Ok, so, this is my first serious phanphiction. Who knows if I'll even continue, but this idea has been in my head for days as just a title, so here it is.

This is Modern Day but it might not go exactly as any of the different book/movie/musical versions go.

I have some plans for this. Although, the only way I'll know if it's even worth continuing is if I get reviews saying I should.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Phantom of the Opera characters or the Phantom of the Opera story.

Oh, and pay attention to everything, please!


It was hard to be the editor of a newspaper these days, especially if it was a small one.

Jonathon Plusope, the editor of their small newspaper, rubbed his tired eyes with fingers that ached from constant typing and revising. At this point in the day—the sun was almost gone from the sky—most of his employees had gone. So, then, why was he still here?

Why, indeed?

Jonathon Plusope had a secret. It wasn't a horrible secret; at least, that was what he told himself. Surely it was normal? If not normal, it wasn't altogether unusual. Simply unique. Slowly, Mr. Plusope rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes, but knowing he couldn't sleep, remaining alert to every single sound. No, there wasn't anything wrong with his arrangement with his writer.

The hum of the heaters turning off made Mr. Plusope start, anxious to be gone, but he wasn't there yet. And, Mr. Plusope knew, if he wasn't there when he came, the consequences would be great. At least, that was what he figured. He had never simply left before his writer had delivered his latest piece. He wanted to; it was what he was yearning to do now, but Mr. Plusope knew. He knew from the look in the yellow eyes of his writer, his writer that was more editor than he himself was! Yes, there would be consequences if Mr. Plusope wasn't there to receive his article and his wishes.

A door creaked; Jonathon Plusope jumped. Was he here? Mr. Plusope strained his ears to hear the soft footsteps that he knew would be coming. Yet, before his weak ears even acknowledged another's tread, there he was. Mr. Plusope, looking up in terror, was met with those dispassionate yellow eyes, the only illumination in the man's—was it a man?—dark, black-swathed figure.

"Good evening, Mr. Plusope." The voice spoke, and for a second, Mr. Plusope forgot his fright, his fatigue, and his scruples. Why would a voice like that want to be trapped in the silent world of print?

"G-Good evening, sir." The shadow dipped its head, a nod from a time that was long dead. Mr. Plusope could feel the emanating darkness and formality enveloping him, all coming from the man in front of him.

"I trust that your mistake regarding Ms Lawson's piece was dealt with?" The yellow eyes behind the dark mask narrowed, daring Jonathon Plusope to defy him and say that he had disregarded his orders.

Mr. Plusope blanched, "Of course, sir. Yes…yes…you were right. Her article about the…new theater being built was completely—"

"Asinine, Mr. Plusope. I haven't the faintest idea why you keep her on your staff. The woman writes such drivel."

For some odd reason, Mr. Plusope felt in fear for Ms Lawson's life. Anything that could make that voice sound so…menacing was clearly in danger. Jonathon Plusope cleared his throat, attempting to still his shaking hands that he was sure the masked man saw and appreciated. "Sir, she is a talented writer, but she has been troubled lately, family problems, you know…"

The shadow sharply glanced at Mr. Plusope. "No, Mr. Plusope, I do not know. Nor do I see personal problems as a reason to be lax with one's work. See that her next attempt at writing is better than her last, or she will have much more time to work out her," he spat out the words, "family problems."

Mr. Plusope didn't even pause to wonder how the masked man could have more power than he, the editor. No, now the editor was to be the simpering sycophant.

"Of course, sir. Thank you. I'll make sure that she works harder. Thank you, sir." The masked man nodded. The anger in his eyes at the mention of family fading, leaving behind the cold, clear fire that seemed quite ready to burn at the slightest provocation.

"Good. As for our business tonight, tell that moronic scribbler that you assigned to the new theater production that his services will not be needed. I will see to the review myself. It is a new production and I wish to see what they must improve." The shadow narrowed his eyes at the thought of the "moronic scribbler."

Mr. Plusope, of course, quickly acceded to his critic's demands with no surprise. The masked man had been under the "employ" of the newspaper for close to five years now; although, it was necessary to know that he was more in charge than Mr. Plusope himself. That first day that he had entered the office—a night that Mr. Plusope was working late—would possibly go down in Jonathon Plusope's life as the most terrifying night of his life; at least, until the next month when the masked man visited again, and then the next month, and on and on.

The masked critic nodded at Mr. Plusope's cooperation. It had crossed Mr. Plusope's mind what might happen if he did not agree to the masked shadow's demands. Memories of failed newspaper editions, accidents, whispers in the night, reminded him as to why he did so fully consent to the man's wishes.

"Excellent," the shadow declared in a triumphant voice, seeing the fear that had allowed his wants to be met. "I will have the piece on your desk the morning after the first performance, Monday I believe." Mr. Plusope did not even conjecture as to how the man would get into the locked office, or how he could get a ticket to the highly anticipated theater production on such short notice when he didn't even know the date of the opening night.

"Of-of course, sir."

"You will run it with the next edition, and you will compensate me for my work." The shadow did that thing where its eyes bore into Mr. Plusope's.

"Y-yes," replied Mr. Plusope, shaking again.

"Very good." And he left. The masked man seemed to simply dissipate, but Mr. Plusope knew that he couldn't. After all, the man was a man wasn't he? He wasn't, he couldn't be, a shadow. Or perhaps….

No, Mr. Plusope did not want to think on his mysterious masked critic any more than he really had to. Five years. He shuddered, remembering again that night that the man had come in, demanding to have his article about the recent opera printed. Mr. Plusope had almost laughed if not for the hostility coming out of those yellow eyes, the terrible power emanating off of the figure, and of course, the odd lasso that made Mr. Plusope feel the need to keep his hand above his head…

Ever since, the man had come and gone, effectively running the newspaper and getting paid by way of terrifying the editor. Perhaps the staff knew, Mr. Plusope didn't care, nor did his self-appointed critic. In fact, Mr. Pluscope thought, he probably enjoyed that knowledge that everyone knew exactly who was in charge of the newspaper. The editor got the firm impression that the shadow enjoyed control, particularly control of knowledge, and what better way to control that than by a newspaper?

He was eloquent, though; even through his fear, Mr. Pluscope couldn't deny that the masked man was a valuable critic. The man critiqued at least one theater production, ballet, or opera every few weeks, being ridiculously paid all the while. Normally the masked man was an unforgiving critic, demanding perfection, and not afraid to mention exactly who had caused his displeasure.

With a sigh, Mr. Pluscope got ready to turn off his computer, ready to head home after such an exhausting day. Before he did, however, he looked up the website for the theater and their new production. He found the dates and times, synopsis, and even the cast. Quickly looking through the names, Jonathon Pluscope readied himself to familiarize himself with the names of those that would probably be printed in the shadow's next piece, knowing that he couldn't change any part of it for fear that the oddly disturbing lasso would find a home around his neck. No, all Mr. Pluscope could do was be prepared for those who would furiously call the office and complain while asking for the grounds for their being so libeled.

He sighed and began to make a list on a piece of notepad, mostly of the chorus members that he had never heard of so as to be ready, for surely the critic would start with those who were surely the worst.

Michael Camper, Sofia Trotti, Paula Urbes…

Would it never end? Mr. Pluscope started to wonder as he wrote if maybe he shouldn't just go to the police. The masked man was definitely an extortionist, and if half of the 'accidents' that had occurred in the newspaper office to those that were disfavored by the critic were by him, then there was definitely something that the shadow could be locked away for.

Yuri Etyuit, Margaret Giry…

But no, Jonathon Pluscope knew, the masked man was not someone that could be controlled by something as mundane as a police force. He almost checked himself—as he wrote down the last member's name—the critic might be able to read his thoughts. Silly, perhaps, but somehow, it wouldn't surprise Mr. Pluscope if even his mind wasn't safe from the masked man.

He sighed again, putting down his pen and looking at the last name he had written.

Christine Daae…

Well, there it is. I had a lot of fun writing this one chapter, and I'm already imagining the next one, probably through EPOV. And I'm guessing you all should be able to guess what it will be about....

Once again, tell me if you think this is even worth continuing. And to do that, one must review!

So, questions? Comments? Concerns?

TwilightSnowStar