me, their gazes a mixture of frustration, shock, and, in Raoul’s case, something deeper—a flicker of pain and understanding that made my chest tighten. The managers exchanged glances, their composure cracking under the weight of the Phantom’s demands and my refusal.

I stood motionless, my breath shallow and uneven, the Phantom’s words still echoing in my ears like the tolling of a death knell. The room spun around me, its heavy, oppressive air pressing down on my chest until I could scarcely breathe. My hands trembled at my sides, my nails digging into my palms in a futile attempt to ground myself. The familiar, suffocating grip of helplessness wrapped around my heart, tightening with every passing second.

I felt like a small, helpless child, dwarfed by the magnitude of what had unfolded around me. The world seemed to implode inward, its weight unbearable, every sound and shadow conspiring to crush me. The familiar ache of losing control spread through my body, leaving me cold and hollow, the fragile thread of composure I had clung to unravelling.

Raoul must have seen it—the way my shoulders slumped as though an invisible hand had pressed them down, the slight tremor in my frame as though I were a wilting flower, unable to stand against the wind. His anger, fierce and righteous, melted away in an instant. He stepped closer to me, his movements careful, measured, as though I might shatter beneath the slightest touch.

“(Y/n)... (Y/n)...” he murmured, his voice low and steady, an anchor in the storm that raged within me. His hands found mine, warm and reassuring, gently prying my fingers apart from the fists I hadn’t realized I had made. “You don’t have to…” he said, his words slow, deliberate. His gaze locked with mine, steady and unyielding, willing me to hear him above the chaos. “They can’t make you…”

His words, simple and kind, broke through the suffocating fog that clouded my thoughts. My vision blurred with tears, the world around me softening into indistinct shapes and muted colours. I felt the first hot streaks slip down my cheeks, and Raoul’s thumb brushed them away with infinite tenderness. His touch was light, but his presence was grounding, tethering me to the moment when everything else threatened to pull me under.

The room around us receded, its cacophony of voices dimming to a dull hum. All I could focus on was him—the quiet determination in his voice, the warmth of his hands cradling mine, the unwavering steadiness of his presence. I wanted to collapse into him, to let him bear the weight of it all, if only for a moment, but the knot in my chest kept me rigid, my pride unwilling to yield entirely.

Raoul, ever perceptive, didn’t press. Instead, he held my hands tighter, his fingers threading through mine as if to remind me that I wasn’t alone. “You’re not alone,” his voice seemed to say, though he didn’t need to speak it aloud. His steady breaths became my guide, a rhythm to follow as I tried to reclaim my own.

For the first time since the Phantom’s dramatic intrusion, the suffocating pressure eased, just slightly. Raoul’s presence was like a lifeline, his calm steadying me in a way I hadn’t thought possible. Though my heart still ached with the weight of everything unsaid, the world felt a fraction less oppressive with him by my side. But the fragile illusion of peace shattered like glass as the door creaked open, and Madame Giry stepped into the room, her expression grim, her hand clutching yet another ominous note.

The room stilled as she stepped forward, her presence commanding immediate attention despite the simmering chaos that hung in the air. Her voice, low and deliberate, carried the weight of her unflinching composure as she unfolded a crisp, white note from the folds of her cloak. The parchment gleamed faintly in the dim light; its edges pristine save for the crimson wax seal that had been broken.

“Please, messieurs,” she began, her eyes sweeping the room, lingering for a moment on me before continuing. “Another note.”

The atmosphere grew taut, every breath held as though the air itself had thickened. Raoul, standing beside me, moved closer, his hand brushing mine in a gesture of quiet solidarity.

‘Fondest greetings to you all!’” she intoned, the Phantom’s words laced with their characteristic elegance and malice. “‘A few instructions just before rehearsal starts.’”

The managers exchanged uneasy glances; their earlier bravado now reduced to a tense silence as they awaited the contents of the letter. Carlotta, her painted features flushed with indignation, stood rigid, her fan snapping shut with a sharp crack.

Giry continued, her voice unwavering. “‘Carlotta must be taught to act… not her normal trick of strutting round the stage.’”

Carlotta gasped audibly, her hand flying to her chest as though the words had struck her physically. “How dare he!” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage.

Giry ignored her, pressing on. “‘Our Don Juan must lose some weight—it’s not healthy in a man of Piangi’s age.’”

Piangi flushed crimson, his mouth opening to protest, but Giry’s firm, unyielding gaze silenced him.

“‘And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts,’” Giry read, her tone sharp, each word a dagger aimed squarely at Firmin and André. The two men shifted uncomfortably, their postures slumping beneath the weight of the Phantom’s veiled threat.

Raoul’s hand tightened around mine, grounding me, but my pulse quickened as Giry’s gaze found me once more. The room seemed to close in around me, the air suffused with a cold, creeping dread.

“‘As for Miss (y/n) (l/n)… No doubt she’ll do her best—it’s true her voice is good,’” Giry read, her tone softening slightly, as though reluctant to voice the next lines. “‘She knows, though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn, if pride will let her return to me, her teacher… her teacher.’”

The final words hung in the air like a specter, their echo reverberating through the room. I felt the weight of them settle over me, an oppressive shroud that threatened to steal the very breath from my lungs.

“‘Your obedient friend… and Angel,’” Giry finished, her voice trailing off as she folded the note with deliberate precision.

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the faint creak of the gas lamps. The room seemed to darken, as though the shadows themselves had deepened in response to the Phantom’s looming presence. I could feel the weight of every gaze upon me—judgment, curiosity, and, from Carlotta, thinly veiled contempt.

The words lingered, wrapping around me like chains forged in fire and shadow. A cold realization crept into my mind, sinking deep into my bones—a resignation that I would always be the Phantom’s puppet, bound to his will, a plaything for his strange and wicked desires. No matter how fiercely I had fought against it, the truth was inescapable. His shadow loomed too large, his influence too pervasive, weaving itself into the very fabric of my existence. The horror of it settled in my chest, sharp and suffocating, as though the air itself conspired to crush me.

Trembling, I turned to Raoul, desperate for the comfort that only he could provide. My hand reached for his, seeking solace in his warmth, his strength. But as my fingers brushed against his, he pulled away. The motion, though small, struck me like a blow. I froze, my breath catching as I looked up at him, confusion mingling with the ache in my chest.

Raoul’s face was unreadable for a moment, his jaw tight, his eyes distant. Then, slowly, his gaze refocused, a simmering fury burning in the depths of his eyes. It was a quiet rage, restrained yet palpable, and I realized he wasn’t withdrawing from me out of coldness—he was consumed by something far more potent. An epiphany seemed to ignite within him, fuelled by the relentless anger he harboured toward the Phantom.

Raoul’s voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, his words cutting through the tension like the strike of a blade. “We have all been blind—and yet the answer is staring us in the face…”

The managers leaned in, their curiosity piqued despite the oppressive weight of the room. Firmin and André exchanged glances, their expressions cautious but intrigued.

“This could be the chance,” Raoul continued, his voice rising with a fervour that made my pulse quicken. “The chance to ensnare our clever friend…”

“We’re listening,” André said, his tone wary but edged with anticipation.

Raoul’s eyes burned with determination as he turned fully toward them, his posture resolute. “We shall play his game—perform his work. But remember, we hold the ace…”

Firmin’s brow furrowed as he shifted forward in his chair. “Go on,” he urged, his voice laden with a mix of scepticism and hope.

“For if Miss (l/n) sings,” Raoul declared, his gaze flicking to me with a fierce protectiveness that softened the blow of his earlier withdrawal, “he is certain to attend.”

A ripple of tension swept through the room. Firmin and André sat up straighter, their earlier nervousness now tinged with a spark of possibility. Firmin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded slowly, the beginnings of a plan taking shape in his mind.

“We make certain the doors are barred,” André offered, his tone sharper now, the fear in his voice replaced with cautious resolve.

“We make certain our men are there,” Firmin added, his voice firm as his confidence grew.

Raoul’s jaw tightened, his eyes blazing as he added, “We make certain they’re armed.”

The three men exchanged a glance, their resolve solidifying into a unified front. Together, their voices rang out with grim determination, each word carrying the weight of defiance and the promise of retribution.

“The curtain falls—his reign will end!”

Raoul’s calculated anger was unlike anything I had ever seen from him before. It wasn’t the fiery outburst of frustration or wounded pride that I might have expected; it was cold, deliberate, and unyielding. The intensity in his eyes sent a shiver through me, and for a moment, I didn’t recognize him. This side of him, this precise and methodical fury, was terrifying in its restraint, as though he were willing to go to any lengths to achieve his purpose. His presence, usually a source of warmth and comfort, now carried an edge of something sharper, something that made my stomach twist uneasily.

“Madness!” Madame Giry’s voice broke the silence, sharp and resolute, her words slicing through the air like the crack of a whip.

“I’m not so sure…” André interjected, his expression thoughtful, the earlier panic in his demeanour now tempered with a growing confidence.

“Not if it works,” Firmin added, leaning forward in his chair, his tone measured yet tinged with a hint of defiance.

“This is madness!” Giry repeated, her voice rising, the weight of her words pressing against the room. Her composure, usually so unshakable, now bordered on desperation.

“The tide will turn!” André shot back, his voice cutting through the tension with an air of defiance.

Giry turned to him, her face pale and strained. “Monsieur, believe me—there is no way of turning the tide!”

“You stick to ballet!” Firmin snapped, his words laced with a condescension that made Giry’s shoulders stiffen.

“Then help us!” Raoul demanded, his voice slicing through the discord with a commanding edge.

“Monsieur, I can’t…” Giry’s voice faltered, her usually steady tone cracking under the weight of the conversation.

Raoul’s jaw clenched, and he stepped forward, his voice sharp with accusation. “Instead of warning us…”

“Help us!” the managers echoed, their voices rising in unison, a chaotic chorus of demands.

Giry’s face twisted with frustration, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. “I wish I could…”

“Don’t make excuses!” Raoul’s voice lashed out, his anger spilling over into the room like a storm.

His next words cut deeper than any before, his gaze locked onto Giry with a cold, piercing intensity. “Or could it be that you’re on his side?”

Giry flinched, the accusation hanging heavily in the air. Her voice, quieter but no less insistent, carried a tremor of urgency. “Monsieur, believe me, I intend no ill… But messieurs, be careful—we have seen him kill.”

André and Firmin exchanged a glance, their fear battling with their newfound resolve. “We say he’ll fall,” Firmin said, his voice growing louder, his words almost a challenge.

“And fall he will!” André added, his fists clenching at his sides.

Amid the escalating tension, Carlotta’s voice rang out, shrill and accusatory, her words cutting through the chaos like a dagger. “She’s the one behind this!” Her painted finger jabbed toward me, her face twisted with fury. “(Y/n)! This is a ploy to help (y/n)!”

Piangi chimed in, his voice joining Carlotta’s in a cacophony of blame and outrage. The managers argued, their voices climbing over each other, while Madame Giry’s sharp rebuttals fought to pierce through the storm of noise. Raoul’s calm façade cracked further as his voice rose to match the chaos, his fury pushing back against the torrent of dissent.

The room dissolved into a chaotic cacophony of overlapping voices, accusations twisting and contorting into an unintelligible roar. It was as though the air itself had turned volatile, every word igniting sparks that threatened to consume the space entirely.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The weight of it all pressed against my chest, threatening to crush me. My hands flew to my ears, desperate to drown out the overwhelming din. The muffled sounds of their arguments still reached me, but I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the chaos to fade, even if just for a moment. The familiar, suffocating sensation of losing control returned, gripping my heart with icy fingers as the world around me threatened to collapse entirely.

Months of torment, confusion, and fear clawed their way to the surface, my carefully constructed composure cracking under the weight of it all.

Tears stung my eyes as my breathing grew erratic, each shallow gasp a desperate attempt to steady myself. But the memories—the Phantom’s voice echoing in the corridors of my mind, the suffocating weight of his presence even in his absence—rushed forward, drowning me in a wave of anguish. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. The floodgates opened, and my voice rang out, raw and trembling, cutting through the cacophony.

“If you don’t stop,” I cried, my voice breaking on the words, “I’ll go mad!”

The room fell into a stunned silence, every eye turning toward me as the full force of my emotional undoing spilled into the space. My chest heaved as I turned to Raoul, my hands reaching for him, trembling with desperation.

“Raoul, I’m frightened—don’t make me do this…” My voice cracked again; each word laced with an edge of panic. “Raoul, it scares me—don’t put me through this ordeal by fire…” My gaze searched his face, pleading, though I wasn’t sure what I was asking for—a reprieve, an escape, a miracle.

My tears flowed freely now, unbidden and unstoppable, and I felt the weight of my fear crash over me like a tidal wave. “He’ll take me, I know… We’ll be parted forever…” My words were punctuated by sobs, my voice trembling as I laid bare the depth of my terror. “He won’t let me go…”

The weight of months spent haunted by his presence pressed down on me, suffusing every word with the pain of that torment. “What I once used to dream I now dread…” I whispered, the admission a dagger to my own heart. “If he finds me, it won’t ever end…”

My voice dropped to a broken murmur, each syllable heavy with despair. “And he’ll always be there… singing songs in my head…” I touched my temple as if trying to banish the phantom echoes, but the effort was futile. “He’ll always be there… singing songs in my head…”

The room remained still, the air thick with the weight of my confession. My knees threatened to buckle beneath me, my body trembling with the strain of releasing everything I had kept locked away. I felt as though I had exposed my very soul to the room, leaving myself vulnerable and raw, the enormity of my anguish laid bare for all to see.

“She’s mad,” Carlotta spoke, her voice – for once – free of mockery or jest, instead laced with a thin tinge of sympathy.

I looked to Raoul, desperate for something—anything—that might anchor me, but the fear in his eyes only mirrored my own. And in that moment, I realized that not even he could shield me from the shadows that had wrapped themselves around my life. And yet, Raoul's hand found mine, his grip firm, his eyes searching mine with a desperate plea to anchor me. His touch was warm, his voice steady, but it couldn’t touch the cold dread that had seeped into my very soul.

“You said yourself he was nothing but a man…” Raoul began, his voice soft yet firm, trying to penetrate the chaos within me. His brow furrowed as he spoke, his tone laced with a mix of resolve and anguish. “Yet while he lives, he will haunt us till we’re dead…”

But his words felt distant, muted, like echoes through a thick fog. Every corner of my mind was a battlefield, every choice before me laden with ruin.

“Twisted every way…” My voice trembled as I spoke, my gaze distant, staring into some unseen abyss. The words came unbidden, each one an expression of the agony that tore at me. “What answer can I give? Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?”

Raoul squeezed my hand tighter, his other hand cupping my face, trying to pull me back to him, to tether me to something real. “(Y/n)...” he murmured, his tone tinged with urgency, but I barely heard him. The tide of fear, of guilt, of helplessness surged, drowning out his voice.

“Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice?” My voice cracked, the memory of Erik’s hand guiding mine at the piano flashing through my mind—those rare moments when his tenderness broke through the darkness. “Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice?”

“(Y/n), look at me,” Raoul insisted, his tone firmer now, but I couldn’t. My gaze dropped, tears streaming down my cheeks as the weight of everything pressed down on me.

“He kills without a thought… He murders all that’s good…” The memory of Elise’s lifeless body, of Buquet’s empty eyes staring into nothingness, twisted my stomach, their faces haunting my mind like spectres. “I know I can’t refuse… And yet, I wish I could…”

Raoul’s grip tightened, his desperation mounting as he tried to draw me back from the brink. “(Y/n), you’re stronger than this… He’s not invincible.”

But my voice only grew softer, my body trembling as the full magnitude of my situation became unbearable. “Oh God—if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom’s opera…?”

“(Y/n), (y/n), don’t think that I don’t care,” Raoul implored, his voice breaking as he tried to reassure me. “But every hope, every prayer rests on you now…”

I shook my head, a small, frantic motion that barely contained the torrent of emotion within me. My hands slipped from his grasp, clenching at my sides as the room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing tighter with each passing second. The whispers of the Phantom’s voice, his promises, and his threats mingled with Raoul’s words, creating an unbearable cacophony in my mind. I stood, pushing away from him and stumbling for the door. I stopped in the doorway, looking back at the shocked expressions written on everyone’s faces.

“I can’t!” I choked.

Raoul’s expression hardened then, his eyes narrowing as his despair gave way to a cold, calculated fury. His jaw tightened, the vein in his temple pulsing as he turned away from me, addressing the invisible enemy that had ensnared us all. “So, it is to be war between us!” he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “But this time, clever friend, the disaster will be yours!”

His words, though fierce and resolute, sent a shiver down my spine. This anger in him, this icy determination, was a side I had never seen before. It scared me, not because it was misplaced, but because it was so consuming. The Raoul I knew—the gentle, kind protector—was eclipsed by a man consumed with vengeance, a man willing to risk everything to end this nightmare.

The room erupted into chaos once more, voices overlapping as Madame Giry pleaded for reason, the managers argued tactics, and Carlotta’s shrill accusations pierced the air like needles. I clutched at my chest, my breaths coming in shallow gasps as I tried to find some semblance of calm amidst the maelstrom. But it was no use. I fled the room - Raoul’s fury, Madame Giry’s warnings, the managers’ schemes—all of it blurred into a deafening roar, and I could do nothing but run – or at least try.

Yet even as my feet carried me through the labyrinth of corridors, the weight in my chest told me what my mind refused to accept: no matter how far or fast I ran, Don Juan Triumphant would come to fruition. It wasn’t just an opera—it was his will, his design. And no amount of fear, defiance, or fleeting hope could alter the course he had already set.

Notes:

I'm back! Took a break for university and to recover from a surgery. Expect more updates soon!

Chapter 23: The Carriage/Memories

Summary:

Y/n realises she cannot stay in the Paris Garnier any longer... it is time to go. But first, a trip...

Notes:

Hey..! I'm back.

This isn't as long as I would've liked - had a bit of George R. R. Martin-style writer's block over the last few months. But, I'm here now! I'm excited to keep writing. Hope you guys will continue to read :)

I did not recall the journey from the managers’ office to my dressing room, only that my feet carried me there with a frantic urgency, as though some unseen force had driven me forward. The corridors of the Opera Populaire stretched before me in a distorted haze, their gilded walls and flickering sconces blurred by the mist of my unshed tears. Shadows leapt and twisted in the dim candlelight, and every step I took echoed too loudly against the marble floors, a dreadful rhythm to the chaos that thundered in my chest.

I reached my door with hands that trembled violently, scarcely able to grasp the handle. The moment I was inside, I turned and threw my weight against the wood, slamming it shut with a force that sent a shudder through the frame. The heavy silence that followed was near unbearable, broken only by the ragged sound of my breathing. My chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm, my body still seized by the madness of the evening.

It was not enough. The door was closed, but I did not feel safe.

My hands flew to my hair, grasping fistfuls of curls as I turned from the door, pacing the small space like a creature cornered. The dressing room had once been my refuge, my sanctuary against the tempest of the opera house. It was here that I had sat before the mirror, my fingers laced together in silent prayer before stepping onto the stage. It was here that I had first heard his voice whispering to me from beyond the glass, a presence unseen yet all-encompassing. Now, the very air of the room felt tainted, oppressive. The warm glow of the gas lamps flickered uncertainly, their light unable to banish the phantom shadows that seemed to gather at the edges of my vision.

I could still hear them. Their voices, their demands. Sing! Obey! Trap him! Their words clung to me like chains, tightening with every breath. And Raoul—his fury, his desperation—it had shaken me to my very core. This war between him and Erik would be my undoing. They were both pulling at me, both demanding my allegiance, but I could not give myself to either.

I must leave.

The thought came as a sudden, violent revelation, its clarity so piercing that I nearly gasped aloud. I must leave. Tonight.

There was no other way.

I could not bear it—not the shadows that lurked behind every curtain, nor the eyes that followed my every step. Not the ceaseless demands, the impossible expectations, nor the terrible certainty that my voice, my very soul, no longer belonged to me. The Opera Populaire had become a prison, and its walls were closing in. The world of light and dark was tearing me apart, and if I did not escape now, I never would.

I took a step toward my vanity, my hands shaking as I reached for my shawl. I would not take much—only what I needed. I had some coins, a cloak, and if I left now, if I slipped out into the Parisian night, I could be gone before dawn.

But my fingers faltered as they grazed over a hand mirror I had placed atop the bedside table.

I held it up before me, its polished surface reflecting a face I scarcely recognized. My own eyes stared back at me, wide and glistening, my cheeks pale, my lips parted in shallow breaths. I looked as though I had seen a ghost. Perhaps I had.

A chill settled over me, and I threw the mirror on the bed, wrapping my arms around myself, as though I might hold together the fragile pieces of my resolve. Could I truly do this? Could I walk away from all I had ever known?

I shook my head, willing away the questions I was too afraid to answer, the ones that threatened to splinter the fragile determination holding me together. I must leave. I must go.

With shaking hands, I all but ripped the black and gold dress from my body, peeling it away like a second skin—a sickening reminder of the night’s events. The fabric pooled at my feet, its weight unbearable, as though it carried the echoes of everything I wished to forget. I willed away the vision of the Phantom’s rage, the terrifying flicker of Erik I had seen in his eyes. I willed away Raoul and the poison that was leeching from me onto him, twisting him into something colder, darker—perhaps into a man he would never have become without my disastrous influence. How many lives had I ruined simply by existing between them? It was too much, all of it, too much.

I turned sharply, wrenching open the wardrobe with such force that the doors banged against the wall. The sharp sound made me flinch, but it was nothing compared to what I saw within.

The other dress.

It hung there in the dim light, pristine and untouched, waiting for me like a spectre of his design. Erik had chosen it for me. Left it for me. Willed me to wear it.

I forced my gaze downward, my stomach twisting with revulsion. I would not put it on. I would not wear his dress, become his vision. I would not be his.

I fell to my knees and rifled through the bottom of the wardrobe, my fingers moving feverishly through the fabric, searching for anything simple, anything that did not bind me to this place. Finally, my hands closed around something soft, familiar. I pulled it free—a black dress, plain but elegant, the high neckline modest and adorned with intricate lacings, the full skirts made of fine but unassuming wool, a far cry from the gilded costumes of the stage. It was a dress of mourning, the kind worn by Parisian women in grief, its darkness subdued, respectful.

A strange sensation overcame me as I stared at the fabric in my hands.

My father.

The breath left my lungs in a trembling sigh, and I sank back onto my heels, my fingers tightening around the fabric. Papa...

I had not thought of him much, in truth, since coming to the Opera House. Perhaps because the memories of him had been stolen from me, one by one, replaced with something else—someone else. My Angel of Music. What a fool I had been. The Phantom had filled the void my father left behind, slipping into the space where my grief should have been, until I could no longer distinguish where the love for one ended and the devotion to the other began. The Phantom took the dreams inspired by my father and warped them into his own wicked, sick, twisted version.

And now... now, I was left with nothing but ghosts.

I clutched the dress to my chest, my heart aching with a sorrow that had lain dormant for too long. Was this what I had become? A creature of the Opera, lost between the living and the dead, dancing on the strings of men who would see me as their muse, their salvation, their pawn?

I had wanted to flee the Phantom’s grasp, to escape Raoul’s war, but standing there in the dim glow of the gaslight, the weight of my father’s absence pressing down on me, I realized—I had been running for much longer than I cared to admit.

I pulled the dress over my trembling frame, the heavy fabric settling against my skin like a funeral shroud. The dark wool was unremarkable, plain, unassuming—yet it felt more like armour than any silken gown or shimmering costume ever had. My fingers lingered at the row of buttons, fastening them one by one, each movement steadying my resolve.

I would leave this place. But not yet.

A thought had taken root in my mind, growing with quiet insistence until I could no longer ignore it. It had been far too long since I had seen him—since I had gone to him, spoken to him, let the weight of my grief settle in the one place it belonged. I had not allowed myself to visit before, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of cowardice. Perhaps because I had been too caught up in my own world, my mind torn between two men who pulled at my mind incessantly.

A lump rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down.

If I were to leave Paris, then I must see him before I went. It was only fitting.

And yet, the moment I made my decision, a sickness churned in my gut.

He had been buried in the same place as Elise.

Père-Lachaise.

A shudder wracked through me. The very name of the cemetery sent a cold ripple through my blood. I had never returned—not after that night, not after I had found her cold and lifeless, her body twisted in death’s cruel embrace. I had not wanted to see it, not wanted to be reminded of what lurked in the shadows of my life.

And yet, here I was, willing myself to go.

I stepped toward the small wooden chest at the foot of my bed, lifting the lid and pulling out a pair of black leather boots. I sat upon the edge of the bed and tugged them on, fastening them with quick, methodical fingers. They were well-worn but sturdy, built for walking through the uneven streets of Paris.

For the streets would soon welcome me one last time.

My heart hammered as I stood, reaching for my cloak where it lay draped over the back of a chair. It was long and thick, made of dark wool, the kind worn in the bitter chill of winter nights. It would shield me from the wind… and from prying eyes. It was the same one I had worn on the rooftop with Raoul.

With careful fingers, I drew the hood over my hair, ensuring my face was hidden in shadow. I could not afford to be recognized—not by the managers, not by Raoul, and certainly not by him.

My breath hitched at the thought of Erik, but I forced it away. I would not think of him now. Not here.

With one last glance at the dimly lit room, I pulled the cloak tight around my body and reached for the door.

And then, with a deep breath, I stepped out into the corridors of the Opera Populaire—slipping away like a wraith into the night.

 

I descended the grand staircase of the Opera Populaire with hurried, desperate steps, the soles of my boots clicking against the marble in sharp, frantic echoes. The gilded bannisters, once gleaming with warmth in the glow of the chandeliers, now seemed cold, skeletal in the dim moonlight filtering through the great windows above. The great bronze doors loomed ahead, their towering presence more ominous than welcoming, as though they were reluctant to release me from the building’s grip.

Hours ago, these steps had been alive with grandeur—adorned with silk and laughter, the air thick with perfume and intrigue. Carriages had lined the streets, their glossy doors swung open to receive their noble occupants, while lanterns flickered golden against the velvet of the night. The opera house had pulsed with energy, its very stones humming with music and conversation, with ambition and vanity. But now, in the cold hush of the late hour, it was as though the building had hollowed itself out, reduced to nothing but a husk of grandeur, its opulence stripped away to reveal the cavernous emptiness beneath.

I hesitated on the last step, my breath uneven. The wind carried the scent of rain and damp stone, and I pulled my cloak tighter around myself, suppressing a shiver that had little to do with the cold.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted him.

A coachman stood beside a dark carriage near the curb, brushing off one of his horses with the easy manner of a man who had long since grown accustomed to the chill of midnight work. His figure was hunched slightly, his greatcoat worn at the elbows, but there was something sturdy about him, something that reassured me even from a distance. He murmured to the horse in a low, soothing voice, patting its flank as he worked.

It was not until I stepped closer, the sound of my boots scraping against the stone, that recognition struck me.

It was the same carriage the managers had arrived in earlier that very night.

The thought sent a flicker of unease through me, but I had no time for hesitation. I needed to leave; needed to be away from here, away from the suffocating shadows of the Opera.

I took another step forward, swallowing the apprehension rising in my throat. Speaking to strange men unnerved me, but I had no choice. I kept my hood drawn low, my fingers curled tightly into the folds of my cloak as I approached.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” I said softly, my voice nearly swallowed by the night.

The man turned, surprised at first, but his expression quickly softened. His face was lined with years of honest work, his grey hair unruly beneath his cap. There was a roundness to his cheeks, a warmth in his eyes that was almost disarming.

“Well, now,” he said, his voice thick with the lilt of an older Parisian dialect. “What’s this? A lady out alone at this hour?” He glanced behind me, toward the doors of the Opera, then back at me, curiosity evident in his kindly gaze. “You’re not in some sort of trouble, are you, mademoiselle?”

I shook my head quickly, though I was not certain it was the truth. “No, monsieur,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I need to get to Père-Lachaise. Do you know the way?”

His bushy brows lifted in mild surprise. “Père-Lachaise? At this hour?” He let out a low whistle. “A strange time for a visit, but I know the way well enough.” He gave his horse a final pat before turning more fully toward me. “You’ve family there, I take it?”

I hesitated, something sharp twisting in my chest. “Yes,” I whispered. “My father.”

The words felt foreign on my tongue, as though I had not spoken them in years.

The coachman nodded in understanding, his expression softening. “Ah, I see. Well, I won’t turn away a daughter looking to visit her père, no matter the hour. The cemetery’s never locked to the grieving, after all.” He gestured toward the carriage. “Come now, in with you. It’ll be a cold ride.”

Relief flooded through me, though my hands still trembled as I reached for the door handle.

As I stepped up into the carriage, I cast one final glance back at the steps of the Opera House.

A place of splendour and spectacle, of brilliance and beauty, of deception and darkness. And yet, tonight, it stood in a state of quiet mourning. The grand façade, which had dazzled so many under gaslight and laughter, now seemed bleak, abandoned, as though even the ghosts had grown weary of haunting its halls.

A weight pressed against my chest, but I ignored it, climbing fully inside and pulling the door shut behind me.

The carriage rocked gently where it stood, the horses shifting with soft huffs of breath, their hooves scraping against the dampened cobblestones. I sat stiffly against the worn leather seat, my hands clenched in my lap, the weight of my decision pressing heavily upon me. The night beyond the curtained window was thick with shadow, the flickering glow of streetlamps barely penetrating the oppressive gloom that hung over the city like a shroud.

Just as I settled deeper into the seat, trying to steady the erratic rhythm of my breathing, a sudden thud against the side of the carriage made me jolt upright. My heart leapt into my throat, my fingers instinctively tightening around the folds of my cloak.

The sound was followed by a rustling, a shuffle of boots against stone, and then the low murmur of the coachman speaking to himself. His voice, though muffled, carried a note of frustration.

“Ah, these cursed reins—always slipping, never holding as they should,” he muttered. There was another soft grunt, a shifting of weight. “One moment, mademoiselle, just fixing up the left trace… nothing to fret about.”

But something about his tone struck me as odd. It was still the same voice, the same rolling lilt of a Parisian workman, but there was a stiffness to it now, a practiced quality—as if the words were being measured before they left his mouth.

I hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, my fingers nervously twisting in the hem of my sleeve. “Are you alright, monsieur?” I called out, trying to keep my voice even. “Do you need assistance?”

A pause. Only the creak of leather, the shifting of hooves. Then, after a moment too long, the reply came.

“No, no, all’s well, mademoiselle,” he assured me. And yet, there was a strange resonance to his voice now, something slightly deeper, something I could not quite place. “Just—ah—these old hands, not as nimble as they once were.” A low, breathy chuckle followed, meant to be reassuring.

But my skin prickled.

I swallowed, forcing myself to exhale slowly. He was only a coachman, and I was allowing my mind to play tricks on me. The events of the evening had unravelled my nerves beyond reason. I had already seen too many shadows where there were none.

And yet…

I let my fingers hover near the edge of the curtain, torn between the urge to pull it back and the lingering weight of my hesitation. Something in the night pressed against me, unseen but there, watching, waiting.

I did not move.

A second later, the sound of the reins snapping taut reached my ears, followed by the creak of the carriage as the horses gave an impatient whinny.

“All set now,” the coachman called. “We’ll be off, then.”

I let out a slow breath and tried to calm myself as the carriage began moving. The steady rhythm of the wheels against the uneven cobblestones became a lull, a soft metronome to my thoughts. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension in my shoulders unravel, though my fingers still clung to the folds of my cloak. Outside, the city stretched in shadowed streets and flickering gas lamps, but I did not see it—I saw only the past, a past painted in warm candlelight and the quiet hum of a familiar melody.

Father…

I closed my eyes, and for the first time in too long, I let myself think of him—not in passing, not as a spectre who lived only in my regret, but as he had been.

His kindness had been quiet, unshakable, woven into the small, unseen moments of our days together. He had been a man of weary hands and tired eyes, but his smile—oh, his smile—had been a thing of rare, gentle beauty. When he looked at me, truly looked at me, it was as though the weight of the world fell from his shoulders, if only for a moment.

I could still hear the way he had murmured my name on those long winter nights when hunger gnawed at our bellies and the fire in our cottage had withered to embers. He had pressed my hands between his own, roughened from labour, but always warm, and whispered, “My little songbird, we shall find a way.”

And he had.

Even when there had been no money, even when there had been no certainty of a meal the next day, he had found a way to keep the music alive. He had sat me upon his knee, his fingers plucking at the strings of his violin, and taught me the old songs, the ones his father had taught him before. Songs that did not belong to grand opera houses or glittering stages but to the earth; to the people. Songs of sorrow and longing, songs of love.

"Not from here, my love," he would say, pressing his fingertips to my throat. "From here,” he would continue, pointing to my heart.

He had always told me my voice would be better than the other girls’, but never with vanity or conceit. No, he had believed in me, in the way a father believes in the strength of his child. He had taught me to breathe through the notes, to let them live beyond my lips, to make them my own.

When I had torn the hem of my only dress on the rocks near the river, he had sat with me by the fire, his large, calloused hands fumbling with the needle and thread. “Not quite a seamstress your mother was, am I?” he had chuckled, threading it wrong twice before finally fixing the tear. But he had tried, he had always tried.

And when my shoes had grown too small, when the soles had worn thin, he had given me his own scarf to wrap around my feet so I would not shiver. He had kissed my forehead, smoothed back my tangled curls, and whispered, “Someday, little one, you will have all the shoes and gowns in the world. But you will not need them. Because you, my songbird, will have your voice.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I did not let them fall.

How long had it been since I had let myself remember him this way? Not as a broken man, lying on the stones, his body cold and still, but as the father who had loved me beyond all else? Had the Opera stolen that from me, too?

I missed him. God, I missed him.

And for the first time in years, I longed to sing for him—not for an audience, nor Erik, nor Raoul or the managers; but for him. For the only man who had ever taught me how to love music before it had become a prison.

The carriage jostled as it turned a corner, and I opened my eyes, the ache in my chest settling into something quieter, something tender.

For so long, I had let ghosts dictate my every step. Perhaps, tonight, I would let my father’s memory guide me instead.

Chapter 24: Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

Summary:

(y/n) finally pours out her grief for her father...

Notes:

Two chapters in one night..! You guys are getting lucky again.

The wheels rolled on, carving a slow, mournful path through the cobbled veins of Paris. Every turn of the axle was a hymn to memory, every jolt a note struck upon the strings of my frayed resolve. The windows wept with condensation, and through the misted pane, the city loomed in fragments—blurred silhouettes of shuttered bakeries, flickering lamps, the hush of curtained windows that had long since turned away from the night. Paris, once so grand in its defiance, now slumbered beneath a blanket of sorrow.

My breath fogged the window as I leaned toward it, watching as the spire of a distant church slipped past, black against the bruised sky. My reflection hovered there—pale, drawn, eyes hollow with mourning. I looked like a widow riding toward her own funeral.

And in a way, I was.

The carriage slowed as it approached the tall iron gates of Père-Lachaise. They rose from the earth like the teeth of some ancient beast, cold and indifferent to the living. Beyond them lay the city of the dead—row upon row of crumbling mausoleums and crooked headstones, shrouded in ivy and grief. Fog crawled along the ground, clinging to the mossy paths as though it too mourned those buried beneath.

Eventually, the slow rumble upon the stones grew to a halt. Outside, the world lay draped in a shroud of fog and cold, and the great iron gates of Père-Lachaise loomed so high above that they seemed to scrape the heavens themselves. Somewhere, a bell tolled the lateness of the hour—a hollow, melancholy peal that carried over the stones and into the shadows of the dead. I hesitated, gathering the folds of my cloak tightly about me. For a heartbeat, I remained still, caught in that hush which lingers on the threshold between moments.

At last, the carriage door creaked open, causing a soft gasp to escape my throat as the illusion of my self-imposed stillness was broken. The coachman had descended from his perch, his boots muffled on the damp stones. He rounded the carriage, coming into view as a vague silhouette, distorted by the faint gaslight that hovered near the gates. The fog curled about him, swallowing details. Was it the same round-cheeked, gentle-eyed man I had met at the Opera’s steps? Or was there something different in his bearing, something stiff, almost…deliberate?

He extended a gloved hand towards me, wordless and expectant.

My heart fluttered with a sudden, inexplicable dread. Every instinct screamed for me to remain inside, to bolt the door and beg him to drive on, to turn back toward the safety of the lamplit boulevards. Yet, I found myself moving as though compelled by another’s will—by some presence I could not see but felt as surely as the chill upon my skin.

I reached out, my own hand trembling, and placed my gloved fingers lightly atop his. The contact was brief, and yet a cold, prickling sensation seized me as an unbidden shiver travelled up my arm and settled between my shoulder blades. The strength in his grip was measured, almost too careful, as though he feared to break some fragile spell.

For a moment, I dared not look up into his face. It was as if the night itself pressed its warning upon me: do not look. My gaze remained fixed upon the uneven stones beneath my feet, watching as the fog swirled about the hems of my skirts, drawing me onward.

The coachman’s hand withdrew the moment my feet touched the ground. He said nothing, merely tipping his hat in a gesture that felt far removed from the bumbling, awkward man I had met on the steps less than an hour ago.

And so, I glanced, only briefly, at his silhouette. There was nothing to distinguish him from any other Parisian coachman, and yet something in the angle of his shoulders, the careful stillness with which he held himself, struck a chord of unease within me.

“Thank you, monsieur,” I murmured, my voice no more than a wisp of sound swallowed by the mist. He uttered nothing in return except his unrelenting gaze, of which I still refused to meet, and a peculiar terror took root in my chest, cold and persistent as the fog. Clutching my cloak more tightly, I stepped away from the carriage, boots sinking into the yielding, moss-soft earth, thankful for the momentary reprieve from the strange aura emanating off what had seemed a kindly man.

Ahead, the lanterns of Père-Lachaise flickered dimly, painting long, wavering shadows across the stones. I did not look back. I scarcely dared to breathe. The iron gates groaned as I pressed them open, and the city of the dead received me—silent, watchful, as if holding its breath for the next chapter of the night.

The air within Père-Lachaise was colder still, thick with the scent of wet stone and faded blossoms left upon the graves of long-dead Parisians. I slipped through the gates as quietly as a thief, the weight of time and memory bearing down upon me. Each footfall seemed sacrilegious, a trespass upon holy ground—not merely for the lateness of the hour, but for the long absence that lay between my last visit and tonight.

Yet, though the cemetery had become a labyrinth of ivy and grief, I found I could never have forgotten the path to his grave; not even if I had wished to. Grief is a faithful hound, never straying too far off the scent. Even as the city around me changed, even as years threatened to dull the edges of my memory, the way to him remained etched upon my soul—a pilgrimage mapped in sorrow and the echo of childhood steps beside his longer stride.

And yet, as I moved through the thickening fog, a cold unease gathered in my chest. It was not only my father who lay here. Somewhere nearby—too close for comfort—Elise rested beneath the same shroud of Parisian gloom. Her grave was newer, the earth above it still raw, the stone cut with dates far too recent. Even now, I could recall the night she died: the way her body had swung, grotesquely suspended above the stage… And a bitter guilt gnawed at me. Sometimes it seemed as though the shadows in the Paris Garnier had clung more tightly to my soul than to hers. Was it not I who had drawn the Phantom’s attention? Was it not my struggles that had set his rage loose upon the Opera’s rafters, sealed Elise’s fate among the ropes?

No. I paused, willing myself to look the truth in the eye. No, it was not my hand that drew the knot tight nor pushed her over the edge. I had not chosen violence; I had not wished her dead. The Phantom had made his own monstrous decision. Her life had been lost to his darkness, not mine. And yet, the unease lingered - a stain that would not wash away. I wondered if the dead whispered of such things—if Elise’s shade lingered in resentment, unable to rest because of the part I had unwittingly played. The notion chilled me. I pressed forward, shaking, heart clattering within my chest.

 

 

I moved as though in a trance, past rows of moss-covered angels with weeping faces, past crumbling crypts and marble tombs whose names meant nothing to me. At last, I stood before my father’s grave. The modest stone was almost swallowed by ivy and lichen, the inscription worn soft by seasons of rain. I knelt, feeling the damp seep through my skirts, and rested my hand gently atop the grass. Here – here was the place that had been carved from the earth for my father, a plot as modest in death as he had been in life.

A hollow ache tightened in my chest as his funeral drifted back, and with it, a shuddering regret - unbidden, yet impossibly vivid. I remembered the way the sky had wept that day, the rain falling in relentless sheets that flattened the grass and plastered my dress to my legs. The city had seemed muted, the bustle of Paris hushed as though the world itself paused to bear witness. Yet there had been so few mourners; a handful of neighbours, one or two from the Opera who came out of duty more than affection. He had been a man draped in his own sadness, his joy hollowed out in the years after my mother’s passing. The light within him, once so warm and steady, had guttered to an uncertain flame, flickering behind weary eyes.

I had not understood then. I had clung to his hand, begging him silently not to leave me, even as I saw the strength leech from his grip with every passing day. I had watched the grief swallow him whole—the same grief that had snuffed out the love he once carried for the world, leaving behind only devotion for the woman who had gone before him. The sun, for us, never seemed to rise quite as high again.

He was buried beneath a sky the colour of pewter, the final notes of the priest’s prayers drowned by the sound of rain on stone. I remembered how the earth looked as they lowered him down, how final and indifferent the grave appeared. I remembered thinking, childishly, that he was cruel to abandon me.

For a time, that anger had burned in me - a wild, desperate thing, clawing at my heart in the quiet moments of the night. How could he leave me alone in a world so vast; so indifferent? How could he have turned his face from me, even if only in death? I wept and raged, blaming him for my loneliness, for every sharp corner of the life that followed.

But time had softened my resentment, as it does with all wounds left too long untended. Now I saw that it was not choice, but heartbreak, that took him from me. He had been broken by love, hollowed out by loss. The grief that consumed him was not a choice, but a slow unravelling; a darkness that stole him away piece by piece. If I am to forgive myself for all that I have done, then surely I must forgive him, too.

Standing before his grave, I pressed a trembling hand to my lips, stifling the sob that threatened to escape. The stone was cold beneath my palm, slick with the mist that crept along the ground. I let out a shuddering breath and bowed my head, the weight of grief still so heavy after all these years.

“I am sorry it took me so long,” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the sighing wind. “I could never forget you— I only forgot how to remember without pain.”

The fog pressed closer, thickening around me, as though the cemetery itself sought to hide my shame, to enfold me in its silence and absolve me of my trespasses. But no absolution came. Only the slow, steady ache of regret, and the longing for a forgiveness that could never be spoken aloud. And beneath the heavy silence, that faint, familiar tremor of guilt—never truly gone—waited for me to name it, forgive it, or simply bear it, as I always had.

A quiver ran through me, and I found myself speaking aloud, my voice fragile as the morning mist. “Papa,” I whispered, “do you remember my youth, father? You used to say I was always thinking of everything and nothing all at once.” My throat tightened, a sharp ache rising as the pang of all that I had been through over the last few years.

I drew a shaking breath, the old melody welling up from the hollow of my chest—first as a murmur, then as a song half-formed, as if it were not my own voice but some lost spirit’s carried on the chill air.

“You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered...” The words hung in the silence, woven with longing. My voice trembled, faltered, but would not break. I stood slowly, brushing the damp from my skirts. At my feet, small white flowers—wild anemones, fragile and out of place among the dead—caught my eye. I reached for them with numb fingers, plucking one, then another, as though by gathering them I might gather some fragment of comfort. I let my fingertips linger on the petals, cold with dew.

“You were once a friend and father,” I continued, trying to think of his softness in his face, the kindness in his eyes… and not of the way I had found him… “then my world was shattered.”

I drifted around the grave, tracing the soft rise of the earth, weaving the wildflowers into a trembling bouquet. The air was thick with sorrow, the angels standing sentinel so wrong in their stony grandeur. They could not remember his laughter, the way his hands were always warm.

“Wishing you were somehow here again,” I sung softly, “Wishing you were somehow near...”

The song became a prayer, a fragile thread spun between past and present, hope and resignation. My voice quavered as I closed my eyes, willing him to hear, to reach across the impossible divide. “Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here,” my voice rose slightly in pitch, and I let myself sink into the words.

“Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would.” I pressed the flowers to my lips, breathing in their faint, earthy scent. The cemetery spun in its hush, the fog swallowing even the sound of my voice, and yet I could almost imagine him near—felt, not seen; memory, not flesh. “Dreaming of you won’t help me to do all that you dreamed I could...”  

I knelt once more, laying the small bouquet at the foot of the stone, the petals stark against the greying earth. “Passing bells and sculpted angels,” I whispered, glancing at their frozen faces, “seem for you the wrong companions. You were warm and gentle.”

I stood then, a sob caught at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down. The past pressed close—too many years of silent tears, of dreams that always faded with the morning. For a moment, my anger flickered again, sharp and brief. I felt a familiar sensation stir in my chest, not unlike when Erik had pushed my voice to its utmost limits that night I had come down to his lair. I allowed it to consume me once again, and I turned my head up to the sky as if whatever God looking over me might be able to hear my grief, and perhaps to understand it.

“Too many years fighting back tears - Why can’t the past just die?”

My voice would not falter, though it threatened to - spent by grief and the lateness of the hour. The cold gnawed at my bones, but I could not yet leave—not while so much was left unsaid, so much of me still yearning backward in time. I looked down at his grave again and pushed on.

“Wishing you were somehow here again, knowing we must say goodbye.” I whirled away from the grave then, the sensation only growing stronger and more impassioned. “Try to forgive,” I pleaded angrily, “Teach me to live. Give me the strength to try!”

And as the feeling reached a fever-pitch inside my head, my voice soared:

“No more memories, no more silent tears! No more gazing across the wasted years...” I held the note, my voice shearing through the all-consuming darkness that could not swallow the years of grief that were pouring out of my throat. I turned back towards his grave and collapsed as the note came to its wavering end. The ache in my chest was sharp, but I felt a faint loosening—something inside me yielding to the truth that this goodbye could not be delayed forever.

“Help me say goodbye,” I whispered as if he might dig his way up from his eternal place of rest beneath me to hold me once more. The words faded on the fog, stolen away by the hush of Père-Lachaise. I let my fingers rest one last time upon the stone, the cold beneath my touch both foreign and familiar, and, with a trembling sigh, released the final tether of the song.

“Help me say goodbye,” I sang this time, once more holding the note and letting the final wisps of anger soften, dissolving back into their oldest, truest form—grief, as ancient and tender as the earth itself, grief that ebbs and flows but never fully departs.

In the distance, the night shifted, as if the world itself exhaled. I sat in the silence, uncertain, waiting for a sign—any sign—that I had been heard, that I had been forgiven, or, at last, set free.

But Père-Lachaise offered nothing save the echo of my own voice and the hush of breathless stone. The fog pressed closer, trailing ghostly fingers over my shoulders, weaving the damp scent of moss and earth through my hair. Somewhere, the bell’s dying echo faded to silence, and for a moment, all of Paris seemed to wait with me, paused between midnight and morning, between longing and release.

I pressed my hand to the stone one final time, fingertips tracing the lichen-soft letters of his name. The world felt strangely suspended, as though the air itself trembled with the last resonance of my song. I tried to imagine his arms around me, his gentle voice soothing the ache in my chest. But only the wind answered, stirring the grass at my knees.

A shiver swept over me, and I realised my knees had grown numb from kneeling, my skirts heavy with dew. I closed my eyes, drew a breath thick with the chill and the sweet, living green of the wildflowers I had left behind, and let myself grieve—no longer with rage or recrimination, but with a quiet, sorrowful acceptance. This was all that remained: the ache, the memory, the silent conversation between the living and the dead.

My voice, now spent and raw, had drifted out among the monuments and angels. There was no sign—no sudden warmth upon my cheek, no stirring of the air that might have meant a spirit’s touch. Yet the burden on my chest eased, ever so slightly, as if someone, somewhere, had listened. I bowed my head. The loneliness remained, but now it was gentler, shaped by the knowledge that love once given does not vanish, even when the body is dust. It lingers, quiet and eternal, like the moonlight upon gravestones, like the hush that settles after song.

And so, I knelt in the hush of Père-Lachaise, surrounded by the patient dead, and let the night hold my sorrow for a while, until I was ready to stand and face whatever shadows still lingered beyond the gates. But the hush did not remain. It shifted—subtle at first, an almost imperceptible tightening of the fog around my shoulders, the scent of earth and old stone thickening in the air. The silence grew too deep, too careful, as though the very cemetery were holding its breath.

A prickle ran down my spine. My hand, still resting on the cool stone of my father’s grave, curled instinctively, clutching for comfort that would not come. I became suddenly aware of every sound: my own shallow breaths, the faint hum of insects, the wind stirring far-off branches. The world seemed to contract, to press in around me, each shadow lengthening and reaching with silent, greedy fingers. Somewhere, not far—impossibly close—a voice began to form. It was only a murmur at first, so quiet I might have imagined it: a ripple in the mist, a half-familiar note trembling just beyond the edge of hearing. I held my breath, heart hammering, and listened as it began to gather itself, rising softly out of the gloom:

“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…”

Chapter 25: Wandering Child/Bravo Bravo

Summary:

The Angel of Music calls to her...

Notes:

At last I've written this scene. I hope this was well balanced. I've been agonising over it for months.

The words wove through the mausoleums, gentle at first, coaxing as a gloved hand extended through a dream. They slid beneath my skin, curling around my heart with a familiarity I had never wholly banished. The graveyard itself seemed to tremble in sympathy, the air thrumming as if all of Paris had become a single, vast echo chamber for that melancholy refrain.

The words drifted over the gravestones, half-sung, half-whispered, threading between the monuments like a memory I had long tried to forget. The tone was neither fully human nor wholly ghostly; an echo I had heard before in candlelit corridors, beneath the opera’s stage, in dreams where fear and longing mingled indistinguishably. My body tensed, every muscle alert, yet some deeper part of me responded not with fear but with a strange, unwilling ache. A longing to be found, to be seen, to be led by the hand through darkness, no matter the cost.

“No!” The word echoed within me; a feeble protest, barely more than a tremor in the fog. This is not Erik, I told myself; this is the Phantom: cold, merciless. Yet the distinction fluttered, moth-like, against the lantern-lit dark of my mind, never settling. Both were present—always present—the shadows of one another, a single spirit splintered, not by my hand, but by the world’s cruelty.

I clung to the memory of Erik, that gentle figure who had, for a time, let me believe in a different ending. The memory, too, was fog: how he had recoiled at the sight of me in the dress Raoul had laid out for me. I had thought the gown a token, some silent understanding passed between us, a promise woven in brocade. But when he saw me, his posture altered utterly; I saw it, even across the crowd, even behind the mask. A stillness, a dimming of the lamp within. I had not understood, not then, how that small, mistaken kindness could wilt into such smothering cruelty.

A colder wind slipped through Père-Lachaise, unsettling the leaves at my feet, and with it came the sensation—not quite of being watched, but of being remembered by someone else’s sorrow. A presence, delicate as a spider’s thread, brushed the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes, as if to press away the trembling in my limbs. The melody circled me, insidious, tugging at that ancient loneliness I carried like a hidden bruise.

Did I shiver from dread? Or was it the old, confounding longing, that wish to be known, even by the darkness? My thoughts turned, restless and unquiet, to the mask torn away—its promise, its violation. Had I not, too, torn away something vital, left him naked beneath the pitiless gaze of the world?

There, in the chill between monuments, memory became mist, and mist became memory. I tried to fix myself in the present, in the living ache beneath my palm, but the past pressed close, relentless. The dress, the music, the cold shock in his eyes… all returned in silent accusation.

A single footfall, soft and deliberate, seemed to stir the moss at my back. Still, I did not dare look; dread anchored me, yet something older and deeper—some marrow-deep ache—held me, suspended, straining toward the voice that was both threat and invocation.

Was it possible to yearn for forgiveness from one’s own tormentor? Was it possible to mourn what the world called monstrous, when one had glimpsed, if only for a moment, the fragile, desperate heart beneath?

The fog curled closer, the gravestones leaned inward, as if Père-Lachaise itself conspired to keep me rooted, helpless and uncertain, awaiting whatever would emerge from the darkness next.

I pressed my hand to my throat, feeling my pulse stutter beneath my fingers. The fog thickened, rolling in slow, silent eddies, masking the shapes beyond my father’s grave. I could not see him—not yet—but I could feel him, as surely as if he pressed his hand to the small of my back. The memory of the coachman’s gloved grip flickered through my mind, and I shivered, uncertain if it was dread or anticipation that fluttered in my belly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the spell to break, but the melody wove itself tighter. I could not help but remember the mask torn from his face—the pain, the betrayal, the brief, searing glimpse of the man I had wounded beyond all reason. Had he followed me here as punishment, or as penance? Was this the Phantom’s vengeance, or Erik’s plea for forgiveness?

I clung to the edge of the grave, torn between terror and the strange, magnetic pull that had always drawn me to him, even as I recoiled. The cemetery seemed to dissolve at the edges of my vision; there was only the cold, the stone, the voice, and the terrible, beautiful ache that answered it within me.

My lips parted without my leave, as though another’s longing had reached inside me and laid claim to the very breath in my lungs, my mind whirling through all the nights and shadows that had shaped the thing between us.

His voice curling through the velvet darkness of the Garnier, not so much guiding me as summoning me. I remembered how, in that trembling moment on the stage, when doubt threatened to drag me under, it was his unseen command—half-hypnosis, half-salvation—that had set my feet upon the boards, drawn forth notes from my throat I did not know I possessed. It was not courage, then, but obedience to something ancient and unnameable; a music that was less melody than compulsion.

All the dreams came flooding back: restless, shimmering hours filled with glass and smoke, mirrors that did not show my face, but a gloved hand reaching through silver and shadow to beckon me into some hidden realm. How often had I awakened, heart pounding, haunted by the memory of those cold fingers slipping over my skin, or the hush that came just before the voice; a whispering darkness that wanted to swallow me whole? And how often, in the strangest, weakest hours, had I wanted it to?

There was a time when I thought myself lost to that darkness; when I had, with a shivering hunger, let it close around me, craving annihilation as much as revelation. The longing had not been entirely his; it had grown in the places where I was most alone, taking root in the secret garden of my fears.

Then: the mask. The terrible, trembling moment when, blinded by curiosity or pity or something far more desperate, I had torn the disguise from his face. I could still feel the echo of his terror, his rage, as if he had been stripped naked before a jeering crowd rather than before the one soul who had ever truly listened to his song. He had pleaded with me, voice splintering: “Fear can turn to love...” And I had seen him: seen Erik, trembling and beautiful in his ruin. For an instant, the darkness had lifted, and I saw the flicker of the man he might have been.

But that gentleness had been fragile as spun glass. My vision of Erik, my beautiful Erik, had been snuffed out by a greater violence. There came that night when his fury, fuelled by wounds the world had dealt him, reared up and choked the man within. I could still feel the bruise of his hands about my throat, could hear the crackling whisper: “You will curse the day you do not do all that the Phantom asks of you…” My fear and pity collided in that moment, as if my heart itself were being strangled.

Since then, terror had walked beside me like a shadow, never quite fading. How could I forget the threats uttered only hours before? How the crowd had gasped, the manager’s paled, how even Raoul had blanched at the violence in his voice. And yet, through all of it, a part of me—some stubborn, secret longing—yearned to see him again. I told myself it was only to lay old ghosts to rest, to end what could not be endured, but the truth lay coiled deeper, impossible to name: I wanted to see him. To see if Erik still lived, even as a flicker, within the Phantom’s shadow. I understood too well that I was no longer wholly my own. I had been marked by his longing, his music, his madness. And so, the words fluttered from my lips:

“Angel or father? Friend or phantom? Who is it there, staring?”

A hush fell over the graves, the kind of hush that seems to press against the skin, urging you to listen for what should not be heard. The fog thickened, drawing the world in close, until it felt as though only I and the stones and the waiting dead remained. For a moment, I wondered if I had dreamed his voice in my grief-ridden madness. Then—softly, as if conjured from the marrow of my own loneliness, a voice drifted across the mist, so close it grazed the shell of my ear:

“Have you forgotten your Angel?”

The words rang with such impossible familiarity that I thought my heart might betray me. They seemed to come from everywhere at once; woven into the sigh of the wind, the hush beneath the trees, the low pulse that throbbed in my throat. The voice was not the Phantom’s harsh command, nor the shrill menace I remembered from the ballroom. It was softer, almost tender; aching with the memory of a thousand whispered lullabies, a warmth that trembled on the verge of sorrow.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the thrum of my own blood, half in terror, half in wonder. For one wild, impossible moment I thought Erik had slipped past his own torment and stood before me as he once had, all gentleness and yearning, all hope dashed and rekindled in a single trembling note. My lips moved before my mind could gather itself, as though his yearning pulled the words from me, and I heard myself answer, my voice a broken filament:
“Angel, oh, speak! What endless longings echo in this whisper!”

The words floated between the stones, thin as breath, plucked by that invisible hand that had so often summoned my song and my surrender. I shuddered, half-afraid, half-entranced, longing and dread entwined as tightly as the ivy curling over the tombs. It seemed to me then that the city of the dead had become a stage, and I its trembling, captive ingénue; drawn to the edge of the unknown by a voice I could never wholly refuse.

Somewhere in the mist, the presence waited—neither wholly Phantom nor wholly Erik, but the sum of every note, every longing, every wound we shared. And though fear shivered through me, I felt the inexorable pull of music, the old, familiar ache that would not let me go.

A breath—a pause—then the voice again, threading through the tangled branches and broken stone, tender and mournful as a requiem sung for lost things.

“Too long you’ve wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze.”

The words melted into the air, curling about me like a silken ribbon, and for an instant I could not tell if it was my own grief answering, or the ache in his. Winter. Yes, it had been winter for so long; inside me, around me, since that night the world collapsed, and his voice first called me home through the darkness. My mind spun, wild and unmoored. I remembered the mirror’s haunted glass, the voice that filled my skull until I forgot where my own thoughts began. I remembered every dream of cold hands beckoning: of surrender, of succumbing to that beautiful, ruinous darkness. Roses, wax, parchment… yes, it was all coming back to me in waves that were almost too intense to perceive.

The longing coiled within me, tightening as if to draw music from my very soul. My voice broke free, trembling and desperate, torn from the cage of my ribs.

“Wildly my mind beats against you,” I gasped, every syllable a pulse of resistance and need.

A shadow flickered in the fog, and the voice, now low and devastatingly patient, breathed, “You resist.”

And in that moment, I could not have said whose yearning filled the air—the Phantom’s, or mine. Something unspoken shuddered between us, old as music, inescapable as fate. I tried to wrench my will away, to turn back toward the living, but my body, traitor to my trembling heart, remained rooted among the dead.

Yet, as the last echoes faded, the truth pressed in; implacable, immense. Our voices—one voice—rose together in a harmony neither could escape:

“Yet the soul obeys!”

The words surged through me, ringing out into the night, as if the very stones and shadows had taken up the refrain. I felt myself pulled taut as a violin string, poised between dread and desire, captive to a summons I was no longer certain I wished to refuse. But the melody rose to a crescendo—no longer a single thread, but a shimmering, tangled duet. The air itself vibrated, as if caught between two great, warring chords. His voice—his accusation, his plea—spilled from the mist with a force that seemed to shudder the iron gates:

“Angel of Music! You denied me, turning from true beauty…
Angel of Music! Do not shun me! Come to your strange Angel!”

I felt my own voice answer, not as an act of will, but as a compulsion, as if some ancient promise had been awakened in my bones. Our words mingled, weaving over and under, echoing from every monument, rising and falling with the swell of old wounds and impossible longing:

“Angel of Music! I denied you, turning from true beauty…
Angel of Music! My protector! Come to me, strange Angel!”

His voice curled around me, the shadow of accusation bleeding into aching entreaty, while mine rose helplessly in reply; confession, invocation, surrender. For a moment, there was no boundary between us; the fog, the gravestones, the broken heart of Paris all seemed to dissolve in the spell of our voices. My own hands trembled as I felt myself drawn forward, not of my own volition, but by that dark, beautiful thread—drawn, always, to the strange Angel whose love was both salvation and undoing. I could not control myself any longer, and I turned to face the voice.

The world contracted to a single axis of sound and shadow. Out of the fog, from behind a slant of headstones, a figure began to coalesce—at first nothing more than a flutter at the edge of vision, a suggestion of movement. The coachman’s silhouette stood before me, but it dissolved as if it had never been real, his gloved hands unlacing the borrowed cloak, letting it slip—quiet as a sigh—to the damp grass. Beneath, the shape that remained was unmistakable: a presence more felt than seen, both spectral and all too human, crowned by that pallid, uncanny mask.

His eyes, even from a distance, caught what little light there was, burning with a terrible, spectral clarity; a gaze that pressed against the marrow of my bones, old as sin, tender as a wound. The rest of him, elegant, almost regal in the gloom, was swathed in black, a shadow among shadows, and yet it was the mask that arrested me: that half-face, sculpted in anguish and longing, forever suspended between concealment and confession.

He did not walk; he seemed to glide, unhurried, certain as a haunting. And all the while, his voice threaded the darkness—unearthly, magnetic, pulling at my soul with every note:

“I am your Angel of Music…
Come to me, Angel of Music…”

Again, and again, as if the very stones beneath our feet were made to reverberate with that summons. My mind screamed in protest—my body, insensate, shuddered with terror and impossible yearning. But the words drew me as the moon draws the tide. My feet, heavy and uncertain, slipped from beneath me, carrying me forward, step by irrevocable step, toward the figure who had unmade and remade my life a hundred times.

“I am your Angel of Music…
Come to me, Angel of Music…”

Each repetition struck deeper, sinking into the place where memory becomes dream, where fear and desire are indistinguishable. The fog curled tighter, the graves fell away. There was only his voice; his voice and the glint of that mask, half-promise, half-threat.

My limbs trembled, but I could no more resist him than the sun could refuse the dawn. The air itself seemed to thicken, every breath an effort, yet the pull was inexorable. I stepped closer, and closer still, drawn on invisible strings, heart pounding like a trapped bird in my throat.

He stood waiting, arms open, not in supplication, but in the terrible certainty of the conqueror whose greatest victory is always the one who comes willingly.

“I am your Angel of Music…”
“Come to me…”

A hush, thick as velvet, wrapped the world, the two of us suspended in that terrible, sacred interval where surrender and damnation blur. My foot hovered above the dew-slick earth, heart thundering in my chest, the Angel’s summons resonant within every trembling sinew. The graveyard itself had vanished; there remained only the mask, the music, the hunger that gnawed in the shadow between us. And as I reached the place where shadow and music converged, I knew I was lost again—lost to the trance, the promise, the mask, and to the man beneath it, whose darkness and longing were now indistinguishable from my own.

Then—a tremor. A sound, sharp and foreign, cleaved the fog. The spell—so invincible, so ancient—shuddered. Hoofbeats, urgent and discordant, shattered the hush like glass dashed against marble. A horse’s wild exhalation steamed in the cold, its iron shoes scattering gravel and moss. The animal reared back, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling white in the gaslight. Its rider: Raoul, pale and frantic, cravat askew, hair wild, threw himself down from the saddle before the beast had fully stopped.

“No, (y/n), wait!” Raoul’s voice boomed out. His boots struck the stones with a violence that was almost sacrilege here among the graves. The blade of his voice cut through the spectral haze, raw with fear and devotion and something perilously close to rage.

“Raoul…” I murmured, still half-dazed by the spell curled around me.

“Whatever you believe, this man, this thing, is not your father!” he cried; not to me, nor to the Phantom alone, but as if to banish all the darkness that haunted Père-Lachaise. For a single, impossible moment, the music faltered; the silvery threads that bound me slackened, and breath rushed back into my lungs in a shattering gasp. The absurdity of his statement seemed to stifle the magic that had been dancing on the wind, coiling itself around me being, and beckoning me henceforth to my masked tormentor.

The Phantom’s arms, once open and omnipotent, stiffened in mid-air, his mask flashing white, his eyes narrowing, the promise of rapture curdling instantly to threat. The graveyard seemed to shudder with him; the fog recoiled from his sudden, baleful presence.

I staggered, blinking as if torn from some fevered sleep, the pressure at my throat released. Sound rushed back; the toll of a distant bell, the whinny of the restless horse, Raoul’s hurried steps crunching the brittle ivy. It was as if a stage had collapsed, scenery dissolving in panic and candle smoke, and I found myself standing again amid the graves, the Angel’s song abruptly orphaned in the night.

Raoul’s hand seized mine, firm and desperate, dragging me back from that threshold of unmaking. The heat of his grip felt foreign, almost painful after the cold seduction of the Phantom’s music. Still, I clung to it, if only because it anchored me to the world of the living, to the wild, imperfect tumult of blood and bone.

But I could feel the Phantom’s gaze upon me, wounded and incandescent, burning through mask and fog and memory. The music did not die; it retreated, twisting through the tombs, lingering in the marrow of my bones, a song unfinished, a longing unanswered, the old promise, always waiting to be sung again. I turned to look back at where he had once stood, but the figure was no longer there.

Before Raoul could pull me fully into the promise of escape, the world convulsed; the fog drawn back by an unseen hand, the night itself seeming to bend and recoil. I whirled back around as Raoul halted, stumbling over him and collapsing at his feet. I looked up, chest heaving. From the gloom between two leaning mausoleums, the Phantom materialized - no longer the distant Angel or the half-seen wraith of my fevered dreams, but a man rendered monstrous by fury and heartbreak.

His mask gleamed like the blade of a guillotine; eyes incandescent beneath its rim. The borrowed cloak whipped around him, his lean form was swathed in black, and in his gloved hand, glinting wickedly in the lantern-light, was the very sword I had last seen bared in the tumult of the ballroom.

For a heartbeat, he stood quite still, the wind beneath his cloak the only movement in the cemetery; the mask fixed upon me with an expression more haunting for its stillness than any wild contortion. My heart ached, and I longed to stand before him and surrender. But he moved then, with that impossible, predatory grace, interposing himself between Raoul and myself, the blade levelled with terrible, trembling intent.

Raoul released my hand, his own reaching instinctively for his weapon as I scrambled backwards, a flash of silver as his sword cleared its scabbard. The two men, one driven by devotion, the other by possession, circled one another amid the crooked stones and wild, tangled ivy, the graveyard itself seeming to draw closer around them.

“Stay back!” Raoul’s voice cracked, his resolve shining in the lamplight, but his youth, his terror, were written in every ragged breath.

The Phantom, mask gleaming, voice now ragged as exposed nerve, hissed through clenched teeth, “You trespass in a world not meant for you, Vicomte. Leave her—leave us both to our shadows!”

“You call this love?” Raoul spat, steel glinting as he took a defensive stance. “You have no right—no claim! Let her go!”

A laugh, brittle as frost, escaped the Phantom. “You do not know what it is to love; to give everything, to bleed for the dream of being seen!” His eyes, mad and luminous, never left mine. “You would tear her from the music, from the only soul who has ever understood the darkness within her song. I will not let you.” The Phantom advanced, cloak swirling behind him, his mask a gleaming snarl in the half-light. “You mistake yourself for her saviour, Vicomte. You mistake her fear for love—her silence for consent. You know nothing of the shadows that have claimed her soul!”

Raoul’s blade rose, trembling but resolute. “You preyed upon her loneliness—filled her head with music and madness. Is that your idea of devotion? To twist her into something that serves only you?”

A laugh, cold, metallic, echoed from the Phantom. “And you would twist her into a wife! A trinket for your pride! What do you know of longing, of the agony of wanting to be seen?” His voice cracked, turning suddenly vicious. “You would drag her from the only place she has ever truly belonged. You would erase the parts of her you cannot understand.”

“Better to be loved in daylight,” Raoul spat, “than worshipped in darkness! You hide behind masks and riddles, demanding sacrifices no mortal should pay. Let her choose, damn you—let her be free of your chains!”

The Phantom’s eyes blazed behind his mask. “And you—would you not chain her to your arm, parade her in the sun as your prize? You want her song but not her sorrow, her beauty but not her scars. You know nothing, nothing of what it is to need.”

The graveyard rang with their fury, steel striking steel in a frenzy that sent sparks skittering across ancient stones. Each word, each blow, was a confession and a curse—love, here, was a blade.

The Phantom pressed close, voice low, savage: “She is not yours to rescue, nor to ruin! You call me monster—at least I have loved her honestly, with all my ruin exposed!”

Raoul lunged, his voice fraying to a desperate shout: “You have poisoned her dreams! She fears you—”

“She fears herself!” the Phantom roared, their swords locked, faces close as lovers and enemies. “You never saw her—never truly heard her. You loved a ghost, a memory, never the music beating in her veins!”

Raoul surged forward, blade arcing in the night, but the Phantom parried with a savage flourish—swords clashing in a spray of sparks above the sunken graves. They circled, boots slipping in the dew and moss, the silence of Père-Lachaise split by the shriek of steel.

Each movement was a strophe, each clash a discordant chord, the fight as much a duet as the music that had bewitched me. The Phantom fought with the desperation of a man defending the last vestige of his soul, his blows wild and yet uncannily precise. Raoul, driven by fear and the impossible logic of love, met him stroke for stroke, the ghostly pallor of his face rendered even whiter in the shifting lamplight.

I stood frozen, trapped between the world of the living and the world that the Phantom conjured; a trembling note suspended between two fates. The fog thickened again, swallowing the men in shadow, and above the ring of blades, the Phantom’s voice rose—not singing, but pleading, fractured and magnificent:

“She is mine, Vicomte! You cannot save her from the music—nor from me.”

Steel sang on steel, a bright, murderous music as old as Paris itself.

And I, powerless, felt the song of my soul torn between the two men, the cold, wild pull of the Phantom, and the fragile, burning tether of Raoul’s hand still warm in my memory. The world held its breath. The graveyard waited, as if the outcome might alter not only my fate, but the fate of every soul condemned to love in shadows.

The blades danced again, steel glinting, fury blooming. Raoul darted to the left, breathless, his face streaked with sweat and desperation. “Is this what you call love? Chasing her through nightmares, haunting her every step, punishing her for a choice she never truly had?”

“You speak of choice,” the Phantom snarled, parrying, “as if your daylight would free her. As if your world has room for what is broken and unholy—what dares to sing from the shadows!”

Raoul twisted his blade with sudden violence, sparks leaping between the metal and the old marble. “She wore the dress I gave her!” he cried, voice choked with bitter triumph and wounded pride. “You thought she chose you, but it was my gift she wore to the ball. She chose me! Not your mask, not your darkness—”

The word “dress” was the flint that found powder. The Phantom recoiled as if struck, mask flashing white, and for a single, terrifying moment the cemetery itself seemed to contract, every tomb and angel leaning in to bear witness.

“My gift,” he hissed. The night pulsed with his rage, and the next movement was savage, unrestrained; a wild sweep of his sword, reckless and blinding. Raoul tried to duck, too slow. The blade bit into his shoulder, blood blooming on his pale coat, and he staggered, crashing against a tombstone with a guttural cry.

For a heartbeat, all was silent save Raoul’s gasping, the wet slap of his hand against the wound. The Phantom turned to me, mask gleaming in the moon’s broken light—every line of his body poised between triumph and torment, longing and ruin. The music, silent now, seemed to hover in the air, a question pressed against my skin: Would I flee, or would I answer the hand that had shaped my song, my ruin?

I could not move. My feet felt rooted to the graveyard’s earth, torn between terror and that old, inexorable pull. His arm extended, beckoning—his voice a soft, almost broken command.

But before I could speak, before I could even draw a breath, Raoul’s pain turned to fury. With a guttural roar, he launched himself from the tomb, his sword arcing in a wild, desperate blow. Steel met steel with a shriek that split the fog. The Phantom, caught off guard, staggered—Raoul pressed his advantage, driving forward, face bloodied and resolute.

In a sudden, savage flourish, Raoul’s blade knocked the sword from the Phantom’s grasp. It clattered across the mossy stones, the sound ringing like a death knell.

For an instant, time hung suspended. Erik—mask askew, eyes wide with something almost like disbelief—stared at Raoul, his hand frozen in the empty air.

My voice—ragged, unrecognizable—tore through the hush of the graveyard, splintering the moment as surely as any blade.

“No!” I shrieked, stumbling forward, skirts tangling at my ankles as Raoul raised his sword, eyes wild and fixed on the man before him. “No! Not like this.”

The cry seemed to shudder through the very stones. For an instant, both men froze: Raoul’s arm suspended in the air, the Phantom’s ruined silhouette cast long and trembling in the lantern glow. The cemetery itself recoiled, the fog shivering as if the dead had stirred in their graves to bear witness.

Raoul’s chest heaved; his grip knuckle-white around the hilt. His gaze flickered to me, confusion and pain and helpless love warring across his features. “(Y/n),” he gasped, voice breaking, “he’ll destroy you—he’ll destroy us both—”

I shook my head before he could finish speaking.

Raoul’s lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace—half agony, half indignation. “You think he would have hesitated, (y/n), if it were me at his feet? If it were you? He killed Elise—he strung her up for all to see. He slaughtered Buquet. There are more—God, there are more, and you know it.”

“For the love he bore me,” I shrieked, a hot tear slipping down my cheek, stinging in the cold. I shook my head, voice brittle as old glass. “And who are you to play judge, jury, and executioner?” I hissed, stepping into the cold arc of his sword, forcing his arm down with trembling hands. “You want to save me? Then do not become what you hate.”

Raoul’s breath caught, his rage flickering beneath the surface. “You defend him? Even now? After everything—after all he’s taken from you—”

Behind me, the Phantom made a strangled sound—half a laugh, half a sob, pain etched raw in every line of his body. He struggled to rise, blood smearing the white of his mask, eyes trained on the ground.

I flinched, pressing my palm to Raoul’s chest. “He is not yours to punish,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “None of us can unmake what’s been done, Raoul. But you will not stain this place with another death. Not for my sake. Not for yours.”

Raoul stared at me, wounded and furious, his sense of justice teetering on the edge of despair. “You would have me walk away?” he whispered hoarsely, the sword slackening in his grip. “You would let him haunt you—haunt us—all our days?”

“I would have you leave me what little light remains,” I said softly. “Let this end here, Raoul. Please—don’t take his life. Not for me.”

The Phantom, crumpled among the headstones, let out a sound so low and ragged I could scarcely tell if it was laughter or a plea. His head lifted, mask cracked and smeared with red, eyes burning out of the shadow like twin coals.

“Bear,” he rasped, hoarse, incredulous, as if tasting the word on his tongue for the first time.

I turned, unable not to answer the tremor in his voice. “What…?” My own words barely carried through the hush.

His gaze pinned me, bright and desperate, as he staggered upright, clutching his wounded side. “All I did,” he whispered, each syllable scraping raw, “I did for the love I bear you.” He lingered on the word—bear—his voice trembling with accusation and longing, as though the past tense had wounded him more deeply than any blade. “Even now… you speak as though it has ended. But I have never—never ceased.”

A breath shuddered between us. I stood transfixed, stunned by the force of his confession—though some buried part of me, twisted and yearning, had always known. Raoul’s jaw clenched, revulsion rippling through him. “Is this love? Is this what you call love?” His voice was barely more than a snarl as he wrenched me toward him, his hand possessive and almost panicked at my waist.

The Phantom’s mask flashed in the half-light—broken, indomitable, unbearably alone.

But Raoul would not linger. His arm tightened around me, and in a single, swift motion, he hauled me up onto the horse behind him. My skirts tangled, boots scraping the stirrup, but he paid no heed—his every movement a statement of finality.

I looked back, breathless, as the Phantom swayed among the stones, framed by mist and moonlight, still reaching, still pleading with his ruinous love. My heart hammered with confusion, with sorrow, with something perilously close to regret. For a moment, I thought he might follow—might rise from the earth itself to drag me back into that other world, the world of shadows and song.

But he only watched, wounded and magnificent, as Raoul spurred the horse into motion, and Père-Lachaise dissolved behind us in a whirl of fog and unshed tears.

We rode in silence through the haunted avenues of Paris, the city flickering past in the blur of gaslight and midnight fog. Raoul’s arm was a vise at my waist, so tight it pressed the breath from my lungs; a grip more of desperation than comfort. I sat rigid before him, skirts damp and twisted, the world behind us dissolving into shadows. My pulse drummed with every hoofbeat; I dared not look back.

By the time we reached the gilt façade of the Opera Garnier, dawn’s first pallor was creeping along the rooftops. Raoul swung down, then pulled me from the saddle with a haste that was almost cruel, his fingers digging into my arms as if afraid I might vanish again. We crossed the empty foyer in a hush broken only by the echo of our footfalls, the marble columns looming like silent judges. Somewhere above, the pipes moaned with the wind, the house still slumbering.

He did not release me until we reached the corridor outside my room. There, at last, he spun me to face him, eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and something darker.

“You tried to run from me.” His voice was low, trembling between accusation and anguish. “After everything—after what we saw these last few hours—how could you still choose him, even for a moment?!”

“I did not choose him. I don’t know what I chose—I only know that I couldn’t watch you become like him. That isn’t you, Raoul. You’re not—”

“I’m not what?” His voice snapped, harsher now, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. He took another step, closing the space between you, the pain in his face no longer enough to dam the surge of resentment. “Not a murderer? Not a monster, is that it? Not a man willing to do anything—anything—to keep you from him?” I searched for you after your outburst in the manager’s office. I tore this place apart looking for you. And where did I find you? Lost in a graveyard, under his spell again!”

I flinched at his words and took a step back, too exhausted to have this conversation now. But Raoul, ever insistent, pressed on even as his voice trembled; some desperate, twisted pride clawing to the surface. “Do you think I wanted to draw my sword tonight? Do you think I wanted to see that look in your eyes, as if I were the villain for wanting to save you? You say I’m not like him—but tonight I would have killed for you, (y/n). I would have done it gladly, if it meant breaking his hold over you.”

I bristled angrily and tried to turn on my heel, but his hand caught me arm and pulled me slightly closer, letting out a ragged breath, dry and bitter. “And is that such a terrible thing, (y/n)? To fight for you—to want you enough to bleed, to kill, if I must? Am I supposed to be ashamed that I would do anything to keep you from the darkness that has ruined you? Tell me—tell me why you think he’s the only one allowed that kind of madness?! Am I less of a man for not haunting the shadows, for not dragging you down to the grave with me?”

“Tell me,” He hissed, voice almost a whisper for the fury beneath it. “Am I a coward, then, because I long to see you safe? A fool, because I wish to keep you from the jaws of that thing which gnaws at your soul? You say I am not like him—as if it were some failing, as if gentleness were a vice. You say you could not watch me become him, but you stand here in his shadow, and when he calls, you come. Even now.”

He released my arm then, as if the effort of holding back all he felt might consume him whole. I tried to turn away, my voice shaking. “You cannot keep me caged, Raoul. I am not some prize to be hidden away each time the shadows fall.”

He gave a laugh, low, exhausted, utterly without mirth. “I thought it was only him I must save you from. But I see now—God help us both—I must save you from yourself. For you do not wish to be saved. You run toward the darkness as if it were your birthright. Perhaps you even love it. Perhaps you think you deserve to be ruined, for the sins you imagine you carry.”

I shook my head, desperate to interrupt, but he pressed on, his mind set, his fate sealed. “You do not choose, (y/n). Not truly. Not while he is alive; not while his music still festers in your blood. So, I must choose for you. If I must wear your hatred as a cloak, then let it be so. I will risk your pain, your contempt—anything—if only to tear you from the precipice.”

Something feverish lit his eyes—a resolve I recognised from earlier tonight, only now darkened by grief and necessity. “You said it yourself, in the managers’ office: this ends only one way. Don Juan Triumphant will go on. The Opera will be our battlefield. He wants an audience, he wants you—then let him come for you, with all of Paris as witness.”

He straightened, all the lost boy and ardent suitor burned away, and left only the Vicomte—tragic, stubborn, noble to the end. “I swore once that I would fight for you, and so I shall. If love cannot reach you, then force must do. I will save you from him—yes, and from yourself, if I must. Even if it ruins me.”

His words fell like a curse between us, as inescapable as any prophecy. I stared at him, aching, and knew that the curtain was rising on the final act.

“Raoul,” I pleaded, moving towards him as if to shake him from his own spell. He pulled away from me, already having decided his plan would be enacted whether I was a willing participant or not. He turned on his heel and begun a brisk pace away from me. A whine died in my throat and all I could do was stare after him as he retreated. For a moment, he paused, casting his head sidelong as he spoke.

“I lost you somewhere in that fog,” he whispered. “And I don’t know if I can ever find you again.” 
And with that, he strode off. 

I stood alone in the corridor, longing for the comfort of simpler shadows—before music and masks, before love became a battleground; when Père-Lachaise was only a graveyard and my father’s hand was the only one I ever reached for in the dark.

Chapter 26: Meg's Reprise

Summary:

After (y/n) returns to her room, Meg finally comes to talk.

By the time I reached my room, Raoul was already gone, his footsteps long faded down the corridor, his fury trailing behind like a cloak made of fire and rage. When at last I returned to my room, I all but tore the door from its hinges in my haste to be alone. The dress clung to me like a second skin - drenched in cold, in memory, in the smell of earth and grave-dust. I clawed at its seams with trembling fingers, stumbling as I freed myself from its hold. I flung the gown into the corner as though it were cursed. It crumpled like a shed skin, some relic of a self I no longer recognised. I climbed into bed in nothing but my small clothes, too cold to care, too weary to breathe. The sheets were stiff with disuse and carried the faint scent of roses turned sour. I pulled them over my head as if they might muffle thought itself, but the pillow drank my sobs like water and refused to grant me peace.

Grief came, but not for one man or the other; it came for myself.

I was furious with Raoul; for the way he had dragged me back like a criminal, for the shame in his voice when he said my name. I was furious with the Phantom; for the madness that danced in his eyes, for the words he spoke so gently as he bled. And yet beneath that fury, a quieter thing stirred - something shameful and soft. I wanted them both and neither. I hated the way they fought over me as though I were some prize to be claimed; I hated more that part of me thrilled to be fought for.

My heart—wretched, traitorous thing—beat still for each of them, and beat itself raw against the bars of indecision.

Even then, in the fragile hush before dawn, I knew this would never end gently. No woman weeps like that and wakes unscathed.

Sleep did not find me gently; it came like a storm across open moorland, sudden and without mercy. When it took me, it took me wholly.

I stood once more before the mirror, but it was no longer the ornate, gold-framed sentinel of my dressing room. It had blackened at the edges, tarnished like a silver plate left too long in the damp. The glass rippled faintly, as though the surface were not glass at all, but oil or blood. My reflection did not mimic me; she stood straighter than I did, her eyes wide and hollow, mouth trembling with some knowledge she would not share.

Behind her, shadows moved.

I tried to call out—to her, to them—but my voice broke in my throat like a bird’s wing beneath a boot. Silence rang loud and cruel in my ears. The reflection stepped forward, and her expression twisted in pity - or perhaps it was warning. Her hand rose, but not to reach for mine; she placed her palm flat to the mirror and slowly, horribly, began to claw at it, nails screeching down the surface like a bow across strings too tight. The sound was unbearable. I covered my ears, but it only grew louder, until the mirror cracked from corner to corner.

From the fractures, the Opera bled through.

But it was no longer the Opera Populaire. It was warped again, sickened somehow; all velvet and gaslight, but stained, glistening with something dark and wet. The stage curtain was up, and I stood alone upon it, barefoot, clad in white. A thousand faceless figures sat in the boxes and gallery; their hands clapped but made no sound. Their eyes glowed faintly, like coals long dead. I could not see his face, but I felt him watching. Always watching.

He stood in the wings, mask half-broken, as though torn from his face in grief or rage, and his mouth stretched in a silent cry. His hands were bloodied. At his feet lay a body. I could not tell if it was Raoul. I could not tell if it was me.

The orchestra pit opened like a wound. From it rose the sound of “Don Juan Triumphant,” but it was no longer music - it was a scream drawn out across centuries, sung through teeth and bone, and it did not end. It grew. It consumed.

I tried to run but the stage beneath me melted; it clung to my feet like tar. The faceless audience began to laugh, soft at first, then louder, until it drowned out even the scream. I clutched at my ears, at my throat, at the locket I no longer wore; and when I looked up… I was no longer on the stage.

I was in my father’s study. He sat by the fire, face gentle, face familiar. But when I moved to him, he turned, and it was not my father at all—it was the Phantom, wearing my father’s sorrow like a mask.

“You sing for him,” he whispered, voice tender as a lullaby. “But you weep for me.”

I woke choking on my own breath, my hands twisted in the bedclothes, my heart galloping with such violence I thought it might tear free of my chest. For a moment, I did not know where I was. My breath came fast, ragged, as though I had been running, and the sheets tangled at my legs felt like restraints. The room was dim, coloured by the pale suggestion of dawn pressing through the curtains. My chest rose and fell with a panic that had not yet recognised it was morning.

The dream lingered, vivid, feral, wrong. I could still feel his voice in my throat, his hand at my wrist. Not the Phantom as I had known him in life, but some terrible version that my mind had fashioned in the dark. His mask, not white but bone; his music, not beautiful but cruel.

The room was cold. My clothes clung to me, the dampness of sweat crawling over my skin. I drew my knees to my chest and stared at the far wall, willing myself not to weep again. I had no more tears left to spend on him; on either of them. My mind felt torn in half, frayed at the edges, as if the night had split me into two women and left neither whole.

It lay in the corner where I had flung it, draped in the pale hush of morning like some corpse abandoned after the crime. No silk had ever looked so loathsome. The sight of it turned my stomach; its folds seemed to ripple with mockery, as though the thing remembered too well what I had tried so hard to forget. Obscene - it was obscene, in colour, in memory, in all that it represented. The ruin of a single night made manifest in lace and pearl.

What little I had believed, what little I had dared to choose, had been a mistake. And I had worn it like a child wears a crown of paper, mistaking it for gold. I hated the dress. But more than that, I hated the creature who had stood before the mirror and fastened it with reverent fingers, breath trembling with hope, desire, maybe even choice.

I remembered her hands fussing over the pearls; the way she smoothed the waistline, rearranged her hair with care too eager to be called vanity. I remembered the uncertain curve of her lips in the glass. She had hoped. Hoped for beauty, for approval, for some unspoken absolution. How wretched she looked to me now. That softness in her eyes - an open door for whatever darkness wished to enter.

It deserved to be broken, that softness. Crushed underfoot.

I folded in on myself, arms around my ribs, as though I could press the splinters of my soul back into place. There was a fever in me now, something septic and slow, like rot beneath the walls of an old house. It was rage, yes, but more than rage. It was shame of the oldest and most unspeakable kind. Not the shame of being seen, but the shame of having been foolish enough to wish for it.

My skin itched with memory. My mind reeled with the echo of their voices. And through it all, the dress remained - a silent witness. It watched. It accused.

I turned my face into my hands. It was not tears I wished for, but erasure.

A knock, timid and fluttering, stirred the silence like a stone dropped into still water.
I did not answer. I could not. My breath sat too high in my chest, and the very air in the room felt too thick to draw. Let her believe me asleep. Let the whole world pass me by on tiptoe, unknowing and unspoken to. Is it not what I deserve after a night so terribly wicked?But the door creaked open all the same—slow, uncertain—and in stepped Meg. She was like a figure drawn from the border of a painting; washed in the half-light, delicate as a wisp of smoke. Her hair, that ink-dark sheet, fell loose down her back, dishevelled from sleep or worry, and her eyes - deep as sloes and twice as sorrowful - swept across the room until they found me. Her eyes, wide and black as sloes, held that curious depth that some girls acquire too young; eyes that had seen too much in silence and wept too little aloud. The pallor of her skin was more pronounced than I remembered, her limbs thin and slight beneath her coat, the collar pulled close about a throat too slender for the weight of her worry. Her frame looked smaller than I remembered, as though the night had worn her thin. Beneath her coat, she seemed barely a girl at all.

Her gaze lingered on the corner where the dress lay. I saw it again through her eyes: collapsed, obscene, glinting faintly with scattered pearls. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to cry out and demand she not look at it. Not see it. I swallowed the words and cleared my throat.

“I—” Meg began, and her voice broke something fragile in the stillness. She faltered, her hands fluttering to the buttons at her wrist like birds unsure where to land. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” she said at last. “I came by last night. I knocked - twice. There was no answer.”

I turned my face to the wall, unable to meet her eyes.

She lingered by the chair, her presence light as paper and just as easy to tear. “Mother told me not to concern myself. She said it wasn’t my place to meddle. But something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

Still, I said nothing.

She shifted her weight, hesitant. “They found the coachman this morning—the one who brought the managers to the theatre. He was lying in the alley behind the stage door, barely conscious, bruised all over. He remembers nothing beyond being hailed at the curb near midnight.” Her voice lowered. “They say he was robbed.”

I could hear my pulse in my ears.

“Raoul left on horseback not long after that,” she went on. “I saw him myself, galloping through the square like a man possessed. He didn’t speak to anyone. The groomsman said he looked like death. One of the footmen swears he had taken his sword. He didn’t stop. Not for anyone.”

I flinched.

Meg’s voice softened. “You were gone. And when I asked where you’d gone, no one would tell me anything. The ballet girls say you’d run off. The managers are pretending it didn’t happen at all.”

I finally looked at her. “And what do you think happened?” I asked.

Meg studied me for a long moment, her brow faintly furrowed, her lips parted as if tasting her answer.

“I think something terrible,” she said, and the hush that followed swallowed the room whole. “And I think you were in the middle of it.”

I gave no reply. What could I say? That she was right? That terrible things had happened—and worse still, that I had let them? That they had happened solely because of me?

Meg drifted toward the window then, her silhouette thin against the grey light, like a pencil sketch unfinished. Her fingers toyed absently with the lace at her cuff.

“They say the new opera is cursed,” she murmured. “Don Juan Triumphant. They all but whisper the name now.”

The title struck me like a slap. I gripped the coverlet tighter, bracing myself for what would follow.

“The manuscript the manager’s received last night - that single book, massive as a tombstone, pages spilling out like entrails, the ink was still wet in places. Blood, some say.” She glanced at me sidelong. “If you can believe that.”

I scoffed. It was both plausible and ridiculous.

“They want rehearsals to begin immediately,” she continued, her voice dropping low.

“Of course they do,” I replied bitterly, my voice hoarse.

“You are to play Aminta,” she said quietly. “It is not an offer. It is-” her voice faltered, “-a demand.”

I felt the name like a shackle clicking into place. Aminta. His perfect ingénue. His final composition. A mirror of me, shaped by his grief, his genius, his madness.

“I know,” I responded, feeling the threat of tears behind my eyes. Meg’s lips parted, as if to press further, but then thought better of it.

She did not move at first. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floorboards, as though she saw something etched there that I could not. When at last she spoke, her voice came low, as though to give it strength would risk it shattering altogether.

“And you know what the Vicomte intends,” she said. “You know his plan. You were in the room.”

The words were not an accusation. They were not even a question. Only a sorrowful confirmation of something too bitter to be denied. Still, I felt them strike through me like the chill of an open crypt. I could not summon a reply. I only sat there, rigid as the dead.

Meg’s eyes flicked back to me. Her lips parted again, and this time there was more tremor in the breath that escaped them.

“You were not here last night,” she whispered. “And when you returned…” Her voice trailed off, but her expression said what her mouth could not: You do not look like yourself.

A pause followed - long and strained, like the silence between the tolling of two bells. Then:

“Did you go to him?” she asked, her words hushed but sharp-edged. “Was that where you vanished to? Is that what this has all become?”

She stepped closer, slow and hesitant, as though nearing a wild animal in pain.

“Tell me the truth,” she murmured. “Just that. I do not ask for every horror, only this—are you in danger?”

Her voice trembled on the final word, like a candle about to gutter out. Her hands clasped themselves in front of her as if to anchor her to the moment, or to keep from reaching out and breaking whatever fragile spell still bound us in this twilight of unspoken things. She stood before me not as the ingénue of the corps de ballet, nor as Madame Giry’s daughter, but as a girl half-starved for truth, and twice as afraid of it.

“I meant to leave,” I said, and even to my own ears my voice sounded far away, hollowed by the night. “After the ball… after the music… I could not stay. I told no one. I packed what I could carry. I meant to vanish. I had every intention.”

Meg said nothing. She had gone quite still.

“But before I could go,” I continued, “I stopped at Père-Lachaise.”

Her brows knitted faintly.

“One last time,” I added, softer now. “I wished to see my father. To stand at his grave and remember something of who I was, before all of… this.”

The silence in the room grew deeper then, like water rising.

“He was there,” I said. “Not my father. Him. He spoke to me. Sang to me, in that way he does. And I… I followed. I don’t remember deciding to. Only that I was already moving.”

Meg stepped closer by an inch, barely a movement at all. Her eyes searched mine with a kind of reverence, as if afraid the truth might disintegrate under scrutiny.

“But Raoul… Raoul had followed me,” I breathed, “They fought. Swords. In the snow. I—”

The words caught. The memory rose too vivid, too near. The fury in Raoul’s eyes. The strange sorrow in the Phantom’s. The terrible beauty of the scene, as though death had dressed in opera’s finest robes.

“I begged him not to kill him,” I whispered. “I begged Raoul. He nearly did. He nearly became something else, right there in front of me. Something terrible.”

Meg remained standing, pale and quiet, her fingers now curled in the folds of her coat. The words I had offered her seemed to hang in the air like a veil of frost—delicate, opaque, refusing to melt beneath the warmth of understanding.

“But why?” she asked at last, her voice hushed and bewildered. “Why would you let it come to that?

There was no cruelty in the question, no scorn; only a raw and aching confusion, the kind that trembles at the edge of friendship when one soul cannot reach the other. I opened my mouth, but for a moment found nothing waiting on my tongue. There was no easy explanation, no sentence clean enough to carry the weight of what I had seen, or what I had become beneath his gaze.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, helplessly. “Only that he knew I would. That I always have.”

Meg sat then, finally, perching at the edge of the chair like a bird that might startle at any moment. Her eyes did not leave mine. “Do you think he’ll hurt you?” she asked.

I considered the question - what a strange word hurt was, and how feeble. I had been bruised by silence, strangled by song, and both beneath his hands.

“No,” I said, and surprised myself with the half-truth of it before adding, “He doesn’t mean to.”

Meg nodded once, as though the answer was one she feared and expected all at once.

Outside, the bells of Saint-Roch tolled an early hour, the sound echoing like iron through the winter air. Meg drew her knees in closer, arms crossed, as though the draft had found its way into her bones. “I cannot tell anymore what drives any of you,” she said softly. “Is it madness? Is it love? Is it some unspeakable devotion that does not know it has turned to ruin?”

I had no reply. Her questions made the walls breathe. Made the room smaller. I looked away. The tears stung behind my eyes, hot and bitter. My fingernails dug into the linen.

“And you let him,” Meg whispered, as if to speak it too loudly would make it more damning.

I turned back to her.

“He does not ask. Not truly.” My voice trembled. “But neither do I refuse.”

She studied me for a long, unblinking moment, the question behind her eyes burning brighter than her voice would dare to. I did not answer. I could not. The bells had ceased, and in their wake was a silence vast and unkind—a silence that begged to be filled with something more beautiful than truth.

But all I had left was truth. And it had long since ceased to be beautiful.

Meg’s eyes dropped to her lap, lashes low and dark against her cheek. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter than before; less inquiry than remembrance.

“I still see her sometimes,” she said, “when I close my eyes for too long.”

I knew of whom she spoke without her saying the name, for I saw her all the time; both in dream and waking nightmare. Elise Allard.
“The way she hung there,” She continued, blinking slow and deliberate, as though it might stop the memory from fully forming. “We found her together, do you remember? On the stage. That young girl – Edith – collapsed and you ran to her without ever looking up.”

I flinched as I remembered the scene:

“Mademoiselle, what is wrong?!” I yelled, shaking Edith slightly. I feared she had been overcome with some dreaded sickness, or perhaps been crushed by some prop, God! Anything was possible She closed her mouth, but her eyes stayed wide. I felt her hand raise next to me, but I was too busy searching her body for signs of injury, calling her name and urging her to answer me.

I heard the rush of Meg’s footsteps as she too, reached the stage. She gasped.

“(y/n), look,” her voice trembled.

“I can see, Meg, please can you get someone to help.”

The smaller girl in my arms also spoke up. “Mademoiselle, (y/n), look,” she uttered. I followed her hand up to where she was pointing, directly behind us near the backdrop of the stage.

A soft gasp escaped my lips, unbidden and unwanted much like the memory. Meg continued, her eyes glazed and distant like she too was grappling with the blow of remembering.

“The way she hung there,” Meg whispered. She blinked, slow and deliberate, as though trying to tame the recollection before it bloomed too violently behind her eyes. “You rushed to her,” she went on, her voice quieter now, less a recollection than a study of it. “You didn’t even look up. Not at first. Not until the sound of the others screaming forced your gaze upward. I remember thinking… how strange that was. That you would reach for the girl at your feet before ever seeing what cast the shadow above her.”

Meg turned slightly, and I heard the faint rustle of her skirt, the soft click of her heel against the floorboard. Her presence had shifted somehow; she was no longer beside me, but circling the memory like one might a snare half-sprung in the woods. “It’s stayed with me, that moment,” she said. “The way you moved as if horror could be outrun by compassion. As if tending to the bleeding would spare you the sight of what did the cutting.”

She gave a small, humourless laugh. “And the worst part is, I understand it. I do. Maybe that’s why I haven’t said anything. Why none of us have. Because we’ve all convinced ourselves that if we stay busy with the small tragedies, the great one will pass over us.”

She moved to the edge of the window, but didn’t touch it this time. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, as though bracing herself.

“But then came Buquet.”

A silence stretched, as if the name itself demanded room.

“There was nothing quiet about his death,” she said, more distantly now. “No shroud of mystery. No curtain of night. He was hanged like a thief on market day. And we watched it.” Her voice curled slightly, brittle with remembered disbelief. “We watched it. That rope didn’t take his neck clean. He kicked. He screamed. He fought for every breath like a man burning alive. It went on for so long I thought I would go mad with the sound of it.”

Her jaw twitched.

“I know he hurt you,” she added quickly, not as excuse but as reckoning. “He deserved punishment. But that was not punishment. That was… performance.”

Meg’s hands, now clenched at her elbows, gave her the look of someone trying not to tremble from within.

“That kind of cruelty—it’s not spontaneous. It’s measured. Practised. it makes me wonder...”

She stopped herself. Her mouth stayed open a second too long, like the thought wanted out regardless of her permission.

But she swallowed it down.

And the pause that followed was heavier than accusation.

She sucked in a sharp breath and finally spoke, “It’s as though you walk through life with your eyes cast down. Not from cowardice… no, never that. But as though you believe if you never look directly at the horror, it cannot see you either.”

I looked away again, and in doing so, proved her point.

Meg's voice, once so slight it might’ve slipped unnoticed between the folds of morning, took on a peculiar cadence then—something softer than rebuke, but heavier than pity.

“You walk like a girl in mourning, always—” she paused, searching for the shape of it, “—as if you're following behind your own funeral procession. Step by step, head bowed, eyes downcast… as though you’ve already buried the version of yourself that might have lived freely. And now you simply follow her ghost.”

The words hung, suspended between us like dust motes too ashamed to settle.

She crossed to the window, but did not look out. Instead, she pressed her fingers to the pane as though the chill of the glass might remind her she was still real.

“Is that what you think life is?” she asked—not of me, perhaps, but of something beyond. “A stage where we keep our gaze low and mouths closed, lest the gods of tragedy see us too clearly and cast us as their next victim?”

She turned then, her eyes glistening with the sheen of a mind too long kept quiet. “I used to believe sorrow was something you could pass through, like fog, or winter, or an unwanted suitor in the corridor. But sorrow lingers. It lingers in the soles of your shoes and the stitching of your dresses. It watches you eat. It waits for you in the mirror.” She stood there, her arms crossed loosely at her waist, as though holding herself together through sheer will and etiquette alone.

“It brings me back to what I said,” she murmured, and there was a new note in her voice now; not quite bitterness, not quite resignation, but something older than either. “You know what the Vicomte intends. And if you sing Aminta as he has written it, he will come.” She paused. “The Phantom.”

The word rang strange in her mouth, like something sacred said in vain.

“And when he comes,” she went on, slower now, “they will be ready. The gendarmes, the managers, even the orchestra boys; they will all be in place. The doors will be barred. The exits watched. The trap—” her voice dropped, “—will be set.”

She moved then, took a single step forward. “And what, pray, are we to call that?” she asked, not unkindly, but with a certain trembling incredulity. “Is it justice? Is it courage? Or is it simply a play with too many acts and no one brave enough to drop the curtain?”

The sunlight caught the gloss in her eyes, though she blinked it away. “Do you not see, (y/n)?” she whispered. “You are not merely a performer now. You are bait. And the man you once called teacher, saviour… angel—he is the beast they mean to lure into the light and slaughter like an animal before a jeering crowd.”

She folded her arms again, this time more tightly, as though bracing herself against her own words.

“And Raoul…Raoul believes it noble.” She smiled faintly, without mirth. “He speaks of honour, of protection. He speaks of your safety as one might speak of a locked room. He says if you play the part, he will come. And if he comes, the gendarmes will strike. And if they strike, it will end.”

She looked away, just for a moment. “But things like this… they never end the way men plan them to. There is always blood. Always.”

Her gaze returned to me, steady now, the sorrow in it tempered by steel. “Tell me this, mon amie,” she said softly, “when the trap is sprung—and it will be—will you still be standing on the stage? Or will you run to him again, as you always have, eyes cast down like a girl fleeing the scene of her own undoing?”

Her words stirred something sharp and shameful in me. Not because they were cruel - Meg was never cruel - but because they were not. They were gentle. Measured. And I had no defence against gentleness spoken plainly.

I stood slowly, unsure what I meant to do. My legs ached from sleep too shallow to restore anything. The silence between us felt brittle, like a porcelain plate balanced on the edge of a table, waiting to fall.

“You speak as if you know,” I said, voice low. “As if you’ve watched every scene from the wings and understood the script better than the actors.” I did not look at her. I looked at the floor, the walls, the window; anywhere but her face. “But you don’t know. You’ve only seen the aftermath. The broken pieces. You’ve never stood in the middle of it while the whole room collapsed.”

The quiet did not soothe. It pressed in.

“I am not some poor girl wandering wide-eyed into danger. I don’t—” I faltered. “I don’t run to him. Not blindly. And not like that.”

Still, she said nothing. And still, that silence spoke.

My hands tightened in the folds of my skirt. The fabric gave no resistance. It yielded—soft, silent, complicit. Just as I had.

“Do you think I want this?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure if the question was meant for her. “To stand there like some trembling sacrificial lamb while they wait in the shadows with rifles and rope? To lure him out with music and scent and memory, as if I were not a person at all but a trap baited with song?”

I stood again, sharper this time, as though movement might shake something loose from my chest. I paced—two steps, three—and stopped, one hand pressed flat to the wall, as if the stone might cool the heat rising beneath my skin.

“I am not an actress in this,” I whispered. “Not anymore. I am the play itself. The tragedy they all gather to watch. Raoul, the managers, even the damned corps de ballet; they look at me and see only what they want to see.” My voice caught. “Not a girl. Not someone breaking open beneath it all.”

I turned toward her, suddenly furious with her silence, with her stillness, with her eyes that did not flinch.

“You speak of love and madness and danger like they are separate things. As if they do not share the same face; the same mask.”

The words felt too loud in the quiet room, but I didn’t care.

“I am being torn apart! You want to know the truth? That’s it! I wake every morning not knowing which side I’m meant to stand on. I don’t even think there are sides anymore. There’s only ruin. Whichever way I move, someone bleeds.”

I pressed a hand to my forehead. It was damp with sweat I hadn’t noticed forming. “And if I don’t sing, if I refuse, you know what will happen! You know what he’s capable of when he feels betrayed!” My voice lowered. “It won’t be just me who suffers. It never is. It could be Piangi. Or Carlotta. Or you.” I swallowed. “Or Raoul.”

I sat again, too suddenly, as though my legs had given way beneath the weight of what I was saying.

“I don’t want to trap him. God, I don’t. But I can’t reach him anymore. I don’t even know if there’s anything left of him to reach.”

The heat drained from my voice. All that remained was ache.

“I just… I thought I understood him once. I thought my voice could soothe what the world had scraped raw inside him. But now—” I paused, fingers trembling against the armrest. “Now I think all I ever did was wake it.”

I looked at Meg at last. The fire in me had dimmed, but its smoke still stung my throat. “Tell me what to do,” I said. “If you see so clearly. If you think I’m sleepwalking toward disaster, then tell me how to walk another way.”

But Meg said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing left to say.

The silence thickened, coiling about me, and in it I felt my limbs grow heavy with memory. I had spoken too much, and yet somehow not enough. My thoughts blurred, collapsing inward, looping back to that moment—the last time I saw him not as the shadow behind the mask, but as something more terrible. More human.

My hand moved without thought. It rose to my throat, not to soothe but to remember.

I could still feel the shape of his glove; cold, unyielding, trembling with a rage that seemed to spill from some ancient wound. His eyes then had not been those of a madman, not entirely. They had been the eyes of a man betrayed. By me.

The rooftop. The ball. The graveyard.

I had erred with every step. Each encounter soured by fear or silence or misplaced devotion. And still, despite all the fury he had shown, he had spoken of love. Still he had called it that.

I dropped my hand, ashamed of the gesture.

Why did that frighten me more than the violence?

And moreover, what was I to make of that? What could I do with a love that arrived cloaked in fury, in possessiveness, in grief so vast it made a cathedral of every silence?

I looked to Meg again, though my voice had quieted to a rasp.

 “I almost reached him once,” I said. “I saw him. The man, not the monster. He asked me to see him that way, and I did. But somewhere along the way… that man vanished.”

The air in the room shifted, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

“Where did it all go wrong?” I whispered.

And still, I had no answer. Only the echo of my own words, and the soft sting of where his fingers had once pressed. I looked at her finally as her fingers worked at the fabric of her skirt, small nervous movements at odds with the stillness of her face. At last, she drew a breath; slow, resigned, and far older than her years.

“I used to think I’d know what to say,” she murmured, not quite looking at me. “If the day ever came when you asked. I imagined I’d have something wise to offer, something echoing the sentiments mother passed along to me.”

She gave a small, helpless laugh. It barely made a sound.

“But I don’t. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do.”
I let out a laugh with her at that, and we both looked at each other, just for a moment, like girls again. The smallest breath of tension eased between us, fragile and fleeting, but real. Like a crack of warmth in winter stone.

Her hands folded again in her lap then, the skin at her knuckles pale with strain. “It’s like watching a storm come in, knowing it will ruin everything in its path, but standing still all the same. Not because you’re brave. Just… because you don’t know where else to go.”

I nodded in response and sighed. She stood slowly, careful not to disturb the hush of the room, as though too sudden a movement might shatter what little remained of our composure. At the window, she hesitated before speaking again.

“We have rehearsals at noon,” she said at last. “You’re expected.”

“I know,” I replied weakly.

She moved toward the door but stopped just shy of it, her hand hovering at the frame. “I’ll see you there,” she said. Not an order, not even a question; just a thin thread of hope, stretched taut across the hour.

“I’ll be there,” I answered, my voice rough as torn lace. “Of course I will.”

Meg lingered, as though weighing something else, some final word. But in the end, she left with none. Only the faint click of the latch followed her, a sound too small to bear the weight of all that passed between us.

And I was alone again, with the silence, the dress, and the dreadful promise of noon.

Notes:

I hope you guys are enjoying. I realised in writing this chapter that although this has taken months to write, the last 5-10 chapters have occured in the space of two days.

Chapter 27: Rehearsals/Requiem

Summary:

Rehearsals for Don Juan Triumphant begin.

The theatre felt like it had not been warmed for days. Though the gaslights burned overhead in their sputtering sconces and the scent of greasepaint clung to the wings like incense in a chapel, a chill lingered in the air; damp and close, like breath against glass. It crept into the velvet drapes and settled in the joints of the floorboards, a hush too quiet to name. Even the stage itself, that sacred battleground of music and myth, seemed to brace beneath our feet, as though it too remembered what had been promised upon it. Blood, perhaps. Or something worse.

We were somewhere in the second act, or at least pretending to be. The score lay open before Reyer like scripture being misread. His pencil beat out a dull, persistent rhythm against the edge of the conductor’s stand, marking time not in measures but in mounting frustration. Each tap was a reprimand.

I had read the lines a dozen times, perhaps more. Not aloud, for the sound of my own voice seemed treacherous now, but in silence; tracing them with my eyes until the words blurred, then sharpened again, as if inscribed not in ink but in fire. My fingers hovered just above the page, skimming the dried script without daring to touch it, as though some latent magic might be disturbed by contact.

It was his hand that had written them. I could feel it, impossibly, in every stroke of the quill—the pressure of thought, the careful deliberation, the rapture and the rage all caught in the curves and slashes of his calligraphy. The score was not merely composed; it was bled. A manuscript of obsession. Of longing. Of war.

I imagined him there in the dark, hunched like a prophet over the ivory keys of that monstrous organ, the candlelight clawing at the walls of his sanctuary. His ink-stained fingers racing, then pausing, suspended mid-air as if waiting for a note to confess itself. Perhaps he mouthed the words to himself as he wrote them, his voice low, half-feral with devotion. Perhaps he wept. Each measure of music bore his mark; his loneliness, his fury, his genius. It pulsed beneath the bars like a heartbeat too long denied a body. And here I was, sitting in the very theatre that had shunned him, with his music in my lap and his name unspoken on every tongue. It made me feel strange.

My thoughts were disturbed as maestro Reyer’s baton lifted with a sharp breath through his nostrils.

“Line, mademoiselle.”

I blinked once, drew in the air, and sang:
“Silken couch and hay-filled barn both have been his battlefield.”

My voice moved like water, light and untroubled, the notes finding their shape easily beneath my tongue. The piano chased behind, loyal and sure, rising and dipping to cradle the words. Even Reyer, whose temperament hovered always near irritation, gave a subtle nod of approval.

I glanced toward Piangi, who stood some paces from me, flushed and florid in his practice garb, awaiting his cue. The moment came.

“Those who tangle with Don Juan,” he sang. Though, sang may be too generous a word. He mangled the rhythm and flattened the cadence, stretching the final syllables into an odd pacing that made even Carlotta flinch.

Reyer groaned.

“No, no, no!” he snapped, slapping the baton once against the edge of the stand. “Chorus, rest please!”

The stage sagged with collective relief as the chorus scattered like pigeons from a bell tower. A few giggled behind gloved hands; others pretended great interest in their libretto.

Piangi remained planted, mid-stage and resolute, the very picture of operatic misfortune. His chest rose and fell with the exertion of a man five minutes from swooning. His rehearsal costume clung in unfortunate places, the brocade waistcoat straining like a corset under siege. His cravat, once white and noble, now hung limp, soaked through and listing like a flag in retreat.

“Don Juan—Signor Piangi—” Reyer spoke, his voice almost a hiss.

“Si,” Piangi replied, turning to look at the maestro.

“Here is the phrase,” Reyer said, lifting his hand as though coaxing a spirit from the boards. “Those who tang-le with Don Juan…” his voice moving with the corresponding piano notes.

Piangi nodded, full of drama and misplaced conviction. He struck a pose; chest out, chin lifted, and let loose with operatic grandeur, “Those who tangle with Don Joo-ahn!”

I flinched.

Reyer blinked once. Then again. He turned his eyes heavenward as if praying for deliverance. “No, no. Nearly. But no.” He clutched his chest with a kind of theatrical despair. “Again. Those who tang–, tang–, tang–…”

“Those who tan-, tan-, tan-…”

Everyone groaned in response, and Reyer threw up his hands in disbelief. From the wings came a flurry of movement, silk against silk. Carlotta, draped in rehearsal gowns and trailing disdain behind her like a train, threw her hands aloft.

“Oh, leave him be!” Her voice rang out like the snap of a fan—sharp, imperious, and barbed. It bounced off the chandelier and struck the back wall with echoing insolence. Piangi, unmoved, adjusted his cuffs. Whether it was pride or obtuseness, or that peculiar invulnerability born of tenure, it was impossible to tell. He merely smiled at her, a doughy, oblivious sort of smile, and gave a shallow bow before preparing to butcher the phrase again. Meg caught my eye and offered a look so artfully deadpan that it broke through the veil of my solemnity. She nudged her elbow into mine, just enough to provoke me. I bit my lip.

“If he says ‘Joo-ahn’ one more time…” she murmured, sotto voce.

“I’m going to have to start pretending it’s in the libretto,” I whispered back.

She gave me a sideways grin, bright and wicked. “Perhaps the Phantom will correct him in person.”

That earned a laugh I hadn’t meant to give, quiet and brief. It fluttered out and vanished just as quickly, stolen by the hush that crept in every time someone said Don Juan Triumphant. But Meg looked pleased anyway. For a moment, the weight in my chest felt less like mourning and more like memory.

Carlotta’s voice pierced the fraying patience of the room.

“His way is better!” she proclaimed, her hand lifted with imperious grace, the jewels at her wrist catching the dim gaslight. “At least he makes it sound like music!”

She laughed, high and disdainful, and the chorus girls responded with a brief rustle of amusement, quick, nervous. The sound did not last.

From the side of the stage, where the gaslight gave way to gloom, Madame Giry stepped forward. Her presence required no announcement. She came as she always did, like the last note of a requiem; low, inevitable, and not to be argued with.

“Signora,” she said, her voice unhurried, without inflection. “Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?”

Carlotta turned at once, chin high, affront flickering behind her kohl-lined eyes. “The composer is not here,” she replied, each word measured like a note struck in defiance. “And if he were—” her lip curled slightly, “—I would.”

She did not expect a reply. And perhaps, in a lesser woman, one would not have come.

But Madame Giry did not so much as blink. She tilted her head just slightly, and said, in a voice that did not rise but seemed to press outward into every corner of the theatre:

“Are you certain of that, Signora?”

It was not a question, though it wore the clothing of one.

The silence that followed did not fall, it settled. Softly. Utterly. As though the air itself had thickened, and some invisible presence now regarded us all with breathless amusement. Meg turned her head. One of the dancers dropped a sheet of music, and did not stoop to retrieve it. Even the candles above us, fixed high in the chandeliers, seemed to flicker with fresh uncertainty.

Only Reyer and Piangi remained untouched. The former was already waving a hand in agitation, the latter still struggling with the stiff collar of his costume.

At centre stage, Carlotta and Madame Giry remained locked in stillness: two women carved from rival stones. Carlotta’s chin was lifted, her painted mouth drawn in imperious contempt; but Giry’s gaze did not waver. She stood perfectly composed, one gloved hands grasping her cane, the other over her skirt, her expression unreadable but unyielding. Reyer cleared his throat again, more theatrical than necessary.

“Let us begin again,” he said, lifting his baton as though it might serve to fend off both ghosts and incompetence.  “So,” Reyer declared, lifting both, “once again. After seven.” He gave the note a little too forcefully, and the chord hung crooked in the air for half a heartbeat. Then, undeterred:
“Five, six, seven.”

“Those who tangle with Don Joo-ahn,” Piangi intoned again, this time placing such emphasis on the wrong syllables that it seemed a deliberate affront to the art of music itself.

A ripple went through the company, not of laughter, but of something stranger, wearier. A collective sigh, thinly veiled behind rustling pages and repositioned sheet music. Then, like birds startled from a wire, voices began to rise; some repeating the line with varying degrees of sarcasm, others humming their own parts absently, still others abandoning rehearsal altogether in favour of complaint.

“Ah, pi—non posso!” Carlotta burst, flinging her hands into the air with operatic despair. “What does it matter what notes we sing?”

“Have patience, Signora,” came Madame Giry’s even reply. Her tone was not so much rebuke as reminder, of something older than stagecraft and deeper than vanity.

“No one will know if it is right or if it is wrong,” Carlotta went on, heedless. “No one will care if it is right, or if it is wrong.” Her words echoed with strange resonance, like prophecy delivered through perfume and irritation. Then, with cruel mimicry, she sang:
“Those who tangle with Don Juan!” her voice high, mocking, like the cry of a bird that nests in cathedrals.

Piangi, struggling still, turned slightly toward me. “Those who tan… tan,” he murmured, brow furrowed as if the very language betrayed him. “Is right?”

“Not quite, Signor,” I said softly, too tired to be cruel. “Those who tan… tan.”

“Ladies. Signor Piangi,” Reyer interjected, voice sharpened to a point. “If you please.”

He thumped the piano keys in a futile attempt to gather order—then rose from the bench altogether, arms flailing in a silent semaphore to the cast. The din rose like a tide; voices overlapping, phrases mangled and repeated in frantic bursts. Carlotta’s mockery bit through the noise, followed by Piangi’s uncertain murmur, and the maestro’s desperate, flailing attempts to regain order. The air was thick with the heat of too many bodies and too much dissonance, the very boards of the stage seeming to recoil beneath our confusion.

Something curdled in my stomach.

The sort of dread that comes not like thunder but like damp: slow, seeping, inevitable. My heart was beating too quickly, though I could not name why. There was nothing, not yet, to fear. And still, I felt it. As if the theatre itself had taken a breath it ought not have taken. The air tasted wrong. The walls loomed too close. My fingers twitched against the script in my hands, the ink suddenly too dark, the pages too thin. A noise began in my ears, no louder than the flutter of a moth, but growing. Trembling.

I couldn’t seem to swallow. Couldn’t seem to blink.

And then—
The piano, untouched, began to play.

The keys moved of their own accord—no hands, no conductor, no signal. And yet the melody poured forth with terrifying precision, each note struck with such deliberation it might have been carved from bone. The chords rang through the space like a summons, vibrating in the rafters, pulsing in the air, crawling over the skin.

A few gasps, a few stilled hands, but none screamed. They obeyed. Almost without thought, as though plucked from their strings and retuned to his pitch, the company began to sing.

“Poor young maiden! For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets…”

The words fell from their mouths not like song, but incantation. Perfect. Hollow. Entranced.

“…you will have to pay the bill—tangled in the winding sheets!”

One by one, every voice rose, crisp and chilling, each singer caught in the same eerie synchrony. Even Meg—my Meg—her mouth shaped the words as though she'd always known them, as though they were not inked on a page but etched into her very breath. Her eyes were vacant, fixed forward. She did not look at me.

I stood still. I did not sing.

A cold sweat broke across my back. My lips parted, but no sound would come. The music surged through the hall like water through a drowning house, and I felt myself adrift in it; alone, untouched by whatever force had seized the rest.

Had I looked like this, that night beneath the Opera? When I had followed his voice without knowing why? When the mirror parted and I stepped through as though through a veil between dream and waking? Had I worn that same expression; blank, trusting, bewitched?

A sharp panic bloomed in my chest. I was watching them slip into something that was not themselves, and I could not reach them. I could not stop it.

I turned and fled.

Not with dignity. Not with grace. I backed away first, slow and trembling, as if my retreat might go unnoticed by whatever spirit had taken root in the piano. But the eyes of the others did not follow. They remained fixed ahead, mouths moving, limbs frozen into the grotesque tableau of song. Not a single head turned.

The gaslight in the corridor flickered violently as I passed beneath it.

I ran.

The hem of my rehearsal skirt caught underfoot, once, twice, still I did not stop. The sound of that infernal music followed me, echoing down the hallway like a wolf's breath at my heels. My shoes skidded on the polished floor. The familiar stairwells turned strange in their angles, their shadows unnatural. The gas sconces seemed dimmer here, and the mirrors I passed felt like doors half-ajar, as though any reflection might not return my own.

Where was Raoul?

The question rose sharp in my chest like bile. Where was he? Wasn’t he supposed to be watching, guarding, waiting in the wings with his revolver and his pride and his stupid, gallant plan? Wasn’t that the agreement?

Or had the Phantom already found a way around it?

The thought chilled me deeper than the corridor’s draught.

I hated the part of myself that sought Raoul in that moment. I hated that I thought of him at all. And yet I did. Because in spite of my fury, in spite of the ache his doubt had carved into me, he was still a barrier between myself and that music. A thin one, perhaps, but a barrier nonetheless.

The sound receded as I turned the final corner. My fingers fumbled the dressing room handle. I stumbled in, slammed the door behind me, and pressed my back to it with a gasp.

Silence. At last.

But it was not comforting.

It hung too heavy. As if something had followed me all the same.

I pressed a hand to my chest and felt my heartbeat like a trapped bird beneath my ribs. My breath came quick, too quick. I crossed the room, pulled the curtains shut, and turned the gaslight up to its fullest, banishing every inch of gloom.

But the room did not warm.

I turned, too quickly, and stared at the wardrobe, my eyes narrowing in suspicion. It stood in its usual place, tall and stern in the corner, its carved doors shut tight. And yet I felt it before I heard it: that strange shift in the air, as if someone had stepped into the room and displaced the very silence. A presence; intimate, patient, watching. The gaslight fluttered once, a sudden draft curling across the back of my neck like breath.

The doorknob did not move. No creak betrayed him. But I knew.

A cold sweat prickled down my spine. My fingers gripped the edge of the vanity as though it might anchor me to reality, to this room, to this version of myself that did not answer when he called.

I did not speak. I did not move.

The door of the wardrobe yawned open like the mouth of some patient beast, long-starved and silent. Not sudden. Not loud. A slow parting, no more than a sigh pressed through wood. But it was enough. More than enough.

The fear was instantaneous; real and wet and full. Not a shiver or a startle, but a clenching, a sickening bloom of terror that rose from somewhere behind the heart and filled the throat. It was the kind of fear that did not permit thought, only sensation: of blood running too fast, of limbs turned to water, of breath that stuttered and caught. My whole body recoiled inwardly, as if memory itself had flung open the door.

There had been no sound of footsteps. No tell-tale rustle of cloak or scrape of boot. But he was there, just as he had been before. Just as he had always been; in corners, in corridors, in the folds of dreams I never wanted. The shadow stepping forward was not just his, but mine. One I had tried to outrun, but which knew all the passages of this place better than I ever would.

I stumbled backward, one hand out as though I might push him back with air alone. My knees struck the edge of the bed and gave way beneath me, sending me down in an inelegant heap. The mattress sagged beneath my weight. I scrambled atop it, retreating across the coverlet like a child trying to outrun a monster. The curtains still glowed with gaslight, too bright and too gold for the thing that now stood in their halo.

I could not see all of him. Only the edges, the hand that rested against the wardrobe’s edge, curled too carefully; the broad shoulder half-shrouded in black; the white, glinting mask catching light like bone beneath water.

No word passed his lips. He stood as he had once stood before the mirror: silent, sovereign, unknowable.

I gripped the bedpost. My voice came out choked and low. “Don’t.”

He didn’t move.

“Please—don’t.” I could not stop the tremor in my throat. “I didn’t know what was happening… onstage. I only left because something felt wrong. I thought…” I trailed off, for the truth sounded foolish now. Ridiculous, even. What had I thought? That I could run from him? That I could close a door and be safe from a presence that did not obey locks or walls or the laws of men?

He had strangled me once. With hands as deft as any lover’s, but colder than any I’d known. The sensation of it had never left me. It lived in the muscles of my neck, in the way I sometimes flinched at shadows too near and memories too recent.

My fingers curled in the bedsheets.

Still he said nothing. Still he stood, outlined in a doorway that opened not only into the wardrobe, but into the very place from which all my terror was born.

The silence roared, louder than any aria, more piercing than any cry. It pressed into my ears, into my chest, into the fragile place behind my eyes where tears had gathered but would not fall. I stared at him, at the shape of him, and tried to remember that I was flesh and not fear. That I was a woman and not a puppet.

But even that truth seemed uncertain in his presence.

He stepped forward.

Only once, only slightly. But it was enough to rattle my world.

The light from the gas sconces stammered across the gleam of his mask, that terrible half-face which seemed to sneer even in stillness. The other side, shrouded in shadow, was worse; unknown, unguessable. There was no expression there to read, no mercy or menace to cling to. It was as if two beings shared one body, and I had never known which one would greet me.

My breath hitched. I pushed myself further up the bed until my back met the carved wood of the headboard. Trapped. The air tasted of dust and heat and the strange, bitter trace of old scent… wax, parchment, roses…

“I... I shouldn’t have left the stage,” I whispered. “I know that.” I was speaking to calm him, or perhaps to calm myself. “But you were there—I felt you. I heard the music, and it wasn’t—”

My voice broke.

He did not flinch. Did not blink. The stillness of him was worse than rage. I would have preferred shouting, the thunder of his voice beneath the stage, the wild clatter of him at the organ. That, at least, was a kind of madness I understood.

But this…this calm…was something colder.

I remembered the last time he had come for me like this. The mirror. The lair. His hands.

Even then, even when fury had stripped him bare, he had spoken of love. He had cried out for it, pleaded for it, wrapped it around my throat like a velvet chain. I did not understand the shape it took in him. I still didn’t. But I had seen the gleam of it—bright and awful—as one might glimpse the eye of a predator through the underbrush: beautiful, and final.

“You frightened me,” I said, my voice thinner now. “The last time. You... you hurt me. You said you wouldn’t—”

I stopped myself. A fool’s sentence. A child’s hope.

He had never promised that.

The candlelight flickered in the draft of his arrival, casting long, clawed shadows across the wall. I could not see the wardrobe’s interior behind him. Only the black beyond, yawning and endless. As though he had stepped not from a cabinet, but from a chasm.

My hands trembled in my lap. I did not dare rise. Did not dare breathe too loudly. The stage was far behind me now, and I was alone. No chorus. No maestro. No Raoul.

He moved.

Not quickly, but with the inexorable surety of water finding the lowest place. A slow closing of distance. A familiar ritual. The edge of his coat whispered over the floorboards. The air seemed to tilt with him, as though the very room leaned into his gravity. I could not stop him. He came to the side of the bed, and paused, only for a moment, and not out of hesitation. His gaze fixed on mine, unreadable behind the gleam of that white half-mask,

The mattress dipped as he knelt upon it. I shrank back instinctively, my spine striking the headboard. The wood did not yield. I was trapped. Not by bars or hands, but by the terrible theatre of the moment. The scene had been staged before, and I knew the script too well: the shadow at the foot of the bed, the body closing in, the weight of something half-man and half-devotion come to claim me.

His gloved hands planted on either side of me, slow and exact, like a master setting a frame. His face hovered above mine; not near enough to touch, but near enough to breathe the same tremulous air. My hands clutched the bedclothes, knuckles white, heart thudding with the stubborn rhythm of prey that has not yet been caught. He did not speak. His gaze travelled the planes of my face like a man reading a book he had written and burned long ago. The silence was suffocating. My name trembled behind his eyes, and I felt it, though he had not said it.

And then his hand rose.

I recoiled—not in motion, but in muscle, in memory. My throat braced. The ghost of his last violence still lived in the hollow of my neck, in the places I had not dared to touch since. That terrible embrace. The ring of it. I was not screaming now, but I was remembering how.

“Erik!” I shrieked, my eyes closing.

I do not know why I said his name, only that it was the only word left to me. Not a command, not even a plea; a thread thrown out into a storm. The sound of it cracked in the space between us like a whip drawn across sacred ground. My eyes shut instinctively, as they always had in the presence of what frightened me most—just as Meg had said. I turned my face from danger even as I laid myself bare before it. Perhaps that was the greatest performance of all: the girl who did not watch, did not witness, and therefore could not be blamed for surviving.

But it stopped him.

Not like a sword to the heart, not even like surprise. It was subtler than that. I felt his breath still. Felt the moment hang, suspended and strange. Something in the way the mattress ceased its shift, the way the air between us seemed to hesitate.

The glove, instead, brushed my cheek. Not with force, but with an agonising slowness, as though uncertain whether contact would dissolve us both. I felt leather meet skin, the faintest tremble in the motion. His fingers—unsteady now—slipped to my jaw. Not to seize. Not to command. Only to touch. His thumb swept beneath my eye where a tear had welled and dared to fall, catching it before it could reach my chin.

He exhaled.

Not a sigh. Not a growl. A breath. A human thing. And when I opened my eyes, I found him not monstrous but… breaking.

The mask did not move, but something beneath it did. A soft collapse in the lines of his posture. His head bowed slightly, as though my speaking his name had undone something he had bound too tightly within himself. For all his drama and wrath, he seemed smaller now, kneeling above me in a room lit too brightly for ghosts. The gaslight caught the gold threads at his collar, the faint smear of dust upon his shoulder, the fraying edge of his glove where it had been mended too many times.

He was breathing too hard.

“You’re hurt,” I whispered, though the words came delicate and unbidden. I had not meant to speak. My voice had been stolen by fear only moments before, and yet something in his stillness, something not of menace but of misery, had drawn it from me.

He did not answer.

But the truth was there, plain as candlelight. I could see it now, with the kind of clarity that arrives only in the silence after terror: the bloom of darkness at his side. A wound, ragged and weeping. Not fresh, not fatal perhaps, but furious, a relic from that duel beneath the cemetery sky. His coat clung to it like a child to a secret. There was blood in the air, copper and warm, mingling with the perfume of melted wax and roses. He was trying to hide it, foolishly, desperately, as though pride alone might make it disappear.

And yet he knelt above me, saying nothing, holding his shape like a chapel holds grief. His hand shook against the bed, fingers curling inwards not from pain, but from the effort of denying it. His breath no longer had rhythm. It came in uneven swells, shallow and erratic, as if he were being crushed from within by something heavier than flesh.

And I was no longer frightened. Or rather, my fear remained, but it was changed — refracted through something sorrowful and strange. The kind of ache one feels for a statue too long exposed to rain.

My hand rose before I could think. It moved of its own accord, as if answering something older than language, that tether between us that had never truly broken. My fingers reached for him, trembling slightly, and brushed the dark fabric at his waist.

He recoiled.

Not sharply - not like a man struck - but with the silent flinch of someone who has forgotten what gentleness feels like. His head turned away, his breath caught in his throat, and the hand nearest mine curled tighter into the coverlet, as though holding fast to the last remnant of distance between us.

But I reached again.

And this time, he let me.

My hand found the place beneath his ribs, where the blood was warm and wet and seeping through the embroidery. It soaked through the threads like spilled ink. When I drew my fingers back, they glistened red beneath the gaslight; new blood, not yet dried. His breath hitched again, but he did not move.

I stared at the crimson stain on my skin. It looked like theatre paint. Like the kind we wore for tragedies, when lovers died in heaps and the curtain fell to applause. But this was not theatre. This was no part written in a score. His blood was real. And it was on me now. His voice came then, low and ruined. Not theatrical. Not rehearsed. Just broken.

“He would have killed me,” he said. A simple sentence dragged raw from the core of him.

I looked up. His eyes were not on me, but somewhere past me, lost in some memory he had not invited.

“In the snow, with his polished sword and his righteous fury.” A bitter breath. “He wanted to bury me beneath that stone, beside your father. I saw it in him.” His gaze found mine at last. “And you stopped him.”

Something moved behind the mask; not the face, but the soul. That strange, hollow place behind the eyes where torment hides. “Why?” he asked, so quietly it scarcely disturbed the air.

Something flickered - in the way his shoulders dropped, in the small collapse of pride that passed through him like a winter draft. He shifted, slow and graceless, easing the weight from his knees until he half-lay beside me, one arm braced at the mattress edge, the other pressed against his side where the blood gathered, darker now. He did not look at me. Not yet. His head turned just slightly toward the ceiling, as if the rafters might answer what I could not.

His voice came again, no stronger than before, but shaped with care, like glass blown too thin. “You... should have let him. It would have been... a fitting end, I think. A noble one, at least. Slain by a man who still believes in heaven. For all his pomp, he has not yet seen the world rot from the inside out.”

He paused. The pain stole his breath for a moment. His fingers clutched a fold of the coverlet; not for comfort, but to keep from trembling. When he spoke again, the bitterness had softened. Not gone, but dulled by something far more ancient than anger.

“I have lived too long in shadows. I have loved from them, built kingdoms beneath them, composed... dreams in them.” A hollow laugh escaped his throat, mirthless and parched. “But dreams do not breathe. They wither. They... rot on the tongue when spoken aloud. You saw that, didn’t you? The rot in mine.”

I flinched, my hand instinctively reaching for him again before faltering. Still, he did not face me. His mask caught the lamplight, its polished edge a cruel contrast to the torn man beneath it.

“Every time I touched music, I hoped it would become a bridge. That if I played it just right — if the note held long enough, if the voice obeyed — it would carry me into the world where men are not monsters. But the bridge never holds. It always cracks beneath the weight of what I am.”

He inhaled slowly, raggedly, and closed his eyes as though trying to anchor the moment inside some aching, unreachable cathedral of memory.

“I did not come to frighten you,” he said at last. “Not this time. I came because... I wanted to be near you before it all ended. Before the lights dim and the curtain falls and I am swept back into the walls that bore me. You called me Erik. Again.”

He turned his head then, just enough for the unmasked side of his face to emerge fully into view. It was not beautiful. It was not terrible. It was human, hollowed by pain, gaunt with sleeplessness, streaked faintly now with sweat and blood. His mouth twitched, not in cruelty but in something that tried to become a smile and failed.

“Erik,” he repeated, barely above a breath. “That name sounds almost kind, in your voice.”

And for a moment, there was nothing monstrous about him at all.

 

 

Chapter 28: Requiem Continued

Summary:

The conversation continues...

Notes:

Short one just to tide you guys over while I write the more nuanced chapters!

His gaze did not rise to meet mine, but wandered, listless and haunted, toward a corner of the room where nothing stood but shadow. I followed his gaze, as if I might find the same solace he found in the dark and be able to meet him in it. Yet, it was not the room he looked upon. His eyes saw something far older, far crueller; a place behind the eyes, behind the veil of memory, where the heart is stripped and flayed open to be gazed upon.

“I have tried to hate you,” he murmured, the words brittle. “God knows I have. In these long days… these infernal nights that refuse to end…” His voice faltered, caught somewhere between breath and grief. “I did not curse you,” he continued, more slowly now, as if ashamed of what little he had managed. “No. That would have been easy. A courtesan is cursed. A traitor. A fool. Instead, I wandered the passages with your name in my mouth like poison I could not spit out. I composed sonatas in mournful tones and ruined them before the ink could dry. I struck your likeness from every corner of my mind.”

His mask caught the lamplight again, and it gleamed; for once, not like a thing meant to hide, but like something ceremonial, a relic too sacred or too terrible to be unmasked. Beneath it, the shifting of his jaw spoke louder than the words he’d already uttered - like someone who’d rehearsed fury and found it inadequate.

“Even the faceless bride I fashioned from wire and lace - I turned her to face the wall,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “She wore your gown, stitched by candlelight, the hem frayed where I had handled it too many times. Her hands were porcelain, her lips unpainted. I could not give her a mechanical mouth from which to sing for I could not fashion a sound like the one I yearn to hear again from you. And thus, she too held your silence.”

His jaw tensed, and the words came sharper now, not louder, but edged like glass.

“My mute altar piece, my penance. A monument to what I was promised and what I was denied. But after that night - after the rooftop - I could not bear it. I could not endure her gaze. For though she had no eyes, I knew she looked upon me with your refusal.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, he almost laughed again. Not from mirth, but the bitter twist of it all.

“So, I turned her,” he whispered. “Made her face the wall. I told myself it was punishment. That she, like you, deserved to look only upon stone. But the truth…” He paused, the mask lowering a fraction as his shoulders fell. “The truth is that I could not bear to be seen. Not by the silence that had your shape.”

A tremor touched the edge of his voice; not weakness, but a fracture in something long held taut. “I said you were cruel,” he whispered, “because I could not bear the thought that you were kind and still left me. I called you blind, because your eyes saw the world and not me in it. I told the darkness that you were faithless - that you had come to me only to forget me, to dissolve back into the glittering emptiness above while I rotted beneath it.”

“I thought,” he said slowly, painfully, “that if I reduced the memory of you to ash, I might scatter it. That the wind would take it. That I might breathe again.”

He turned then, slightly, just enough to let the full curve of his shoulder sag forward. The elegant posture that usually clung to him like a cloak dissolved, and something of the man beneath emerged - not the Phantom, not the Opera Ghost, but Erik: tired, unravelled, trembling with the weight of something too long carried alone.

His fingers curled against the blanket, the nails faintly biting into the fabric. He stared down at them, at the place where they pressed into the bed, as if the confession could not be spoken while looking me in the eye. He pulled the blanket up to himself as if to inspect it.

“But always I came back to that night,” he whispered, and his voice changed - softer now. “This wretched little room where they’d hidden you, bruised and frightened… And you, wrapped in it. My cloak.” He closed his eyes and gripped the fabric beneath his hands tighter. My blanket – his cloak.

His breath hitched. His lips parted but did not speak, and for a moment he merely breathed; open-mouthed, aching, like a man starved of air. Then, after a silence that bent and bowed between us:

“I watched you sleep. Not to haunt you. Not even to guard you. I did not know why I stayed, only that I could not leave. You were so still. And I thought… if she wakes and finds warmth, perhaps she will not fear me. Perhaps, just for a moment, I might be something other than the monster in her mind.”

At last, he turned his head. Just enough that I could see the sliver of his unmasked face. His eyes did not meet mine, not yet, but they hovered near enough.

“I am not here to ask forgiveness,” he said. “I know what I have done. I know what I am. But I had to see you once more. As you are. Not on a stage. Not beneath chandeliers or in my tombs. Here. In this room. Where you kept a thing I gave without knowing why.”

The light caught the edge of his mask, and for a moment, it gleamed like a relic in a reliquary; something mourned, something worshipped, something left behind.

“Say something,” he breathed. “Please.”

I drew in a breath, though it felt as though my lungs had forgotten the shape of air.

“I am sorry,” I said.

Not whispered. Not wept. Just spoken, as one might speak a prayer when the hour is too late for mercy but one prays all the same.

His head tilted, barely, but I saw it. The shift. The way the line of his mouth seemed to flinch before it steadied again.

“I know,” he said.

But knowing did not soothe him. I saw it in the way his hand clenched the fold of the cloak, in the way his gaze did not quite reach me. The words had not cooled the heat in him. They had only clarified it, like wine drawn too early from a stormed barrel. Bitter. Necessary. He did not look at me as he said it. His gaze rested on the glass, as though it still remembered the last time I fled through it.

“But you’ve not chosen,” he said again, softer this time. “And perhaps you think that mercy. Perhaps you think that kindness.”

He drew himself up slightly, not with strength, but with the brittle dignity of a wounded man refusing to bleed where others might see. One hand braced against the bed. The other moved instinctively toward his side, where the wound had begun to soak the fabric dark. Still, he did not speak of the pain.

“Don Juan Triumphant will go on,” he continued. “The managers believe themselves immune to instruction. Let them. But I will be watching. Every scene. Every note. Every hesitation.”

His eyes lingered on me, just for a breath, and something passed across his face, sharp and searching. Longing dressed in armour. “Do you know what silence does to a man who has only ever known it?” he murmured. “It teaches him to hear what has not been said.”

He turned his head then, just enough for the gaslight to catch the mask, that cruel, familiar relic, half-angel and half-judgement, and he drew himself up straighter, though the movement cost him.

“This is why Don Juan Triumphant must go on,” he said, voice low but certain. “Even if your Vicomte means to spoil it. Even if he would rather burn the theatre to its foundations than let it be sung.” He spoke it with a bitterness that made me flinch slightly. Then, with a strange, weary kind of pride, he gestured to the bloom of blood soaking through his coat. It had spread in silence, like ink in water. His hand hovered near it, but he did not touch it.

“You’ve seen what he is becoming,” Erik said, eyes flicking back to mine.

The words struck clean through me. I felt them land behind my ribs, in that tender place where love once settled without question. A sickness curled in my stomach—slow, coiling. Raoul, with his pale hands and honest eyes, was never meant to burn. Never meant to stand in graveyards with a sword in hand, jaw clenched like a man marching toward war. But he had. And it was me who had led him there. I had taken the one pure thing I had ever been offered, and through some tragic alchemy, I had muddied it. Bent it. Bled it. There was no comfort in his chivalry now. No music in his declarations. What had become of my handsome knight in shining armour?

“I did not make him your rival,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I meant to say it aloud.

“No,” Erik said, almost gently. “But you made him mine.”

He straightened then, slowly, as if the weight of his own body were a burden to lift. His hand found the edge of the dressing table, steadying himself. The posture he adopted was no longer that of the penitent or the lover, but something more ghostly—half-withdrawn already, as if preparing to vanish back into the ether from which he came.

“You are bleeding,” I said softly, moving to follow him. “You should sit. Let me—”

But he had already begun to retreat, step by step, backward toward the narrow shadows near the wardrobe door. He did not answer me, only gave the smallest shake of his head, and something like apology passed across his face, brief as a candle guttering.

That was when I noticed it.

The quiet.

Not the hush of two people whispering beneath the weight of secrets, but the stillness of a world that had ceased to turn. Upstairs, beyond the thin walls and gaslit halls, the music had stopped. The frenzied strains of rehearsal - the endless climbing runs, the pounding dissonance of Don Juan Triumphant - all had fallen away. The very air seemed to hold its breath.

I looked toward the ceiling instinctively, as if I might hear the beat resume, some errant footstep, some misplaced note. But there was nothing. Only silence. And Erik’s breath, ragged.

“Why have they stopped?” I murmured, more to myself than him.

Erik’s eyes did not move from mine, but I saw something tighten in his face, a flicker of fatigue, of fragility, like wax melting behind the eye.

“I am… tired,” he said at last. “That is all. Even monsters must rest. Even ghosts grow weary of the walls they haunt.”

He reached the edge of the wardrobe and paused there, fingers brushing the lacquered wood as though reacquainting himself with it. He stood like a man before a tombstone.

“I must go.”

“Please,” I said, my voice catching in my throat, “don’t call yourself that.”

But before the full weight of my protest could lift, he raised a gloved hand - slow, commanding, sorrowful. It was not a gesture of dismissal, but of quiet, sovereign finality. The kind of silence that asks not to be broken. His head inclined, just slightly, as if in thanks for the tenderness, though he could not accept it. Then, his voice returned, distant and dark, as if carried on some inward wind only he could hear.

“I will be watching.”

And with that, he slipped through the wardrobe door, and the dressing room seemed, all at once, colder for the space he left behind.