Hello, everyone! For those of you who have followed me through my other POTO fanfics, thank you for returning! Sorry for the long disappearance-I started an art business and have been extremely busy, as well as having a long Writer's Block.

This chapter is the rough draft and will probably be better edited later. I can't promise that I'll post often, though I'll try at least once per week. Reviews truly help motivate me so that I know that someone enjoys my writing (hint, hint). I do promise that I will finish this story, as I have finished all of my others. I can't stand when authors leave me hanging and abandon their work.

Without further delay, I present to you my latest fanfic.

-Brittany

*I do not own any of the characters from Phantom of the Opera, only new ones that I create.

Painted

Ch. 1

If one could catch a glimpse of the infamous Phantom of the Opera on his journey in the night, one would surely be consumed by fear.

He walked along as Death in the blackness. Cold, haunting, and silent. Deliberate. He looked the part, as well; concealed by a black cloak that allowed him to become one with the shadows. If one looked closely, they might see a faint glimmer of the porcelain mask in the moonlight, if only for a brief second.

He pulled at his hood gently with black leathered gloves to mask his visage. The darkness was his greatest ally in that it allowed him to walk to his destination without being noticed. He had taken advantage of the late hour in order to not be met with any hinderance.

A noise nearby made him reconsider his confidence-at least, he had presumed to be the only one awake. Now he might have to become true Death among mortals, he thought.

After assuring himself that it had passed, he closed the distance between himself and the massive oak doors to the estate before him. He cast one final glance at the midnight sky, giving his silent appreciation to the night. The moon, glowing its ethereal light, had long been his companion, for it had always served as a sign that it was safe to walk among the living.

The symphony of crickets that played their long-legged instruments was overshadowed by the few discreet knocks on the door made by his own slender fingers. He replaced the black leather glove and waited most impatiently to be received.

The Phantom of the Opera would neither have made a public appearance nor have taken such a direct approach merely one year ago, and certainly his haunting demeanor would have alarmed anyone who caught sight of him. The servant who had allowed him to step foot into the threshold of the vast and towering estate at such a late hour, however; did nothing more than raise a thick grey and bushy eyebrow out of curiosity in his direction. He then proceeded to lead this ghost to another door, as he knew his master to be expecting this visitor, even if he was a peculiar one.

"My Master will be with you, shortly," his deep, aged voice announced to the shadow-of-a-guest.

Erik felt most uncomfortable as the servant remained in his presence, being watched carefully. It was a game of cat and mouse, and for once, he was not entirely certain of who the cat was. Before he could decide his position, a large red-haired man had opened the door and quickly ushered him into the room of which Erik immediately recognized to be a private study.

As the door closed behind them and the two men made their way to the other side of the room, Erik glanced around himself with apprehension. The multitude of books on the shelves all around him seemed to pass judgement upon him, glaring silently at him to turn back; he was teetering on the edge of regret for making himself known to anyone. How unlike his character it was to place himself in such a vulnerable position, and he instinctively calculated all of the ways in which he could make his escape or overtake the man, if need be.

"Mr. Destler, please, sit," the man gestured to an emerald velvet armchair in front of his large mohagony desk.

Erik watched the dim candlelight flicker across this man's swelling features; a round nose, a large forehead, curling red hair, and equally-fiery-colored facial hair. His mustache was curled at the ends, giving him an air of the love of grandiose things. This man was rather short and overweight, and so Erik had determined him to be of little threat, if at all, for he could easily out-maneuver him.

With this reassurance lingering in his mind, he seated himself, crossing his legs and placing his hands in his lap. The man could now catch a glimpse of the attire beneath Erik's cloak-everything black, from the cravat and undershirt to his waistcoat and pants.

He looks a character that one might find haunting rooms at night, albeit a ghost with fine taste in attire, the man thought to himself in amusement (if only he had known how true his thoughts were, for he was unaware that this sort of thing had exactly happened years before!).

"I have quite anticipated our first flesh-and-bone encounter, Mr. Destler," he stated. "I admit that, after months of correspondance through our letters, I imagined what a talented composer such as yourself might look like, but I did not imagine this," he gestured to the black hooded figure. "A black cloak? A white mask? Why such theatricality?"

"Mr. Levour, does theatricality not fit well in the theatre, and we are considering the purchase of a theatre, are we not?" Erik replied with dry sarcasm. "Allow me to remind you, once again, that I wish for my identity to remain anonymous-all that is required of you in order to fill your pocketbook is to agree to partner with me financially and to invest in our theatre. In time, perhaps, I will reveal myself to you, but until then I expect to have my requirements obeyed."

Mr. Levour frowned slightly but nodded in acknowledgement. "Of course; please excuse my prying, Mr. Destler. I do not wish to miss such a grand opportunity here, after all; I have reviewed the sample of your work with both a conductor, as well as a dear friend of mine who has an eye for music, and I daresay that we are all in agreement that your work is unsurmountable. To have you as co-owner and sole provider of the operas held within the theatre would be a decision most wise. This town has not seen such beautiful entertainment in a long while."

Erik ignored the man's polite flattery, eager to discuss the details. "Have you taken the steps necessary to secure the purchase of the building?"

"I have inspected the abandoned theatre to the best of my ability-it really is in decent condition for having been empty for nearly three years, as the previous owner could not bear to watch it fall apart-poor man, he lost a large gamble and all of his fortune, but that is a story for another time-and we have been given an excellent price! There is a bit of paperwork and legality to fulfill, but I should think that we will be the owners of Rochester Theatre by the end of the week," he explained.

How ironic, Erik thought, for he himself had left a theatre abandoned nearly three years prior. He wondered if anyone would ever choose to restore the Opera Populaire the way in which he and Mr. Levour planned to restore the theatre in the English town of Rochester. Perhaps not, for the place was hopeless without his operas to draw in the crowds. Any owner that would take on the task of rebuilding would be forced to have small plays and inconsequential ballets performed for lack of a genius composer.

This was all without mention of the fact that Mrs. DeChagny (the words left a bitter taste in his mouth) could never be the star performer, for she and her beloved husband were preoccupied with the task of raising their newly-born child. No theatre would ever be able to enjoy the softness of her voice again.

Erik pushed the bitter thoughts from his mind, reminding himself that he was now thousands of miles away from his former life and building a new one for himself. Even if he had resigned himself to never fall in love again-as if it were even an option for him-he could at least build the musical empire that he had always longed for. And perhaps a bit more money spent on luxuries and possessions couldn't hurt, he thought.

"Good," Erik nodded his head slowly. A dark smile played upon his lips, for his plan was beginning to take place. "And how much time do you think it will require to restore it?"

Erik was only asking to analyze his companion's ability to make a good business partner, for he himself had already found a way to slip into the desolate theatre the previous night unnoticed in order to assess the damage and costs. After all, he was a skilled architect and had built many of the Populaire's corridors and hidden rooms, which was something he was considering for the Rochester Theatre to follow suit. It might be useful to him to have at least one room that he could use, should he wish to view the performances without having to make tiresome conversation with anyone.

"I remember you mentioning that you have a background in theatre, so you of all people should know that it will take some time. The cosmetic aspect of it will be no trouble at all-simply a bit of money invested into a few replacements and furnishings-but finding a cast...well, that is the difficult part of it all," Mr. Levour replied.

Erik nodded. "I wish to be present for the auditions. I will not have a simple-minded buffoon singing my compositions."

"Yes, we did agree that we could play upon this anonymity that you so desire. Perhaps it might actually be a selling point; a sort of artistic expression, if you will. I see no trouble in you accompanying me in the decisions of the cast."

Erik was confident in that Mr. Levour was both an intelligent and discerning man, and with the weakness for wealth, he knew that he would always have the upper hand to bribe and control him, should the situation arise. Yes, his plans were coming together nicely.

"Then we shall meet again next week."