Prologue
Eighteen Years Ago...
The night is silent, dark, oppressive as a cloak draped over the city. The few visible stars tremble and shudder, only grudgingly present. Even in the thick of urban chaos, rest is needed.
There is an orphanage, an antiquated building, the likes of which one would not expect to find this century. Inside, a small boy has woken suddenly. He is not himself. There is no hesitation as he steals out of bed with an unnatural grace not his own. He is no more than a shadow, a swift dark dream. The door scarcely protests after he is through.
He is not sure why he came to the roof, beyond that his feet have brought him here. The night is cold, even for this late in autumn, but he takes no notice. He is sweating. Images of things he has never seen, memories of another mind, coat him in waves of scarlet anguish.
A howl is heard. The child is dead.
The Phantom lives again.