A/N Howdy! it's been awhile since I used this website (I have an oooold account from around 2011), and I have no idea if even a single Phantom of the Paradise fan is around these corners of the web! We don't even have our own category it seems, though I guess the general Phantom of the Opera tag will suffice. I figured I would upload this here and see what happens? I've been working on this fanfic for awhile now, and I'm really happy with it so far. It's something I've spent a lot of time and effort on! If you do happen to read it and and enjoy it, absolutely feel free to let me know; in fact, I'd love it if you did!

For those curious about the rating, there's really not much in the way of mature content in this first chapter, aside from some violence. There is some "mature" language later on though, and one sexual scene way down the road, so keep that in mind! Other than that, enjoy!

Winslow's body was found in an alley on January eleventh.

For those in need of a timeline, perhaps a quick overview to help fill in what you may have missed will help:

On December fourth, "mad tunesmith," convicted criminal who had been ordered to serve a life sentence in Sing Sing prison, Winslow Leach was declared dead, having escaped prison only to be the victim of a freak accident involving a Swan-owned record press that resulted in horrific mutilation (as well as a bullet to the leg). His body was never found.

On December thirteenth, the late Winslow Leach's rock cantata, "Faust," was performed live on national television by glam rock superstar Beef (as well as his backup band, the Undead) to open Swan's rock palace, the Paradise.

Also on December thirteenth, just hours before the legendary performance, a masked, cloaked figure broke free from deep beneath the Paradise. Fueled by rage and frustration and the pain of betrayal, the creature tore his way straight through a metal door and a brick wall and fled, out of the theatre and into the dark streets.

On still the same night, the masked, cloaked figure went back home, to the little apartment he had spent so many years of his life locked away in, devoting hours upon hours to his one love, his greatest passion - his music.

The masked, cloaked figure, who just so happened to be Winslow Leach (who was very much not dead), was distressed to find that his apartment, while thankfully still vacant since his absence, was completely and totally run down. Dust and cobwebs coated every surface and corner. Multiple windows were broken and the door only shut fully if it was slammed hard against the doorway, and Winslow was certain he had been robbed but could not quite even figure out what was missing, for it had been months since he had last been in here and everything looked different and wrong and out of place and foreign.

One thing that had been stolen, Winslow soon discovered, was his bed sheets. It was December, after all. Outside, icy wind howled and made your breath come out in big puffs of cold, white air. Getting your hands on a bed sheet could be life saving. Winslow had no access to a replacement sheet, and it was late and he was tired and everything hurt, and sleeping on a sheetless mattress was better than sleeping on the ground. But sleep hardly came that first horrible night; it was overpowered by anxiety and nightmares and trauma, horrible images of record presses slowly descending upon him, plummeting into freezing water as police sirens wailed, and brick walls blocking every escape, every potential pathway to freedom.

After that horrible first night, life went on. Winslow could not fairly say that life got better, but it certainly continued. He did not have a job, and could not imagine how he could ever possibly get one in the state he was in. He had no identity anymore. No name; his name belonged to a dead man, a convicted criminal who should have served a life sentence locked away in a jail cell. And besides, faking a name would only get him so far. Going to a job interview in the state that he was in, so horrifically deformed, unable to speak in anything but a robotic croak, his face hidden away by a silver mask and the rest of his body hidden beneath black leather… it was unimaginable, to say the least.

On December seventeenth, Winslow came to the startling realization that he could not remember the last time he had had a bite to eat. How he was alive was beyond him, and it frightened him a bit. It was on that day that he visited the local soup kitchen for the first time. This experience alone was horrific. He had not been out in public at all since he had escaped the Paradise. He could not show his face, or even his masked face. He was scared of the reactions he would get, he was scared of being recognized and locked up, he was scared of being stared at or yelled at and, most of all, he was scared of Swan somehow finding him.

But Swan did not find him, and Winslow kept his eyes on the ground, refusing to look up at people, refusing to meet any faces; he refused to see other people's' reactions to what he had become. He said little, scared of the way his robotic voice sounded in his own ears and knowing to others who were unaccustomed to the electric growl of a voice it was even more horrific.

Winslow ate and left as quickly as he possibly could; he had gotten good at sneaking around. He as adept at this point at rushing about unnoticed, stalking through shadows, rushing away before he could be seen. He was gone as quickly as he had come, and although it left him with a great sense of severe alienation, he was grateful for the fact that no one dared talk to him.

That was how things continued. Winslow spent a great deal of time in his home, completely alone. He did not have electricity, he was not paying to live there - it occurred to him after a few weeks that he was squatting, which was illegal, and he was technically homeless. This came as nothing but a dull, numb shock to him, however. He had already broken enough laws, and according to his criminal records he had broken even more than that. He could not find it within himself at this point to feel particularly guilty or distressed. As long as he had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep on in a relatively safe location - and, even if it was rundown and abandoned, at least a familiar location - he could hardly care enough to complain.

The only time Winslow resorted to shoplifting was for batteries. His voice box could not last forever, and although he hardly ever spoke aloud - he had no one to speak to, and the sound of his own artificial voice served only as a reminder of how broken he was - he felt exposed and vulnerable without the ability to speak at all. On December twenty-fourth, Winslow treated himself to a Christmas present of a small handful of stolen batteries, to make sure that he would not lose his voice any time soon.

And life went on.

Winslow did not bother to celebrate New Years, and only knew it happened because of the fireworks that boomed and echoed through the sky all night. This did not upset him; it meant little other than the fact that it made it just a bit more difficult to sleep.

At the beginning of January, after remembering what had happened the first few days, in which he had starved and yet not starved at all, Winslow very experimentally (knowing he was risking his life but finding it incredibly easy not to care) stopped eating for a short period of time. After a week he did indeed start to feel the symptoms of not eating; he was a little dizzy, a little lightheaded, a little out of it. His stomach might have growled a bit. But it felt more like he had not eaten in hours, not days. Winslow did not understand, but he did not take this newfound ability as something to be excited or proud of. Rather, it only disturbed him, and solidified the ever-growing thought that he was not even human anymore at all, but some mangled, torn up, electronic thing that had, perhaps, once been a person a long time ago.

It was the end of the second week of January that Winslow was woken from his sleep by the sound of the door of his apartment being slammed open, so hard that it hit the wall and caused the walls to shake. Winslow jumped up and reached quickly for his mask, which he kept beside his bed. He had tried, for a short period of time, to sleep with it on, but it was much too uncomfortable and Winslow had trouble sleeping as it was. Added discomfort would mean absolutely no sleep at all.

Hoping that the combination of his appearance - a masked, cloaked figure in black leather tended to be intimidating - and his voice would scare off whoever was intruding, Winslow called out, "Who's there?!" His voice box lit up the room, bathing it in a blue and red light, and his voice rang out, loud and electronic and terrible.

No response came but loud footsteps, many at once. There were multiple people here, and they were making no effort to be quiet. There was no sneakiness involved in this process; they were not here to steal and run.

"Is it the police?" Winslow asked now, the intimidation in his voice faltering (although because of his synthesized voice, this did not make him sound particularly less threatening).

The door to his bedroom slammed open now. There were three men in the doorway. Big, muscular men in dark clothes. In the darkness and with only one functioning eye, not to mention having just woken up, Winslow could not get a good look at them, but he could see their silhouettes. Winslow stood up and backed away from them, trying to get as far from them as he could without turning his back on them, until he hit the wall. "What do you want? I don't have anything to give you," Winslow said, and although he tried to keep his voice calm, the way his eye darted about the room and his chest rose and fell rapidly betrayed this and showed that panic was very quickly rising within him.

The men said nothing as they began to walk forward. "Look here, I mean it!" Winslow insisted, pressing into the wall, raising a hand defensively. His voice box lit the men up in blue and red and he could briefly see their faces; angry faces, bearded and threatening. And they seemed unafraid. Why were they unafraid? "I don't have anything here. Killing me won't help you."

Winslow suddenly felt something large and heavy smash directly into the side of his head. It struck his metal helmet, and a loud, clashing bang echoed through his ears, so loud that it overpowered all of his senses and made his ears burn and he screamed a loud, synthesized shriek of pain. He had no idea what had hit him; he could not think coherently and he did not even comprehend that he was on the floor until he felt something slam hard into his stomach and he cried out loud again, and his own electronic screams made his already raw ears sting in pain.

Pain coursed through his body and his head spun, the room a mess of dark blurry images that melted together and spun around incoherently before his one functioning eye. He was kicked again, hard, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him choking and gasping for breath, and Winslow found himself in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness, the pain so intense that he could hardly stay awake and yet so sharp and ceaseless that it would again and again force him back to a weak state of awareness.

But soon Winslow's body gave up, and when he felt something hard slam down into his back, the last thing he heard was his own metallic screams as he blacked out.

Winslow's body was found in an alley on January eleventh.

He was taken to a hospital, rushed in by an ambulance that had been called by a horrified passerby. The doctors, upon inspecting him, refused to believe he was alive, until they noticed that he was very faintly breathing.

Winslow was unconscious for a very long time. Three days passed. He was diagnosed with a concussion, six broken ribs, a fractured arm, and he had a number of cuts that had to be stitched. The doctors came to the conclusion that he had been mugged, but there was clearly more to this story - much, much more. The silver teeth were bizarre and inexplicable (what went on in the Sing Sing dental hygiene experiment, it seemed, had not spread to the rest of the medical world). And even more confounding than that was the poor man's face. They had no idea how to even address the horrific burn that mutilated and crushed half of his face, let alone come up with plausible ideas for how it could have happened. It was clearly older; the flesh was healed but horribly deformed and his eye was beyond repair. There was little they could do, but it was the cause of much talk and speculation.

But not even that could trump the biggest question everyone had: Who was he?

Winslow had not bathed in a long time; his hair was unkempt and long, growing past his shoulders now. He was filthy and deformed and very, very thin. It was clear that his living conditions were far from acceptable. His face should have been an indicator to his identity, but deformed as it was, he was not recognized as escaped convict Winslow Leach. And besides, Winslow Leach had been dead for over a month, horrifically crushed and burned and shot to death in a freak accident.

On Monday the fifteenth of January, Swan himself paid a visit to the local hospital.

The workings of the hospital all but stopped. Doctors snuck out of their offices to get a peek at him, patients snuck from their rooms, murmurs of his name echoed through every hallway. But he kept himself hidden behind a large wall of men, and his face covered by his own black silk top hat. He did not speak to anyone; Arnold Philbin addressed the receptionist, telling her that Swan believed a family member was in the hospital. There was no wait time for him. Immediately, the doors were opened, and super star record producer Swan was welcomed with open arms to the hallways of the inner hospital.

When Swan finally spoke, it was directly to the head doctor. "My step brother ran away from home nearly two months ago, we'd been looking everywhere for him," he explained, his voice the perfect, calculated mixture of worry, regret, frustration, and relief. "I didn't want to go to the police, I feared that turning this into as large a matter as a missing persons case would only make things worse. He's a very troubled person, you see. I worried that if he were to see his own name on the news or in the paper anywhere, he would only be further driven to do terrible, terrible things."

Swan was not required to present evidence for his claims. Just his own signature was evidence enough. One would have to be a fool to call the Swan a liar.

Six contracts, a release form, and a two thousand dollar bribe later, Winslow left the hospital. He was drugged to the point of total unconsciousness, and in Swan's lap was a bag full of even more drugs for when he woke up, guaranteed to help Winslow's recovery. In Philbin's lap was another bag; this one contained what Winslow had had on him when he was found: An odd, electronic, metal box, a black leather suit, and a shining silver bird mask with a noticeable dent on the side. Winslow was driven straight to the Swanage, and there he was placed in the little downstairs guest room, one of the smallest rooms in the house which contained nothing but a queen sized bed, a little closet, and a dresser.

Swan kept WInslow unconscious for another twenty-four hours. During this time he had the leather suit washed thoroughly and sent in to have any tears in it repaired, and ordered a servant to remove Winslow's horrible hospital garments and replace them with silky black pajamas. He also tampered with the electronic box, making sure it worked as it had before, checking for any possible damage to the wires. Finding it functioned just as it should, he himself paid Winslow a visit to personally attach the device.

Finally, Swan left Winslow alone, and let the sleeping drugs wear off.

xxx

When Winslow woke up, he truly felt like he had been asleep for at least a year. His whole body felt heavy and yet terribly numb and his limbs were stiff, so stiff he could hardly move them. His head spun; he was so dizzy he could barely think. When he opened his eye he was greeted to a blurry, disorienting world. After a few moments his vision became clearer, but his understanding of the situation did not. He was in a room he was certain he had never seen before in his life.

Panic very, very slowly spread over him. Winslow was too out of it, too drugged and exhausted and disoriented, to fully react. He sat up in bed just a little and looked around. He was on a nice bed, he thought wearily. That was his first thought. He was on a nice bed with a thick, soft sheet. It was cream colored and had little golden stars embroidered here and there. To his right (he had to turn his head a great deal to get a good look, for he was completely blind in his right eye) was a closet, and to his left was a closed door.

Also to his left, closer to him, was a little bedside table with a pretty white lamp. It was the only light in the room, Winslow noticed. There was an overhead light that was currently turned off, but the elegant little white lamp lit up the room nicely all on its own.

There was another thing on the bedside table: a notepad. After a moment of looking at it, too disoriented to take in what it meant at first, Winslow's breath caught in his throat and he felt panic - real panic, panic so severe he actually had an immediate physical reaction - burst within him.

In the bottom right corner of the notepad was a little black raven lying dead on its back.

Winslow reached out to pick up the notepad, and his hand trembled so terribly he almost could not grab it. There was a little note written in eloquent red cursive on the top note:

Winslow: hello, welcome back!

Please be gentle with yourself when you wake up. I will come and check on you when I return home tonight, until then stay in bed and rest. Should you need them, there are painkillers and sleeping pills in the top drawer.

Try not to overdose.

-Swan

Winslow was still horribly shaken up, and it was hard for him to fully process the words. He had to reread them a few times, and then, finally starting to make some sense of them, he glanced to the bedside table again and noticed the closed drawer. He reached out and then furrowed his brow. His right arm was bent and he could not extend it far enough to reach. His vision still blurry, comprehending his surroundings still hard, it took him a moment to process the fact that he simply had to roll up his sleeve to get a look at what was going on: On his arm was a cast. Was his arm broken?

Panicking now, Winslow looked over the rest of his body. He was not wearing his leather suit. For that matter, he realized to his horror, he was not wearing his mask either. The only familiarity he had was his metal voice box, which thankfully hung around his neck as it should. But where was his mask?! He looked around desperately for it, head whipping back and forth so fast that he grew an awful headache, but could not find it. Trembling terribly, he gingerly felt around with the arm that was not broken. He lifted his shirt up just a bit (his clothes were made of soft, soft silk, softer than anything his finger tips had touched in a long time), and saw bandages wrapped around his waist. What was not covered by bandages, as well as what he could see of his chest beneath his voice box, was covered in dark black and blue bruises. His collarbone had a bandage on it as well.

Why was there no pain, if he was so horribly injured? Winslow wondered wearily, freaking out and yet unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Slowly, his mind returned to the note. That's right… Leaning forward, Winslow settled with using his other arm, the one not in a cast, to grab the drawer and pull it open. Sure enough there were two bottles laying on their side. He picked one up and inspected it. It was a bottle of sleeping pills as Swan had promised. The other one must have been pain medication. How drugged up was he now?!

Winslow had a feeling that the answer was a lot, because he should have been much more afraid than he was, and yet he could hardly form any emotion, let alone keep his train of thought on track at all. This whole situation was wrong. He couldn't remember how he got here, and he had no idea where here was, but he could only assume it was within close proximity to Swan. Was he in the Swanage? The thought made him shiver. He had worked so hard to get into the Swanage only to be thrown out and promptly have his life ruined before. And now here he was, trapped inside.

Too exhausted and disoriented to fully comprehend it all and the mixture of emotions and panicky thoughts swirling through his head making him dizzy, Winslow lay back down on the bed with a soft sigh.

xxx

"Winslow? Winslow?"

The voice that woke Winslow was soft and gentle, but the moment he was awake enough to comprehend it he felt fear as cold as ice rush through his veins and he sat up, eye going wide. "Swan!" he cried out, and his own synthesized voice made him flinch in surprise. Instantly, pain shot through his abdomen and he gasped, clutching his stomach. "What did you do to me?!" Every inch of WInslow's body felt like it was on fire; pain clouded his thoughts and vision.

Swan was standing over the bed. He wore a sky blue vest and a white jacket and he was smiling just a little, and Winslow was not sure if he wanted Swan or himself dead more in that moment. Swan let out a soft little tsk of a noise and shook his head, and there was a tiny smile, barely visible at all, on his lips. "Nothing, Winslow, relax. I didn't hurt you, can't you remember?"

"Remember what?" Winslow asked, tone still aggressive but an edge of fear obvious even in his electric growl of a voice.

"I suppose not, then. Well, you did take a rather severe blow to the head, hm…" Swan stepped away from the bed now, but kept his eyes on Winslow. He watched him for a short moment, silent.

Winslow was still clutching his stomach. It hurt to breathe and his head spun and ached and his whole body felt so sore. He was afraid, unsure of what was wrong with him, hurting so much it was hard to comprehend, and scared - so, so scared. Swan looming over him left him feeling helpless and vulnerable, especially out of his mask and his leather suit. Here, his face was completely exposed, his horrific deformity visible in plain sight, and his body was only covered by the loose, silky material of the pajamas he wore.

"Didn't you take your pain medication like I told you to? You read my note, right?" Swan asked.

"Where's my mask?" Winslow was still too disoriented and much too panicky and in too much pain to handle a coherent conversation, only able to focus on one thing at a time.

"Ah, it, er, sustained a bit of damage. Nasty blow to the head, remember? It probably saved your life, Winslow." Swan explained, and even in the hysteric state Winslow was in he could hear the cold, calculating tone Swan spoke in, the way he thought over every word before he said it, and it made a shiver run through him. "I've sent it to the costume department, don't worry. They've been ordered to fix it or replicate it, whichever is easiest."

"Give it back!" Winslow snapped, forcing himself to sit up - he had been doubled over, curled in on himself as he tried to comprehend and fight back the intense pain. Now, he reached out to Swan, as if he planned to attack, but he had no idea where he was going with this gesture. He was in no position to attack Swan, and Swan clearly knew this, for he did not even flinch as he reached out to grab Winslow by the wrist. He tugged him forward roughly, and Winslow gasped in pain as he was pulled closer.

"Listen to me, Leach. The only reason you're out of that miserable hospital right now is because of me." Swan spoke in a threatening hiss. He tossed a rolled up newspaper onto the bed, but Winslow did not even turn to look. His eye was fixated on Swan and his heart slammed against his chest in fear. Even the pain subsided as if to make room for the terror that rushed through him. "Now, I expect you to be grateful and cooperative, do you understand me? After the stunt you pulled in the Paradise, I had every right to let you live out the rest of your pathetic life in that dingy little shack you call a home."

"Y- You bricked me up! You lied to me, I-"

"I did what I had to do to protect you, Winslow." Swan said, and suddenly he let go of Winslow's wrist and took a step back. "Now, you're going to take two of those painkillers and go back to sleep. I'll be in to check on you in the morning."

Winslow did not say another word. He was speechless; angry and scared and confused and shivering with pain and fear. He watched from his one good eye as Swan gave him a little wave goodbye, a smile, and walked out, shutting the door behind him. Winslow listened very closely for the sound of a lock, but did not hear one. He supposed it would be useless. As he was he could hardly move, let alone stand up and walk away.

Just as Winslow was turning to the pills, something sitting on his bed caught his attention from the corner of his eye. There was the newspaper Swan had tossed. Although he was hurting, curiosity won and he ignored the painkillers for a moment to reach out and grab and unroll it. In big letters right on the front page were the words:

SWAN'S SECRET SIBLING, SAFE AND SOUND.