A/N Thank you to all the PPNers who have been so unbelievably supportive in all of my new endeavors this year ... the website, the Board, the Chat Room, and now this ... writing phics.

A special thank you to my wonderful betas -- Mandy the O and Musique et Amour.

Erik stumbled through the labyrinth, confident in his ability to outrun the mob screaming for his head and his blood. He had no time to think what would become of him once he reached the streets of Paris … a man with a price on his head and the face of a monster.

Antoinette Giry, the Opera's ballet mistress and his only confidante, was waiting for Erik at the door to the alleyway. He stopped short at the sight of her, wariness etched into his eyes.

"Come now, Erik, and be quick. We must get you out of Paris as soon as possible," she whispered urgently as she grabbed his arm.

Realizing he truly had no choice in the matter, Erik reluctantly allowed her to pull him through the streets and alleyways of Paris, until they reached her tiny flat. Once safely inside, Antoinette bade him to take a seat. She crossed the room to her writing desk and rifled through a drawer until she pulled loose a packet. Then, turning, she placed it into his hand determinedly.

"This contains everything you need to start a new life for yourself, Erik. There is a letter of credit from the bank, a birth certificate identifying you as 'Erik Lefevre' and passage to San Francisco, California."

Dumbfounded, Erik could only gape at her, open-mouthed. When he finally found he could speak, he only managed a stammer. "But … when … why … how … ?"

A weary expression crossed her stern face as she sat across from him. Arranging her skirts, she then leveled her eyes upon him.

"I began making these arrangements for you once you allowed Christine to see you. It was obvious your infatuation would lead you into danger. I have guarded you for over half your life, Erik, and I am not about to sit back and watch you be hung now. And how, well, that was simple. 20,000 francs a month for the past several years, invested wisely, has left you a wealthy man, Erik."

"I...I cannot accept this. Wh...what would you have me do, Antoinette? A man my age? To...to start ov–..."

At his broken protests, Antoinette continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"Erik, as you are well aware, I have placed not only myself, but my daughter, at great risk by helping you in this way. All I ask of you is to take this packet and leave Paris at once. Do not ever look back, Erik, and do not return. There is nothing for you here."

She tempered her harsh words with a gentle pat to his hand. She then left the room, returning moments later with two packed satchels. The black leather packs were precisely what Erik would have chosen for himself had he purchased them. The rich appearance spoke of one with a discerning eye for beauty.

At his stunned silence, Antoinette smiled slightly and opened the satchels. White dress shirts of the finest linen, black dress pants, and jewel-toned waistcoats were brought out of the satchels for Erik's inspection, followed by a black cloak and fedora. The piece de resistance, however, was the mask; tooled of soft, kidskin leather, it was pale and flesh-toned. At first glance, the casual observer would not even realize the mask was there.

"Erik, if I have overlooked anything, you will be able to purchase it. I had used your funds to hire a driver. He has been well paid to be discreet, Erik, and he will help you obtain any additional items you may require."

As he was not one to eat or drink unless necessary, Erik wasted no time in going straight to his bathing, then dressed in his new clothes and customary black leather boots.

The final step was putting on the new mask. Erik was leery; he found it hard to believe that the mask would fit properly over his twisted flesh. But at Antoinette's urging, he finally did so and reluctantly turned to face her. She gasped.

"Look in the mirror, Erik," she urged in a shocked whisper.

Knowing it would be churlish to refuse her this – she who had saved his life not once, but twice – he slowly turned to face the mirror. He could not hide his shock. Although the mask fit like a second skin, it smoothed out the deformities it hid, making him appear as a whole man.

Humbled, Erik could do no more than gaze at her in wonder. "I can never repay you for this, Antoinette."

"All I ask is that you leave Paris, Erik, and never return," she repeated. "You are being given another chance to build a real life for yourself. Go and do so."

And so, with dubious acceptance, the Phantom of the Opera was dead and in his place Erik Lefevre set out to start a new life in the 'new world.'