Disclaimer: Christine's and Meg's looks in this book are Leroux based, however Erik's looks are ALW based (mostly on Hugh Panaro's phantom), while his personality and traits are a mix of all adaptations.

"Any questions?"
This was the question Christine asked on a daily basis, to a different crowd of people each day. Rarely did anyone actually ask a question, and when they did, it wasn't interesting, or completely off-topic. Such as 'when does this end?' or 'what's the nearest coffee shop?' She was completely fed up of it. Completely fed up of being a tour guide, especially of the damn Opera Garnier! What foolishness in her had convinced her to do it, she had no idea.

A little girl on her father's shoulders shyly raised her hand after quiet encouragement from her mother. As soon as Christine noticed, a beautiful smile appeared on her face.

"Yes?" She smiled, looking directly towards the girl. The girl looked at her mother and received a nod of encouragement.

"Can you- do you sing?"

Christine's smile faltered. She felt herself go weak and lightheaded.

Of course she sung. But to herself or her friends only.

"Yes. . ." She said nervously, swallowing, "I sing opera and musical theatre. Why do you ask?"

The crowd of tourists gasped.

"Sing something!" A man shouted, raising his fist up to the air.

"Yeah!" Everyone had now began telling Christine to sing, not giving her a chance to protest. She frowned, her heart beating faster than ever. The last time she had sung in front of people was in a school production back when she was about six. It was only one line, too! 'I've got a stable and it's yours for free.' She still remembered that line. But that wasn't opera. Now, they were asking for her to sing damned opera. Opera. She couldn't.
Christine scanned the cheering crowd, her throat closing in and her palms sweating. Oh God, she was screwed. Her neck was sweating underneath her thick blonde curls and her chest was rising and falling alarmingly fast.
No, no God. . . not anxiety. . .

Anxiety was practically her worst enemy, and the only part of her she truly detested. It took her happiness away, it kept her from sleeping at night, it did anything to make her miserable and unhealthy. It stopped her from achieving her goals.

"Well, aren't you gonna sing for us?"

The father of the young girl was speaking. He had raised an eyebrow at Christine, waiting impatiently while tapping his foot on the marble floor.

"Sir. . . I'm afraid I-I am only a tour guide. I cannot sing for you, your girl, nor anyone e-else here." She stammered, holding her breath in and waiting for a response. The man rolled his eyes and exchanged a few words with the woman who Christine assumed to be his wife, and the rest of the tourists groaned.

"C'mon, Miss Daaé." Someone said. Christine sighed, playing with her fingers.

"God, if you insist!" She finally gave in, and with a shaky voice began singing Queen of the Night from The Magic Flute. Her voice flowed almost perfectly and her staccatos were practically correct. She would be eligible for a role here, at this opera house!

The crowd watched and listened, stunned, as the lady sang intensely. She was shaking unbelievably, too. She could barely get her vibratos out, before they disappeared because of her dramatic nerves.

Then she finished, and could not bear to open her eyes, when suddenly there was an applause. And she did open her eyes, to people all around the area cheering. For her. She could not help but to smile, when suddenly she was grabbed by the arm and pulled backwards, behind a wall. It was her boss, M. André.

"What was the reason for that?" He asked her, looking her right in her blue eyes with his grey ones. Christine's eyes began filling with tears.

"I just. . . they. . . I was under. . . pressure. . ." She tried to talk but her cries would not let her.

"Under pressure?! Christine, you're the guide here! You tell them to shut the hell up! You're too nice!"

"I know." Christine lowered her head and studied the floor.

"I'm sorry, Mlle. Daaé. I've given you too many chances." M. André quietly, yet sternly said. Christine looked at him in alarm.

"No." She whispered in denial, shaking her head, "No, no, no Sir! You can't—"

"I can. I'm sorry. You're fired, Christine."

Christine's heart sank, and her stomach twisted.

You're fired.

The words echoed in her mind. She couldn't have been fired! The word 'fired' in itself made her feel nauseous. She felt awful. Her throat was closing up and tears were pooling up in her eyes again. She was going to have no money!

"Please, Monsieur, just one more chance!" She cried, "I will never dare to—"

"No!" M. André raised his voice, then lowering the volume, "No. I have let you off too many times. This is it. You're fired."

He said it again, the two words Christine had always dreaded. And the more she heard it, and the more she repeated it in her head, the more she felt the urge to vomit.

"Fine," Christine finally said, her voice shaking, "Fine." She gave M. André one last look and turned on her heel, walking away. The heel of her white shoes clicked against the marble floor, as the crowd of tourists she was leading around watched in shock. They looked at M. André, who was standing with his arms crossed, watching Christine storm away. He sighed and looked away. Perhaps he did slightly regret firing her. She was a good employee, and probably the main reason for all the good reviews on the Palais Garnier's website. Now that she was gone, there would probably be worse reviews, given that the other employees weren't that great. They were stern and boring, whereas Christine was joyful, exciting, and smiley.

Christine slammed the door of her apartment, went into her bedroom, and dived straight into all the cushions on her large, velvet-covered bed. Sobs began escaping her mouth and tears stained one of the cushions. She lost her job and now she was probably going to be poor, which meant that she would lose her home and end up homeless, then that meant she would starve and die.

And she didn't want to die. Or starve. Or lose her home. Or be poor.

So she was going to prevent that.

Christine became lightheaded because of her sudden rise from the bed, but quickly regained her senses and snapped back into reality. She looked around the room. The laptop, where was it? Suddenly she spotted her MacBook Air in the corner of the room, on the floor. Christine sighed as she walked over to it, knowing how messy and unorganised she was. She grabbed the laptop and practically leapt back onto her back, opening the laptop and turning it on.

She browsed through different websites and pages of places which were hiring, when she came across the job of a ballet stylist. She would be styling the best ballerinas in Paris, perhaps even the whole of France, back at the Opera Garnier, and perhaps somehow she'd be able to fulfill her dream and get into the ballet and/or opera industry. She's done ballet before, and of course she sings opera. To herself, though, and to no one else. Especially as of today, from which she got fired from a job she truly enjoyed.

And so Christine applied for the job.

"Do I look fine?"

"Yes, Meg, you look stunning." Christine was curling Meg Giry's dark hair, while Meg sat in her chair, staring at herself in the mirror with doubt.

"Christine, I'm so glad you became a stylist here. I feel so much better and relaxed, knowing you're here." Meg smiled at Christine in the reflection, and Christine smiled back.

"I'll be silently cheering you on from the wings while you perform." She chuckled, letting the curling iron release the last dark curl from Meg's hair. She turned it off and put it away, and then joined her friend in looking at her reflection. Meg was grinning.

"Oh, you did it so well!" She exclaimed, turning around and hugging Christine. Christine laughed and hugged her back.

"It is my pleasure."

Her words echoed throughout the passageway that he was sitting in. It was such an unusual yet pleasing melody in which the way she talked flowed. And never had he heard such a beautiful singing voice. When he heard her sing that day, while she was touring. Then she got fired, and when he heard the words of her boss, it took all of his strength and sanity to stop him from leaving his hiding spot and snapping the man's neck, there and then.

Erik shuffled in his spot, taking his fedora off and sliding his mask down a little, to wipe the covered side of his forehead.

He may have been deformed, but he could still bloody sweat.

He put the mask back in its place, and wiped the uncovered side of his forehead, taking in the smoothness of his skin on that side. That was certainly one good thing about his face. He lived, practically, in a sewer, and hardly ever saw the light of day, yet the good side of his skin never got any blemishes or acne. Neither did it get oily. And supposedly, that made him slightly happy. He'd look himself in the mirror and pretend to be impressing the sweet blonde tour guide, but then he'd remember the bad side of his face, and all of his hope would die down, putting him into great misery. Perhaps his face didn't sound so bad. But it was. Oh God, it truly was.

Erik panted as he finally got out of the vents, back into his dungeon of despair. He still had his fedora in his hand, and therefore used it as a fan to cool himself down. He hadn't been so hot in ages.

Still panting, he staggered to the living area of his lair, and flopped himself down onto the couch.

"Shit." He muttered to himself, realising that he had forgotten to take his long cloak off. Now he was uncomfortable, but too lazy to get up and take it off. He sighed, as he gathered some energy to stand up.

"Oh, happy days." Erik groaned, untying the knot at his neck, sliding the cloak off of his shoulders, and carelessly tossing it onto a nearby chair. Then, once again, he flopped down onto the couch. Now he was comfortable. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, managed to get it off, and flung it behind him, then he unbuttoned the top bottom of his shirt and let out a sigh of relief as he finally felt the sweet release of breathing again. Not that he enjoyed living, though.

His lips twisted into a smirk, as he thought of her again. If he could somehow lure her in here. . . No. He didn't want her coming here. Well, no, he did. He wanted to wife her. But he didn't want her to see how weird he was. Weird? Was that the right word?

Besides, what would she think when she found out he stalked her? Erik didn't even deny it to himself. He knew it was stalking. Watching someone almost all of the time, thinking of them constantly, and of course, developing a strong love for them without even exchanging a word! Christine didn't even know he existed.

I could so easily seduce her. . . Erik mused to himself, his eyes shutting. Could he imagine Christine here, being seduced by him? No. He couldn't. He knew she couldn't be seduced by him, by this thing. This creature. This monster.

Why was he lying to himself? Christine deserved someone better. Like someone handsome, someone rich, and someone normal. Not someone deformed. Not someone with the most tragic backstory. Not someone living in some sort of cave underneath a building.

Erik shuddered. He hated thinking of his past. He tried to avoid it at all costs, but even that didn't work. He'd end up having nightmares about it, anyway.

He stood up, and paced around the area, suddenly ending up at the only mirror there. It was so small. How was he to make her fall in love with. . . with this? Why, he questioned, was he in love with her? It couldn't have just been her good looks. It was. . . something else. Her voice. Her voice was mesmerising, smooth and soft. Not just her speaking voice. But her singing voice! He had never heard anything like it. She needed just a bit more training, and she could be the next diva, the next prima donna! And that was exactly what this opera house needed. A new prima donna.

Erik pulled out his jet black iPhone 8+, and went onto the Palais Garnier website. There was a photo of Carlotta Giudicelli, the current prima donna. Just a single look at this woman triggered Erik's gag reflex. He closed the page, and turned his phone off. Yes, this opera house definitely needed a new prima donna, and that was exactly what Christine was to be.