March, 1882

Erik pulled tight his cloak against the wind. His eyes, shining through the slits in his leather mask, were red as the rope coiled at his side. All his senses were at attention, every creak of a door or cough of a man turned his head, and for a moment, he paused to see if it was worth investigating. Every time, it was not, and he continued on, a shadow upon the weathered bricks.

On both sides of him were houses of brick with peeling paint, all packed tight together. Rooms were placed upon each other in precarious fashion, some with black windows, some with gaping holes. Refuse lined the streets. Moth-eaten curtains fluttered in the wind. An infant wailed.

"Monsieur," a skeleton pleaded from where it trembled beneath a doorframe. It took a moment for Erik to realize it was a woman. Her veined claw of a hand extended. "Please, anything, monsieur-"

"Do you know where the Vicomte de Chagny is?" he asked.

"W-who?"

"A young gentleman with blonde hair and blue eyes, well dressed. I imagine there are few of those around here... Have you seen such a man?"

She nodded, and he feared her head might tumble off her neck from the exertion of it.

"Where?" he asked.

She gestured to a gaping alleyway, her frail arm swaying. "T-there."

He dropped five francs into her quaking hand, and her milky cataracts widened. When she glanced up, he had vanished into the darkness.

The alleyway he had entered blocked the wind, but bottled up the stench of refuse. There was the hum of voices and a high-pitched laugh further down. Piano notes met his ears- drunken, careless ones. They grew louder as he approached. There was also a distinct tinkling of glass- or voices? He could not tell which.

Two women leaned against the first building he had seen so far with all unbroken windows, and each was aglow with light. Both women were in dresses far too thin for the cool night, but they managed to slide the crimson fabric lower over their shoulders, one bearing a fading bruise. This woman's hair was blonde, the other's black, and both were piled high on their heads in bright ringlets and bows.

"Good evening, monsieur," one called, smirking with red-painted cheeks.

"Good evening," Erik replied stiffly. "Cold night to be lingering in the street."

The woman recited a laugh, thinking he was trying to be witty. Her painted smirk fled as she realized he was masked.

"A bit..." she said, faltering. Then she recovered her composure with a red-lined smile. "Well, if you're looking to get warm, though-"

"I'm actually looking for a man."

Her eyebrows rose. "Eh... a man?"

"A vicomte. I need to speak with him, and I was told he had come here. Do you know of such a person?"

The red-cheeked woman whispered something to the other, who slipped inside. She moved closer to Erik, raising her shoulders to replace the straps of her dress.

"How much will you pay for information like that?" she whispered.

"Fifty francs," he replied, shuffling the notes in his pocket.

"F-fifty francs?..." She glanced back at the bright building, her eyes wide. Then she turned back, pointing ahead. "They're keeping him there, down the way. Number 305."

"Keeping him?"

"Yes, and I-I didn't say anything to you, monsieur," she said hurriedly. "Do you hear?"

His eyes darkened. "I wouldn't want someone to know I had spoken to a prostitute."

He slipped the francs into her hand. Her powdered features softened in wonder, but when she looked up from her hands, the masked man was gone. Had the francs not remained, she might have believed him a ghost.

Erik continued down the alleyway, past a few more decrepit beings in doorways, some clutching wailing bundles with blue hands. A fire was burning in the street, and a few children fed the flames with whatever they could scrape off the sidewalk. Before, he might have been able to look at them without any emotion save disgust, but now he forced himself to ignore their plight, rather than be affected by it and drain his pockets. Ah, but coins fell into the street nonetheless. A careless mistake, but he had not the time to retrieve them.

Nothing had been the same after Christine. The whole world had turned on its head. Something had come alive within him, opened his eyes to a new part of life. At times he saw beauty, but often more of pain.

As the children descended upon the fallen coins, Erik came upon the rusty numbers "305." His lip rose in a scowl. It was then that a burly man in shabby dress clothes stepped out of the doorway, pipe in hand. He cast up a feather of smoke before turning to the dark figure.

"Good evening, monsieur," Erik said.

The man squinted, then scratched at his black beard. "Who're you?"

"I believe it's polite to say 'good evening' before asking for one's name, but, if you can't spare time for formalities, I will be forward: I'm looking for the Vicomte de Chagny. I was told he was... staying with you."

The man wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "No, you're mistaken. What would a vicomte be doing here, even 'f he were out lookin' for a lady."

"What indeed? That is what I have come to find out, and I hope you will answer me quickly."

"Or what?"

The red rope snaked about the man's neck.

"What do you know?" Erik demanded. "I can tell when men are lying to me, and I have no time for games... Well?"

The man's dark eyes bulged as he tugged at the unrelenting rope. "He's... i-inside."

"Is he a captive or here willingly?"

"C-captive."

Damn it, Erik thought. "Are there others?"

"N-no-"

"Are there others besides you?"

"One, one other, only, I swear, I swear!"

Erik dragged the man in and bound him to a chair, then stuffed a rag in his mouth to silence him. As he glanced about the one room abode, he found it was scarcely furnished, with two grimy windows, a threadbare rug set up like a carpet, and a wooden table and chairs, all well-used. A frail moan issued from beneath their feet.

Erik removed the rag from the man's mouth, and said calmly, "Explain yourself."

"We kept him down there," the man admitted.

"And why did you kidnap him?" Erik asked.

He squirmed. "Money."

"Do I look like a man to be trifled with?" he hissed, leaning over the chair and titling it for emphasis. "If it was for money, why no ransom?"

"We didn't want to be found out. We had to wait."

"Ah. Now indulge my curiosity. Why?"

The man swallowed. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. "He was going to a party of some sort, one of those affairs where the money could be given to these starving children in the streets, and they would still have most of it left over. But no, they buy fine silks, fine wines, and turn up their noses at us, as if we are at fault for-"

"I don't give a damn at the moment about your sense of justice," Erik snapped, his eyes burning ever brighter behind his mask. "I only wanted the facts, not a speech. You should have found a different man to hold captive, one without ties to men like myself. If you've hurt the vicomte, I'll do everything you did to him and more until you crawl on the floor and beg like a dog... He's supposed to be married soon, surely you have some shred of decency?"

"The opera girl?" the man chuckled nervously. "You think a man like that would marry a wh-?"

Erik grabbed the man's throat, "You would be wise... not to say another word about that woman. She is the only thing keeping you alive, but as she is not here... what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

He stared into the man's eyes until he shuddered with fright, then he released him, blood pounding in his ears. After stuffing the rag back into the man's blubbering mouth, he headed down a spiral staircase to the basement. The scent of stagnant, musty air rose as he descended.

"Jean? That you?" A man called, his voice slurred from drink. He rose from his chair, stumbling across the stone floor.

Silence.

"Jean-?"

The red rope coiled about his neck, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. Erik held the man down with his boot, pressing hard on the tender spot just below his ribcage.

"Where is he?" Erik hissed, bending over him.

The man gestured to the far corner with a trembling hand, his eyes wide and pleading in the darkness. He was released, gasping for breath and clutching his throat.

"I would've killed you," Erik said before knocking him unconscious with his boot.

A moan issued from the corner, accompanied by the shuffling of chains against the stone floor. Two blue eyes appeared, red rivulets in the whites of them.

"Good evening, monsieur," Erik said tersely to the shivering mass. "I'm taking you to Christine, so don't fight me."

The young man coughed and wheezed. "Water... please, water, t-there."

A shackled hand gestured to the far wall, where a pump was affixed to the stone bricks, alongside a bucket. Erik filled this and tipped it to the vicomte's lips. Once the young man had nearly drowned himself from thirst, Erik began to free him using a key he had procured from the unconscious man. The shackles clattered to the floor.

"You're not well," he said, pressing the back of his hand to Raoul's forehead. "We need to get you back quickly."

He carried him upstairs like an infant, then they went out onto the dark street. Nighttime provided perfect cover from prying eyes. They were certainly a sight.

At the edge of the road, they came to a brougham that Erik had paid to wait. He deposited the vicomte upon the red cushions inside, then got in himself and shut the door. The horses started immediately.

Raoul coughed, "W-why... did you come?"

"Because Christine loves you," Erik replied, but his tone was cruel and coarse. "Now rest. I should hate to have wasted my efforts on a dead man."

This was certainly not how he had wanted the night to go. He had been certain the vicomte was betraying Christine with another woman, certain! He had wanted to murder him, not save him. Oh, never before had he been in such a ridiculous position: sitting across from a feverish and broken Vicomte de Chagny, having rescued the man! He could have let him remain there, in the dark, could have left him for dead, but he had given the boy to Christine, in the hope he would provide her the happiness and freedom she sought. The boy's death would ruin her, that he knew, and that he would never permit.

The brougham deposited them in front of the de Chagny estate. Erik grabbed Raoul, rather roughly this time, and dragged him up onto the front step. He knocked on the front door. The noise echoed in the empty foyer, and he waited for the sound of footsteps. The single clop of a shoe, and he left Raoul alone on the step, choosing himself to go see Christine. He had a reason, after all; he had saved her fiancé. She ought to hear the story from his lips, no other's.

She was on the second floor, the end of the hall, secluded from the rest. He had found that out, should he need to know, but had never visited. There had been no viable reason until now save his own desperation.

The way the stone walls were designed, he could scale them. Not with ease, but neither with great difficulty. Assassins had to be adept at such climbs. There were coarse footholds, windows lined with sculpted stone. It was tedious, but simple.

He slipped in through her window, which had been curiously left open despite the cool night. The sight of her bedroom riled him. It was evidently a guest room, and certainly not one of the best. The wallpaper was sulfur-yellow with thin white stripes running down it, and there was nothing hanging from the walls- no paintings, no photographs, not even a mirror. There was a desk in the corner of pale wood, and atop it, a few loose papers, a pen, and an inkwell. Beside this was a little vanity in white with painted flowers over the mirror, and an inscription in tarnished silver: Une Rose en Fleur.

The bed was a four-poster in the same pale wood as the desk, and it had cream-white hangings. Christine was lying in the center, curled up under two quilted blankets, with used handkerchiefs crumpled up on the nightstand beside her. Her eyes sat in gray pits, and her pallor had drained to a ghostly white. Her lips were pale and thin, pulled taut in her sleep. On the pillow, her curls were a wild halo from restless slumber. Beneath the bedsheets, her figure was curled up about herself for comfort, her legs clutched to her chest. He stared at her miserable state, pain building in his chest. He had not fully realized the immense toll that her fiancé's absence had taken on her. Perhaps he should have murdered those men. Simply the absence of roses in her cheeks had earned them the noose.

At least the boy had paid already for letting her stay in such a room. Why was she so far away from everyone? He was not complaining, of course, for his own sake at that moment, but certainly she could stay in a nicer room than this, and closer to her beloved. Something was not quite right, and he had a mind to find out what.

"Christine?" he whispered as he went to lock her door.

This done, he drifted back over to her side. A piece of yellow paper peeked out from underneath her pillow. His hand ached to retrieve it, to have a glimpse into her thoughts after months of silence. To hear her voice, that was all he desired now, even if it was through her pen. Instead, as he removed it with great care, he found music notes upon it, scratched out in pencil on lines of ink. It was a piano accompaniment, combined with words, and these were of love. What else for an engaged woman?

His heart inflamed. How could that boy even begin to appreciate this? Music was the blood in Christine's veins. Her very pulse was a melody. The boy could hardly clap his hands in line with a rhythm, and from his poor taste in operas, he had no ear for music. How could he even attempt to love her if he did not understand her passion?

Erik slipped the piece of paper back beneath her pillow, his curiosity sated for now, but in its place, agony. She was not his, and never would be. It tore out his heart to remind himself that she would rather die than be with him. He had no doubt in his mind of that. When she had kissed him, it had been, at once, the happiest and most miserable moment of his life. The light in her eyes had extinguished. She had resigned herself to her fate- resigned, like a lamb on the marble table. He had to let her go. There was no other choice.

Oh, if only the boy had been with another woman, as he had thought at first that day, then perhaps she might have changed her mind! She could have loved him for revealing the boy's true nature. Curse the boy's fidelity! Why did he have to be an honest gentleman? How could she have actually found a man perhaps—perhaps—worthy of her in that respect?

"Christine?" he tried again.

Her brown lashes fluttered open. She stared up at him for a moment, dumb from sleep, before fear flooded her eyes. She threw herself to her feet on the opposite side of the bed, a pillow clasped in her arms. It heaved with her breaths.

"You killed him," she whispered, her eyes darkening in two gray pools. "You killed him!"

"No, no, he's here," he insisted, lifting his arms out in front of himself to calm her. "He's alive, he was kidnapped-"

She threw the pillow at him with all her might. It hit him square in the face. He stepped back in mild surprise, almost amused, until he saw her again. Her knees knocked together where she stood, and her eyes blazed with a fire he had never before witnessed.

"You killed him," she said, her voice frail and frightened now, almost in resignation. "And now you come for me."

He took a step towards her. She grabbed a silver candlestick firmly in both her trembling hands and raised it over her shoulder as a warning. Oh, but she would never hurt anyone, that he knew. Not even him.

"I have not killed the vicomte," he said, softly and slowly. "I just deposited him on your doorstep. I expect he is being cared for this very moment... And I did not come to take you away. I only came to bring him to you, and then to see you."

She adjusted her grip on the silver surface. Her features tightened further as her knuckles grew white.

"We both know you wouldn't hurt anyone," he told her.

Her gaze hardened. "You think so? Not even a murderer?"

Pain shot through his chest. "The phantom is dead. That means no more murders."

"And yet his lies remain."

"Why would I lie to you now?"

He took a single step forward, with great care, but she only gripped her weapon more tightly. Her eyes narrowed.

"All you've ever told me is lies," she said. "The only time honesty ever comes from your lips is when you are devoid of that dreadful thing."

"I would permit you that, but this particular mask is rather tedious to fasten, so I must deny you."

She did not so much as flinch. He had intended that to add a bit of levity, but her gaze was still as fiery as before, though her legs had ceased their trembling. Their eyes bore deep into the other's, searching within the contents of each for a sign of weakness.

After a moment of consideration, he lunged for the candlestick. She slammed the rod down against his shoulder without hesitation. He bit down on his tongue in pain, his eyes widening in shock. She swung again. The candlestick hummed through the air. Erik grabbed it with both hands, wresting it from her grasp as she struggled to shake his grip. As she stiffened to scream, devoid of her weapon, he wrapped an arm about her waist and clapped a hand over her mouth. The candlestick clattered to the floor.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he insisted, wincing at the hot pain in his shoulder. "I need you to listen."

She was too dazed to understand. She flailed and kicked as Erik struggled to secure each of her limbs. He pushed her into a pale-wood chair with the weight of his body, using his legs and arms to keep her still. Her eyes cleared with the realization that she was trapped, and she fell limp in defeat as she began to cry.

"I only came to return the boy to you," he explained once more, now quite desperate to calm her. "I swear it."

She refused to look at him, her chin nearly pressed against her collarbone. Her tears were scalding him.

"Promise you won't scream if I remove my hand," he said.

She glanced at the door, then nodded. Her breaths were soft and heavy. He removed his hand and kneeled down in front of her, though he prepared himself that she might try to flee at any moment.

"How can I believe you?" she asked.

"The boy is here, as proof-"

"Do you take me for a fool?" she demanded, the darkness beneath her eyes growing. "I have had to bear it from everyone in this household, even the servants, but I will not stand for it from you. I know you took him, don't deny it. I'm not a fool. I'm not."

"Of course you're not," he agreed, trying desperately to calm her into a sensible state. "I never said you were, never even thought it. Who else would have kidnapped him, after all, but me? But why would I take away the very thing I gave back to you? Unless you thought I kidnapped him, then brought him back to try and make you love me, but do you take me for such a fool as to attempt that?"

"I don't know what else to think," she replied, shifting uncomfortably on the chair, which creaked. "Nothing makes sense anymore. Why would someone have kidnapped Raoul? He's never hurt anyone. He's a proper gentleman- better than that, even, kind and sincere... Why, you may be the only one who hates him."

Erik waved away her words, ignoring the burning sensation within his chest. "It doesn't matter why he was taken, but that I have returned him to you now, and everything is well for you... is it not?"

She stared at him for a moment, then glanced down. Confusion grew taut between her eyes. After a moment of quiet contemplation, she shook her head weakly. The tears in the corners of her eyes trembled.

"Why not?" he demanded. "I gave him to you, just like you wanted, and now he has failed you?"

"Not him. Oh no, not him at all! I am so fond of him, and he's always been honest with me, always listens, always treats me with respect and care... But... I fear we will never be married, e-even if he came back, no one would allow it."

"What do you mean?"

"That's why we aren't married this very instant. Philippe keeps delaying us, a-and now..." Her voice trembled. "He is trying to convince everyone that I'm mad just to turn them against us. Can you imagine that? Making me into a madwoman? But everyone here but Raoul hates me anyway. I don't know why he even bothers increasing that disdain. Even the servants mutter under their breath about me, but not like how they would treat a mistress. It's strange. I'm treated like that because I'm not a mistress. If I was, I feel they might be more hospitable, but the fact that I am in a place I do not belong, not following the typical conduct of a chorus girl, well, they are unable to bear it. His relatives belittle me openly, teasing me, and I try to smile and laugh, to set Raoul at ease..." Her eyes softened. "My poor, poor Raoul... but I don't know how much more I can take."

"Perhaps I should take you away from here, then, if they don't treat you properly."

"You think you could give me better?" she scoffed, but there was a sadness lurking beneath.

"I would give anything to have that chance."

Her features relaxed into a sorrowful expression as her eyes lowered. "You had your chance... though I wish-"

A knock at the door interrupted them. "Mademoiselle?" a woman's voice called.

Erik covered her mouth again with his hand. "Don't say a word about me. The vicomte will tell you himself, I saved his life."

"You really did save him, then?" she whispered. "But why would you?"

"Mademoiselle?" the woman outside the door said with greater resolve, her knocks more insistent.

"Not a word," he said.

He slipped out the window. The pale drapes fluttered in his wake, then were still as Christine pulled the glass shut behind him. She exhaled through her teeth. What was she to do with this selfless gesture from a man who had hardly been able to let her go and live her life? How could he have managed to bring back his enemy to her? It was incomprehensible.

She threw a silk shawl covered in cherry blossoms about her shoulders, and with a breath of courage, opened the door.