A/N: I'm so, so sorry for the wait! It was not my intention to leave you guys hanging for so long, but I was waylaid by a family medical emergency as well as my own illness. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

He should have known.

He should have known from the moment she'd expressed any interest in him, from how doggedly she'd pursued lessons after initially turning him away, from the mere existence of her apparent interest in his company. Erik was not, and had never been, the sort of person with whom one would want to pass time. He was well aware of how off-putting others found his brooding stoicism, and she was far too sweet.

Or so he'd thought. Had it even been the real Christine Daaé interacting with him all this time? She was, after all, a trained actor.

No. That had felt authentic. Her sweetness had come through the moment he'd first heard her sing, and he wanted—needed—to believe it had remained genuine.

He examined her recording equipment and, secure in the knowledge that it wasn't transmitting anything, pocketed the small device. He'd removed his glove in order to extract it, and he was almost certain she'd caught a glimpse of his burn scars before he covered them again.

She did not seem surprised: only terrified. Of him. His last bit of hope dissolved.

"Now tell me, Miss Daaé," he said, "how long have you been working for them?"

Her mouth opened and closed again in what was clearly a battle of conscience. God. Even now, her warm, saccharine goodness liquified his insides. "I just started," she said hoarsely. "They don't know anything."

"And I intend to keep it that way."

Her eyes went wide. "I texted Darius from the bathroom. He knows where I am, and who I'm with."

"He does not know where you are now, I'm afraid. But perhaps we should notify him of your change of plans, so he doesn't worry." He held out his hand, and she surrendered her phone without protest. "Ah. You are referring to this text, which did not go through?" He showed her the screen. "The cell reception in this building is abysmal, I'm afraid."

Christine's face fell, but she was quick to add, "They'll be expecting me at work tomorrow morning."

He resisted the urge to smirk as he pocketed her phone as well. He drew himself to his full height, peering down from a sharp angle meant to intimidate. "Clever girl," he said, "but I know for a fact that you do not work on Tuesdays." There! Let her, too, feel the sting of betrayal.

But there was no satisfaction to be had in the way her jaw went slack with resignation, or in the way the defiant hope in her eyes flickered and then died.

Hot tears had already carved paths down her cheeks, and now there were new ones sliding down those same trails. She looked as though she might be sick, and the sight soured his own stomach. He didn't want to do this. But he had to do whatever it took to stay alive and out of prison, if only to ensure that guilty parties got what they deserved. They would not have the satisfaction of besting him again.

"What are you going to do?" Her voice was flat and weak.

Erik exhaled, fingers twitching at his sides. "I don't know," he confessed. "I panicked."

"Do you...live here?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

Christine's eyebrows shot up, and she surveyed the room. It was sparse, not at all his ideal living space, but he'd had to make do with what he could smuggle into the tunnels between scheduled maintenance rounds: the air mattress, a round two-top table with a pair of metal folding chairs, a small fridge and an alcohol stove, plastic storage pieces. The loveseat had been an ordeal, but he'd grown tired of sitting on nothing but metal and concrete.

"This was a designated bomb shelter during the second Red Scare," he explained. "It has fallen off the radar, for the most part. It has a scheduled maintenance inspection only once a year."

Her gaze had fixed on his violin case with a sort of longing that made his insides flip. "And when was the last inspection?" she asked.

"About eleven months ago."

He pretended not to notice the curious swivel of her head, or her raised eyebrows. Instead, he crossed to the table and pulled out one of the chairs. "Please," he said. "Have a seat." She obeyed, and his muscles slackened ever so slightly.

She sat quietly while he uncorked a red blend and filled the only two tumblers he owned, and once he'd placed them on the table and sat opposite her, they both sipped without comment. It was a wordless agreement to try and ease the tension, and he was grateful.

There was a long period of silence before he asked, quietly, "Did they threaten you?"

Christine glanced up, startled. "No, of course not."

"What did they offer, then? Money?"

She shifted in her seat. "There was talk about the possibility of a reward, I guess, but that's not why I did it."

"Let me guess, then." He set down his glass and tented his long fingers on the table, eying her with perhaps overdramatic scrutiny. "You were swept under the protective wing of one Detective Nadir Khan, who fed you my criminal history and some perceived need to monitor my activity, and out of an unwavering sense of moral obligation and loyalty to your bespectacled friend, you agreed."

There was only a flicker of surprise in her face. "Yes," she conceded. "At first, anyway. I tried to back out before I actually wore the wire."

Erik cocked his head sharply. "Why?"

"That night, on the observation deck, it seemed like—" She stopped, swallowed. "I wanted to trust you."

He could not tear his gaze from her face. "You wanted...to trust me," he repeated, as though expecting a contradiction, but he did not get one. "Even after you learned of my past?"

"Yes." She frowned into her glass. "I've always been too trusting, I guess. I wanted to believe you were innocent."

Words stuck in his throat. His eyes watered. On impulse, he reached out for her hand where it rested on the table, only to stop short. It was still so fresh in his muscle memory, that instinct to shy away from touch. His fingers twitched.

She looked up at him then, eyes questioning, scanning his face—his masked face, no less! What was there even to scan? But whatever it was that she sought, she found it. "Oh, God," she whispered. "You really were, weren't you?"

Still, he could not respond. His chest was tight, and he feared that if he opened his mouth he would let loose an awful, choking sob. He curled his fingers into a tight fist.

How many hours had he wasted in his lifetime, fervently arguing his case, only to be met with doubt and rejection? Yet here was an angel who would exonerate him based on a single glance.

His mind clouded to recall why they were here, however, and he snatched his arm back. Now more confident in her cooperation, he pulled the recording device from his pocket and tossed it onto the table where she could see it. "You were not so sympathetic an hour ago."

Her eyes darkened. "Because I realized you've been using me this whole time!" She pushed away her glass, still half full, as though suddenly repulsed by the wine. "Have you been following me, then?"

"No. Nothing so drastic."

"Drastic?" Her voice had begun to tremble. "You made me think that my voice was special."

"It is," Erik protested. "Oh, Christine, it is."

But she shook her head, her eyes watering. "You had me questioning everything, everything, about my choices and my future and my own self-worth. And you exploited the memory of my dead father just to get what you wanted." A lone tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away without breaking eye contact. "Did you get what you wanted, then?"

It was as though she'd reached down his throat and ripped out his insides. "No!" he said. "No, what I want is my life back, and that will never happen. They have ruined me." He drained the rest of the wine, slamming the glass down with such force that she flinched. "But I did take advantage of you in my quest for retribution, and for that I am sorry."

"Tell me what happened." Christine's voice was softer now. "Please."

He batted her words away. "No point. What's done is done."

"But if my father was involved…" She looked as though she might be sick. "I need to know."

He stared at her face, so round and soft and open, and something in him fought hard against the notion of polluting that innocence. Another part of him fought back: she was a grown woman, for heaven's sake, and it was not his place to decide what she could handle.

Erik exhaled slowly, and then he stood. "The sofa is more comfortable," he said, by way of explanation, as he lowered himself onto the loveseat. She joined him with so little hesitation, so little space between them, that he began to question who had the upper hand here.

"You attended this school," he began, "so you must have some idea of how highly athletics are valued."

She rolled her eyes. "Sometimes it seems like they're a bigger deal than the actual academics. Maybe even the research."

"Ah, but make no mistake: they are. And that is what I failed to understand, as a lecturer."

He had been detached from university politics, or at least as much as he could afford to be; he'd kept his focus on earning the tenure and prestige that would grant him the freedom to compose. Admittedly, he'd been one of those academics hired to be a productive scholar more than an effective educator—perhaps an unfair deal for those undergraduates going into debt for their education.

For the advanced students, however, a chance to work with a "star player" in their field was an immeasurable opportunity. He had been more than willing to mentor those with the right talent and dedication—those like Christine, he thought now, though he did not tell her as much as he recounted his employment.

Because he'd had less seniority than most of the residing faculty, he'd been one of the lecturers assigned to take over a course for a colleague on maternity leave: music appreciation, an intro-level class for non-majors, historically an easy 'A' and therefore a popular elective among the academically disinclined athletes who majored in general studies.

Admittedly, he had been warned of this fact—but he'd refused to lower his standards. He'd figured he would not be doing those students any favors in life if he let them coast by on little effort. By the end of the term, he had assigned failing grades to two football players, among others.

It had not been well-received. The players had to meet not only minimal GPA requirements to play, but also more stringent requirements to retain their athletic scholarships.

Emails and phone calls started trickling in: first from the two students, then from the coaches, and at one point from Athletic Director Firmin himself. Erik refused to budge on the grades, citing the syllabus in his responses. He'd been very clear on the course breakdown. Reyer, the department head, not only stood behind him but also insisted that he teach the course again next term: their colleague's maternity leave had become a longer hiatus, and there was little time to hire a replacement. He was revising his syllabus for the next semester when things began to snowball.

Initially, he did not look up from his laptop in response to the sharp rapping at his door. "Office hours have ended," he said loudly. But the knocking continued, more insistent this time, and he sighed and got up.

It was not a student at his door, but rather a silver-haired man, objectively handsome, in a sleek navy suit. He was well built, though Erik still towered over him. "Phil de Chagny," he introduced himself, forcing on Erik a stalwart handshake. "From the alumni association executive board. I just need a moment of your time."

"If this is a plea to change the players' grades, you might as well leave now. They were given what they earned."

De Chagny appeared unfazed. "I'm not here to beg," he said, "but rather to ask what would it take to get you to pass the boys."

"Are you actually attempting to bribe me?"

A cold smile. "Nonsense," de Chagny replied. "It was just a question. Purely hypothetical. But I'm very interested in your response."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Regardless, I want you to think about it." He withdrew his wallet and produced a business card that he set on Erik's desk. "Cramped quarters in here," he remarked, his gaze circling the office perimeter. "It'd be nice to be able to take some time off, wouldn't it? Do whatever it is that you musician types do in your spare time?" He tapped the business card with an index finger on his way out. "You call me if you think of an answer."

Erik slammed the door behind him and tossed the card directly into the trash.

Over the next twenty-four hours, however, his resolve weakened. He could not unsee the mental images of himself taking a sabbatical, working on his music, establishing himself as a musician enough that he'd never have to teach again. He considered what he would say if he called de Chagny. He fished out the card and turned it over in his fingers.

How many others, though, had been persuaded to change a grade for the sake of a sport? Persuaded to do worse? The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He considered notifying the administration, but the burden of proof would be on him, and he had no desire to become entangled in university affairs.

In the end, he did call de Chagny. The call went straight to voicemail, so he did not get the satisfaction of a response as he relayed his message. "I advise you not to contact me further, de Chagny," it concluded, "unless you are prepared for more ruinous consequences."

A week later, he was fired.

He sat, dumbstruck, as Reyer regarded him from across the conference table with what could only be described as uncomfortable sympathy. His jaw went rigid. "I presume you are going to tell me why?"

Reyer sighed as he flipped through the file in front of him. "It's an amalgam of things, really. Your student evaluations have been less than stellar, but then, you already know that."

Erik glowered. It was true that he was not a student favorite—he was known for being brusque and scrupulous—but his worst evaluations had come from the music appreciation class containing the two football players and their friends, a fact not unknown to Reyer.

"You have strained relationships with many of the faculty," Reyer went on, "and I've fielded several complaints on that front, as we've previously discussed."

"Perhaps they ought to learn how to accept constructive criticism."

"You've been telling them how to do their jobs. That's micromanaging."

"I disagree. Regardless, that hardly seems reason enough for termination, nor is it new. What's the real reason, Reyer?"

"Well, the most significant development is that you threatened a well-respected university affiliate."

"I beg your pardon?" As soon as the words left Erik's mouth, however, he knew who that affiliate was. Rage bubbled up hot in his chest. Oh, he certainly had a bone to pick with de Chagny now! "I was threatening to turn him in for bribery," he replied through gritted teeth.

Reyer blinked in mild surprise. "I admit, I have not heard the message," he said, flinching as Erik banged his fist against the table.

"You mean to tell me you've revoked my job based on hearsay?"

"It's not my call." Reyer put his hands up in supplication. "This order comes from the top. I was approached by the provost himself."

Erik leaned forward to scrutinize his superior, whose pale and receding hairline was dotted with tiny beads of sweat. "This reeks of heavy bias," he said, "and you know it."

Reyer licked his lips, producing a handkerchief with which to blot at his forehead. "Honestly, I don't know. I just do what I'm told."

"Coward."

"Maybe so. But I cannot risk losing my job, not with Cathy still in chemo."

"Ah, of course not. Mine is the expendable one."

Reyer pressed his fingertips to his temples and sighed. "I beg of you, Erik, not to make this more difficult than it has to be. My hands are tied."

Erik stood so abruptly that the chair shot out from beneath him. "Ah, but is that not what I do, friend? Make things difficult? Rest assured that I will be paying Moncharmin a visit."

"I will need your keys," said Reyer.

With the most scathing look he could manage, Erik threw his building and office keys onto the table, and then he stalked out of the room and straight across campus to the provost's office.

Moncharmin was out to lunch, the ginger-haired secretary told him, and had a full schedule for the afternoon, but would he like to book an appointment for a later time? Erik informed her that he would not leave until he was granted an audience, and when she began to object, he glared at her with such searing intent that she did not protest as he took a seat.

He seethed in his chair for at least half an hour before a chorus of boisterous male voices reached his ears. He sat up straighter; one of them was particularly familiar.

It was that same voice that spoke as a small group of men came into view: de Chagny, shorter than the others yet more imposing, sleeker, cockier. "You'll let me know about Daaé, then? He'd be a natural for the position."

He was flanked by both the provost and the athletic director, and at the sight of the three of them palling around, Erik's every question was answered, his every suspicion confirmed.

He supposed he had underestimated the moneymaking potential of the athletics program: tickets, concessions, advertising opportunities, merchandise. The very notion of athletics undermining a university through widespread corruption made his blood boil.

"Absolutely," replied Moncharmin. His tan suit hung a bit too heavy on his narrow frame. "Tell you what, have him meet us at the steakhouse tomorrow night. His wife, too, if he's got one."

De Chagny shook his head. "Widowed, I'm afraid."

"I might come without a wife tomorrow, too, if Jen doesn't promise to ease off the wine," said Firmin, the athletic director, with a laugh that was boisterous and gruff. He was brawnier than the other two, with unsettlingly red skin, as though his clothes were always cinched too tight.

Erik struggled to suppress his disgust at the exchange, yet none of them noticed the assistant professor glowering in the corner despite his stare, or his bony and angular length of limb, or the hot anger rippling off of him. In fact, the group dispersed and the provost walked right past him until he stood to his full and imposing height. "I would have a word with you, sir."

Moncharmin appraised him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. "I'm afraid I can only meet by appointment," he said, "for non-urgent matters."

"I was just fired for your own financial gain," Erik snapped. "That seems plenty urgent to me."

The fear that flared up in Moncharmin's eyes passed just as quickly as it appeared, and he turned calmly to address his secretary. "Gina? Please call campus security."

Erik slapped his palm against the wall in defiance, eliciting a tiny shriek from Gina as she fumbled for the receiver. "I won't be hauled out of here like a common criminal," he spat as he made for the door, and he jabbed an accusing finger at his new adversary. "You can expect a lawsuit, you degenerate bastard."

He'd gone home and raged and drunk himself into a stupor, and the next day, he had sought out a lawyer. He'd had no intention of ever returning to campus, but after nearly two weeks, he'd gotten a voicemail from Reyer imploring him to clean out his office. It had contained almost nothing of significant value to him—his prized violin, thankfully, had been home on the day of his termination—but he'd considered how much money and effort it would take to replace all of the sheet music he'd left behind. With great reluctance, he had contacted the department to let them know when to unlock the office for him.

"I remember almost nothing from that day," he told Christine now. "Only flashes of memory. Your father, for example, comes to mind." Her eyes went wide. "Yes, I saw him step out of a faculty office near mine. I didn't recognize him, so I checked the door for his name as I passed. That was when I realized that this man, Daaé, whom de Chagny had brought in—he was the one who'd replaced me."

Her face paled. "You—you don't think…?"

"That he was involved? I hardly knew what to think at the time." His heart sank at the way her fingers trembled in her lap, and he sighed. "I do not blame him, Christine, not now. It's likely he had no idea what he was walking into."

She nodded, but she did not look entirely convinced. "And then what happened?" she asked. "Or can you not remember?"

"I am certain I was drugged," he replied, "because I woke up on the floor of my office, and the events after that point are abundantly clear in my memory."

"What happened when you woke up?"

"I was on fire."

She could only gape. She'd known the fire would have to factor into Erik's tale at some point, but not like this. There was supposed to have been a build-up of events, a sequence of steps and factors that somehow all contributed to an inevitable catastrophe. To wake up to a room on fire—that wasn't something anyone could foresee. It didn't make sense.

"I was told that it was likely my hair that caught first," he said, "with the burns spreading to my face, neck, and shoulders. Then my hands and arms, likely from attempts to put out the flames." His eyes fixed on her with startling acuity. "Have you ever been burned, Christine? A finger, perhaps?"

She managed only a wide-eyed nod.

"Then you know there's a brief delay after that initial contact, when reflexes and adrenaline kick in, and you feel almost nothing until you pull away from the heat source." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "That's how I got myself out of my office and into the relative safety of the hall. And then I hit the floor." He went quiet, his jaw shifting anxiously, as though waiting for her permission to continue.

She didn't want him to. She wanted to stand up and walk out, to pretend she'd never heard any of this. It was painful, this newfound knowledge, as though the wind had been knocked out of her, and her stomach churned more forcefully with every second. She forced herself to voice the question: "And then what?"

"And then pain." Erik swallowed. "Searing, white-hot, all-consuming agony, so intense that I lost consciousness again. But when I woke up later, in the hospital, it was still there. And it lasted for weeks." His gaze met hers and then flitted away. "I wished quite fervently for death."

Christine shut her eyelids to squeeze out the tears that had collected there.

"Later, when I saw what had become of my upper body, and my face—well, I briefly wished for death then, too."

She opened her eyes to find him staring straight at her, his expression unreadable. It was the first time she'd noticed the color of his irises: golden brown, with deeper color at the base that fanned out bright and vivid. Like fire. Every muscle in her chest constricted.

"Show me," she said, and she was terrified.

Erik gave a gentle shake of his head. "It will haunt you, I'm afraid."

"Please. I just...I want to understand the full scope of what you've been through."

He exhaled slowly, his mouth quirking back into a tiny, sad smile. "I've long suspected you'd be driven away by my past or my face, if not both. Is my utter brokenness not enough to ward you off?"

"You really think I'm that superficial?"

His laugh was sharp and bitter. "There are hardened criminals who could not stand to look at me, Miss Daaé." The return to her formal title made her flinch. "You may think I'm being flippant, but believe me when I say that your kindness cannot overcome man's instinctive aversion to horror."

"But those men in prison—they didn't know you. Not like...well..."

"Like you do? Is that what you were going to say? Because all things considered, my dear, you know practically nothing about me."

This is why no one likes you, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She supposed he had every reason to be cynical. "Give me your hand," she instructed instead, holding out her palm. "We'll start small."

He stiffened, his fingers twitching at his side. His eyes darted from her hand to her face.

"I already saw it, you know," she said, more softly now. "After you took out the wire."

His mouth twisted and pulled inscrutably, and then he set his left hand in her upturned palm. It shook just slightly, prompting her to wrap her fingers around it and squeeze.

Erik sucked in air, emitting something between a gasp and a hiss. She relaxed her grip, but she did not let go. "I'm sorry. Does it hurt?"

"No." His gaze had yet to leave that point of contact between them. "Not for some time. I'm afraid I have simply grown unused to—to touch."

Christine immediately thought of Halloween: how closely they had swayed to the music, how his hand had hovered on the small of her back as they'd crossed the dance floor. How much anxiety had that cost him?

A buzzing warmth surged through her. She had meant for her gesture to reassure him, but suddenly she was just as nervous. She had not realized just how desperately she'd wanted to touch him, to touch skin, to surpass these barriers of cloth and insecurity.

Her every movement slow and gentle, she fished the cuff of the black glove out from beneath his sleeve and peeled the snug leather off his fingers.

She was quick to take his bare hand between hers. It was warm, and slightly clammy. His fingers were long and thin, knobby at the knuckles, and the accidental brush of one against the back of her hand sent shivers up her spine.

His skin was pale, so pale, with a translucence that seemed to expose every wiry vein beneath it. Along the curve of thumb to forefinger, however, it rose thick and dusky pink, in gnarled peaks and valleys. Like mountains forged from heat, his skin bubbled up into hardened crests that spoke of violent beginnings.

Gently, Christine ran the pad of her thumb along the raised scar, noting how he sucked more air between his teeth. "It's really not so bad," she said.

"Ah, well. That is the nicer of the two."

"Let's see the other one, then."

He swallowed visibly and then, to her relief, surrendered his right hand. Off came that glove as well. The flesh here was a bit redder, scalier, the scars extending to the back of his hand, down much of his wrist to disappear beneath his sleeve. She studied it for a moment, and then she tugged at the lapels of his jacket, signaling for him to remove it.

His eyes, frantic and probing, did not stray from hers as he shrugged off the coat and set it beside him. Then his face hardened with a sudden and willful determination, and he held out his right forearm in offering. She unbuttoned the shirt cuff and rolled it back.

The skin was rough and raised here, too: a sheath of mottled scales, stretching up the arm as far as she could push his sleeve. She trailed her fingers down it, feeling the rasp of it against her own skin.

By society's standards, this was one of the least intimate things she'd ever done with a man, but it felt every bit the contrary. Where was this newfound boldness coming from? The wine, perhaps, or her raised adrenaline?

There was a third possibility, but she didn't dare get her hopes up: that younger Christine, the one with enthusiasm and resolve, was not actually dead these last four years, but just lying dormant. Waiting to be roused.

Erik watched her every move, the rigid muscles in his jaw so betraying his discomfort that she imagined she could hear his heart beating rapidfire in his chest. Her hands fluttered at his collar then, unbuttoning, parting fabric. Here was more of the angry, twisted flesh: along his collarbone, over his shoulders, down his front to disappear beneath the unbuttoned portions of shirt. She flattened her palm against his sternum, and there she truly did feel his heartbeat, rough and wild, straining against its confines.

He blanketed her hand with one of his own. His mouth opened as though he meant to say something, but he faltered and closed it again. Instead, he curled his fingers around her wrist and brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing with such desperate force that it froze her and took her breath away.

Only once he lowered her hand was he able to speak. "You need not go any further," he said. "This—this will sustain me. I thank you."

She shook her head, and as she cast him an imploring glance—trust me—she reached up for the mask.

He did not stop her, as she'd half expected. Rather, he seemed paralyzed by his fear, his lips parting in silent protest as she gingerly removed the mask to reveal his face.

At the sight, Christine clapped a hand to her mouth. The mask fell onto the sofa between them.

The skin here had that same sort of gnarled crustiness to it, but it was so prevalent that it eroded every part of what she imagined had been his God-given face. He had no eyebrows; any definition in his eyelids seemed to have melted away; his nose had been reduced to a slight ridge with two small, asymmetrical holes at its base. The overall effect looked like another sort of mask, one as featureless as a plaster cast, but mottled pink and waxy.

She hated herself for the thought, but it looked almost inhuman.

His eyes were hard as he studied her reaction. "Are you satisfied now?" he bit out, fingers curled toward his face like angry talons. "Is this what you wanted to see? There's more, you know." He reached up, and then his hair was coming off, too—oh, God, had it been a wig all this time?—and the brownish-pink scales were there as well, the puckered flesh sealing off all but a few wisps of ashen hair at his scalp.

She knew she was crying but she couldn't stop, could not even articulate why she was crying because she was so overwhelmed by everything that had taken place—both in his past and now, here, on this very sofa—to culminate in this moment.

"Ah, yes, you're frightened now, aren't you? 'The walking corpse,' they called me in prison. There could not have been a more fitting name, really, because the man I once was is dead. His soul is dead, his body is dead, and he is resigned to roam this earth a wraith." Erik laughed, laughed so bitterly that it hurt her. "Do you want to hear something ridiculous? I actually believed, for a moment, that you were an angel sent to resurrect him." He leered at her, the wrinkled flesh around his mouth rendering it something newly impish, as though to suggest that she was the farthest thing from a savior that could possibly exist.

Christine's mind reeled. She'd gotten through to him, and then she'd ruined it, ruined everything, sent him spiraling madly out of her grip. She found herself fumbling desperately for something, anything that would bring him back to her. And so she she did something wild, something desperate—the only thing she could think of to snap him out of his tirade. Her hands flew up to steady his distorted face, and she crushed her lips to his.