Gilles André burst into Firmin's office and wondered where he had burst in from. Someone else might have dismissed this as a senior moment, but this was the 19th century, before the term was coined. He tried to ignore the thought, but suddenly realized he couldn't remember anything that had happened before he and Firmin had gone into the dress rehearsal for Hannibal. André had to admit that was serious.

Firmin was shuffling through a pile of papers, grumbling to himself about scandal. He hadn't noticed André, so André had time to puzzle out how to phrase his question. He'd heard about the kind of things that come out of people's mouths when they're worried and don't think things through. "Can I stay at your place?" could turn into "I have come to sleep with you," and everything would go downhill from there.

After what he thought was an appropriate amount of thinking-through, André asked Firmin if he could fill in any of the gaps in his memory.

Well, actually, he said "Do you remember when we first met?" which was close.

Firmin threw the papers down. "What sort of question is that?" he roared. Roaring came naturally to Richard Firmin, and a part of André wondered if he'd done it often in the past.

The rest of André roared right back: "I don't! Do you?"

Firmin turned back to the papers. "No," he said, "but Miss Daaé has disappeared, some O. G. wants me to give him money, and I have no less than twelve letters all saying 'That chandelier is an accident waiting to happen. You should replace it.' If it was dangerous, someone would've done something sooner! I don't have time to reminisce."

"Are you married?"

"…Yes, but I don't –"

"What's her name?"

"I think it's Ki- Why does it matter?"

"You don't remember anything except the dress rehearsal and walking by Miss Daaé's dressing room after the opening night, do you?"

Firmin dropped his eyes to glare at the desk. "That's right."

"What are we going to do?"

"What can we do?"

André couldn't answer.

"Ticket sales are on the rise," Firmin said, at last. "I suppose the next time business is slow we can just murder a few sopranos. There's a letter for you. What does it say?"

André opened it. "Dear André," he began, "what a charming –"

Raoul de Chagny chose that moment to burst in, shouting "Where is she?"

André, confused and worried, said nothing. Firmin, confused and frustrated, did the first thing he could think of to relieve his frustration. He roared.

"Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out of my office! Get out of my opera house! Go home, unless you've forgotten where it is!"

Raoul looked like he was trying to pull his head into his body. "Well, actually…" he said, barely audible.

Firmin stared, his expression changing from anger to blankness to terror. "You have, haven't you." It was not a question.

It might have comforted our heroes to know that they were not alone in their confusion. Earlier that morning, the mysterious O. G., one hand clamped over half his face, had used the other one to drag himself across the floor to a bewildered Christine Daaé as he begged her not to be afraid of him. Christine thought that she had every right to be afraid of someone who dragged himself across the floor with one hand when he was perfectly capable of standing up and walking, but she wasn't about to tell him so.

"You'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster," he said. "This -" Christine cleared her throat, cutting him off. He crawled faster, stopping in front of her. "You shouldn't do that. You'll -"

"What's your name?"

"Say what?"

"Your name! ... You are not an Angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost... Who are you?"

The Phantom paused, staring at the floor.

"I think my name might be Michael," he said, finally.

"You think?"

A/N: What? I like Firmin. This is my first fanfic and I'm currently living in Don't-Have-A-Beta-land, so tell me if I'm doing anything wrong.