Christine's head was pounding when she woke. She groaned a little at the pain that was made manifest in her neck and shoulders, and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to rub out the sleep and heaviness that was keeping them down. With a dull sleepiness, she began to remember what had happened the previous night—falling asleep in some creepy hallway with Erik staring at her…

After a few minutes of yawning and rubbing away the sleep, she managed to open her eyes a little and was surprised to see herself in what appeared to be a living room. It was…the most bizarre living room she had ever seen, admittedly, but it was a living room nonetheless.

She was lying on a black leather sofa, and she looked to see that her clothes were filthy. There was no carpet, and the hardwood floor was covered by a few richly-colored rugs. A bookshelf had been built into the wall, and it was bursting with books of all sizes. A few were even stacked up on the floor next to it, as it appeared that there was no room left to fit them. There was a little alcove-type room off near it, and she could see a large, shining black grand piano sitting proudly in the center. Around it were stacks of papers—littered around the floor, sitting on the bench, crammed up on the stand…The papers were everywhere, and when she squinted she could see that they were all covered in handwritten music. A few bizarre and almost grotesque paintings were hanging on the wall, and she quickly averted her eyes. She already didn't like looking at them. They made her feel uncomfortable.

With another little groan, she pushed herself to a sitting position, looking around to see if she could get some clues as to where she was. Of course this was probably Erik's house. The thought thrilled her and chilled her. But where was Erik's house…? There was absolutely no noise whatsoever. It was a little scary. The silence was almost oppressive. There weren't any familiar homey sounds—no water dripping from a faucet, no rumbling of a laundry machine, no creaking of a house settling, no hum of a heater or air conditioner, no ticking of a clock. There was absolute stillness, and she held her breath for a moment, feeling like her breathing was too loud.

A few doors led off, and she stumbled to her feet and trudged over to them, only to find that they were locked. She twisted and pulled on the handles for a little while, and then she remembered that this was undoubtedly Erik's house and that if he didn't want her prying, there was no way she could pry. There were two heavily-curtained windows, and she pulled back the curtains only to see that the shutters were closed on them, and as it was dark outside, no light was shining in.

As she was examining her pale face in the window glass, she heard a lock clicking, and she turned, trying to ready herself for Erik and the things she would feel when she saw him. When the door opened, she opened her mouth, but no words came out, because it was not Erik.

She stared at the person—man, and he stared back at her, wild surprise evident in his dark eyes. As Christine looked, she vaguely recognized him. She had seen him around the Opera House once or twice, but she had never taken any particular notice to him. Just as she was about to ask who he was, she saw that he seemed to snap out of his shock, and his hand dug into his jacket. To her horror, he pulled out a smooth, shining handgun, and he pointed it at her with both hands, aiming it right at her head. His aim looked steady and sure, and she screamed and fell to the ground, crawling behind the sofa in hopes that it would protect her.

"Who are you?" the man demanded loudly. He approached and circled around the sofa to get a clear shot at her. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Please!" Christine begged, covering her head with her arms. "Please, I'm sorry! Please don't shoot me!"

"Tell me who you are!" the man yelled. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"I don't know!" Christine cried, her forehead pressed into the hardwood floor. "Please, I swear! Erik grabbed me, and then I passed out, and I don't—"

"Shut up!" the man suddenly hollered. Christine obeyed instantly, sobbing into the floor. Erik had brought her here…and then he had sent this man to kill her…The thought was agony, torture. She had thought that…he might have begun…to care about her a little. Maybe he was so mad at her for losing her role that he had sent someone to get rid of her.

She heard the man approach her, and his footsteps stopped next to her head. She kept her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from a bullet as best she could.

"I recognize you," the man then said blankly. "You sing at the Opera House, right?"

"Yes," Christine whimpered. "Yes, please…I'm only a singer. Please. I don't know anything."

There was a long pause, and then the man suddenly shouted, "Erik! You've really outdone yourself this time!" The man's footsteps receded, and Christine chanced a quick peek upward. The gun had disappeared (she thanked the heavens for that), and the man was standing a few feet away, looking at her with anger and bewilderment. He appeared to be an older man. There were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and some gray in his hair and beard. He was dressed casually, and she noted that he looked Middle Eastern, though he was dressed in American attire and his beard was trimmed neatly. His eyes were dark and intelligent, and his nose had a heavy, prominent hook.

"How long have you been here?" the man suddenly asked.

Christine flinched, and then she managed to whisper, "I—I don't know. I don't know. I passed out. I don't know how long I've been sleeping. I just woke up five minutes ago."

"Where is Erik?"

"I don't know."

The man sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he said, almost tiredly, "Get up off the floor now. I won't hurt you. I'm very sorry for scaring you like that. I thought…" He trailed off.

Trembling and shaking, she pushed herself up to her knees, but she didn't dare to go any further.

"What's your name?" the man said, looking over at one of the doorways.

"Christine Daae," she answered immediately.

"And how…how do you know Erik?"

She didn't trust this man—who was he, and why was he in Erik's home? How did he know Erik? Still, he had possession of a gun, and she did not, so she answered him honestly.

"He teaches me to sing."

The man whirled around to look at her with apparently surprise. "He teaches—he teaches you to sing?"

Christine nodded. There was a long moment of silence, and he continued to look at her in confusion.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," the man then said, his voice forcefully-calm. "Erik—Erik teaches you to sing? Are we speaking of the same Erik?"

She was beginning to become confused as well. "Erik…He wears a mask," she said. "He's tall. And he's a very talented musician. He teaches me to sing."

The man muttered something in what apparently was his native language, and then he sank down onto the black sofa, pressing his palms over his eyes. He looked very upset.

"Erik—Erik—Erik," he said over and over again.

Christine watched him with some concern. "Are you okay?" she asked softly. "Are you sick?"

He lowered his hands and looked at her. "I'm fine," he said weakly. "Are—are you all right? Christine, you said? Are you all right? Has Erik…Tell me honestly. Has he done anything to you?"

Christine sat back on her bottom and pulled her knees up to her chest, putting her chin on them and watching the man carefully, in case he pulled the gun out again. "He's a little scary," she admitted. "But he's a good teacher. He was the one who helped me get to the Opera House. I wouldn't be here without him."

A humorless smile flitted across the man's lips. "No, you would not be here without him."

"I don't understand," she said. "Are you looking for Erik? Where is he? Isn't this his house?"

"Yes, this is his house," the man said, glancing around the room. "I'm looking for him. I heard about the fire a few hours ago, and I have to know if he was connected to it."

Christine felt herself go pale, and she fought back a rising sickness. "Did he…?" she whispered hoarsely. "He caused it? I didn't…I didn't know that. I was offstage, but I could smell smoke…" She felt tears creep up, and she put her face in her knees. "How could he do that? People were so scared! I was scared…"

"You say he took you down here?" he said.

She looked up at him and nodded. "He took me through a hidden door…and I tried to ask about the fire, but I was so…I don't know. I was so upset about what happened—I had just lost my part…and then the fire…He sang me a song, and I fell asleep right away."

"Do you want to be here, Christine? If you don't, I will take you back up right now."

Before she had time to answer—before she had time to ask what 'back up' meant—the door opened, and Erik entered, a huge paper bag in his arms. He stopped short at the sight of the man, and she could tell that his upper lip was curling. His eyes narrowed.

"Nadir," he said shortly, coldly. "What a thoroughly-unpleasant surprise."

The man stood from the couch and pointed at Christine. "What is this, Erik?" he said. "What is this new game you're playing?"

Erik glanced toward her, and she wanted to crawl away and hide somewhere.

"It is nothing that concerns you," Erik then said, and he continued on into the room, setting the sack down on the sofa. He looked toward Christine again. "Come look what I've brought for you," he said softly, as if she was a frightened animal and he didn't want to scare her away. "Come here, Christine."

She glanced between the two men before shuffling over to the sofa, rising up to her knees again and looking at the bag. Erik reached in and pulled out a package of bright-red strawberries.

"You like these, don't you?" he said, and he held them out for her. "Go ahead. Take them."

Christine looked over at the dark-skinned man. He was watching the scene with wide eyes, and she remembered the gun in his jacket. Maybe if she took the strawberries…What if he grew angry and pulled out the gun again?

Erik followed her gaze, and then he said to her, "Don't think about Nadir, Christine. He is nobody. Take these. You like them. I know you do."

When she still hesitated, Erik put them down. She watched as he approached the dark-skinned man. Erik was several inches taller, but the man was broader. Before she could see what had happened, the man's gun was in Erik's hands, and Erik quickly and silently shifted a few things on it and pulled it apart, dropping the two pieces on the ground; he did it all so smoothly and easily that he must have done it dozens of times before. Then Erik returned and held out the package of strawberries once again. This time she took them, and she opened it and began to eat some, sitting back down on the floor. They tasted wonderful, especially as she was feeling a little hollow and shaky from the heavy sleeping and the fright she had received from the gun being pulled on her.

"Erik," the man then said, making no move to pick up his dismantled gun. "Please. I don't know what you're doing with her, but you know that it won't end well. I don't know what your motivations are—and I won't care, just as long as you let me bring her back up right now."

"I would say that she is more frightened of you right now, Nadir," Erik said, almost conversationally, pulling more things out of the large paper sack. "You pointed a gun at her. She would much rather stay here with me than go with you." He looked at her. "Wouldn't you, Christine? Look what else I've brought for you."

She continued eating the strawberries, looking at the assortment of things he had laid out of her. There was more fruit—apples and oranges and bananas. There was also some juice, expensive-looking lotion, perfume, a pretty hairbrush, a necklace, soap, and other odds and ends.

"I'm not the one who set a building on fire!" the man snapped.

Christine shuddered a little, wiping some strawberry juice off her chin, and she looked up at Erik, who was trying to hold out more things for her to take.

"Erik?" she whispered. "Did you…really set the Opera House on fire? Was that you?"

"Now why would I do that?" he said. "Besides, some of the wiring was faulty. It is not my fault that the management is too idiotic to fix their problems."

The man exclaimed in frustration and threw his hands in the air. Then he said, "Make excuses all you want, Erik! We all know that you did it. And this—this! Kidnapping a young girl…I never thought that you would stoop this low."

"It is time for you to leave, Nadir," Erik said, not even sparing him a glance. He took the package of strawberries away from Christine and pushed an apple into her hands. Christine was confused. Erik hadn't really kidnapped her. She had wanted to go with him, even though she really hadn't known where he was taking her. But she hadn't really struggled. She had hesitated, but she hadn't tried to get away.

"I'm not leaving without the girl," the man—Nadir, Christine understood—said. "I'm taking her back up with me, and you are not going to do this to her again. She's clearly terrified."

She was scared, but right then she was only afraid of what Erik was going to do to the man. He was pushing him, and Erik could only be bent so far before he snapped.

"Goodbye, Nadir," Erik said firmly, tersely. "You are not welcome here anymore."

"That's perfectly fine with me," Nadir said, his voice somehow incredibly calm. "But I'm not leaving without her."

Erik stood suddenly, so fast that he startled her and she jumped a little. He walked over to Nadir, picked up the gun, put it back together in a matter of seconds, and pointed it at Nadir's head. His hand wasn't shaking. Christine let out a pitiful-sounding squeak of alarm and covered her mouth with her hands, the apple rolling off of her lap and onto the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the murder. There was a very long moment of silence, broken only by Christine's occasional shuddering whimpers. Then she heard Nadir speak in a defeated tone.

"All right. I'll go. But this—this thing with her…I'm not done yet."

"You are," Erik replied, his tone hard and cold. "Get out."

She heard the door open, and Nadir said quietly, "Just remember how young she is, Erik."

The door slammed shut (presumably by Erik), and she had the courage to open her eyes a little. Nadir was gone, and she was alone with Erik. He put the gun down on a side table, picked up her apple, and held it out to her. She took it gingerly with a whispered 'thank you.' Then there was further silence.

"Did he upset you?" Erik asked, standing in front of her. He was much too tall, and she was forced to crane her head upward so she wasn't staring at his calves.

"I'm fine," she said quietly, pressing her palms against the smooth red apple. "He just startled me a little."

"He will not bother you anymore," Erik said, his voice coming out rather like a growl. "I shall make sure of that."

"Oh, no, he's fine," Christine said. "I just didn't expect to see anyone here except you—and then he had that gun…" She glanced toward it furtively. It was resting on the table still, looking menacing.

Erik saw her looking at it, and he walked over and picked it up. Somehow, it disappeared in his hands. He then returned to her side. He did a strange jerking motion with his left arm and then clenched his hand at his side. Christine understood that he had meant to offer her his hand but had quickly changed his mind. Clumsily, she stood and looked around, taking a cautious bite of her apple.

"Is this your house?" she then said, by way of breaking the silence.

Erik nodded, staring at her.

"It's nice," she said awkwardly. "Um…from what I've seen, anyway."

There was a pause, and then Erik suddenly said, "Yes. I would…very much prefer if you stayed here for a short while. I should like to ensure that your voice has sufficient care and practice during this time. As the Opera House is…ah, currently under repairs, it will be an excellent time to continue working on your divine instrument."

"You want me to stay with you?" Christine asked blankly.

"It would be preferable," he replied after a moment of silence, somewhat stiffly.

Christine ate some more of her apple to cover up her silence. She was thinking furiously. Could she really stay here…with him? And how long was a 'short while?' And where was his house?

But she knew that he would grow upset if she refused. Christine then remembered the awkward, friendly moments they had shared, and she felt a little flutter in her stomach. Being here with him might give her more opportunities to have such experiences with him. Erik was…interesting. She did want to spend time with him—maybe not all of this time all at once, but perhaps now was better than never. At last, she looked at him and nodded, chewing on a bite.

There was relief evident in his eyes. "Wonderful," he said softly. A long pause followed, and out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand rise slightly, but then he swiftly brought it down to his side again. Clearing his throat, he said briskly, "What do you desire, Christine? I will make it so. Anything you wish."

"Um. I'd like to get out of these clothes, if that's okay." she said honestly and somewhat nervously. "They're really dirty."

"Yes. Of course you wish that." To her surprise, he hesitated a little as he said, "I am afraid that there is only one room in my house. It is my room. However, it is at your disposal for the entire duration of your stay. It is your room while you are here. Yes?"

"Wow," she said, uncomfortable at the thought. "That's really nice of you, Erik—but I can just as well sleep on the couch or something. I don't want to kick you out of your room."

"You are a very good girl," he said warmly, and she blinked in surprise at his tone. "But I will insist this time. Erik would be a terrible host indeed if he allowed his honored guest to sleep in the front room. I do not sleep much, anyway…Follow me and I shall show you."

He led the way over to one of the locked doors. Under his touch, however, it opened. She was astonished. She hadn't seen him touch the doorknob, much less unlock it.

His room was dark, and she peered in with trepidation. Then he flipped on some lights, and she resisted stumbling backward. It was obviously Erik's room. There was minimal décor. A strange, shadowy painting hung on the wall. She looked at it for a moment before shivering and looking away. A black, shining sculpture rested on the bedside table. It was twisting and intricate, and she couldn't tell if it was a human or an animal. However, the expression on its face was one of fear and horror. She didn't like it at all, and she didn't like the idea that she would be sleeping next to it.

Erik said, "There is an adjoining restroom over there for your use. This is your room now, Christine. You may use whatever you please."

"Thanks, Erik," she murmured, looking around further. Unlike the other rooms, this one was richly carpeted, and she looked at the bed. It was very wide, and the headboard twisted up into intricate woodworking. She swallowed a little. The sheets and bedspread were black, like some big hole that was waiting to swallow her up.

For a little while, she felt Erik watching her closely, and then she looked back to him and forced a smile onto her lips, trying not to think of the sheer strangeness of the situation and panic.

"Thanks for letting me stay here," she said, taking a few brave steps into the room. "I'll try…to be a good guest."

"You are already the perfect guest simply by being here," he said, somewhat solemnly. Then he walked around her and said, "I will bring you new clothing shortly. I had not anticipated your coming, you see…So I am ill-prepared. However, it will soon be remedied, I promise you."

"Oh—I can just go to my apartment and get a few changes of clothes," she said. "You don't have to get anything for me at all."

"No," he said, sounding somewhat strained. "I will provide everything you require."

"Okay," she replied, trying not to frown or quirk an eyebrow. "If you say so…"

Erik left for a moment and then returned with the sack full of the things he brought for her—minus the food, which she presumed he had put in his kitchen (wherever that was). She took it awkwardly with another murmured 'thank you.' His eyes still glowing, he inclined his head in response and then left, shutting the door behind him. She stood around again, looking at the room.

This was…Erik's room. This was the Phantom's room. This was his most private place, his inner sanctuary. She looked toward the bed and resisted shivering. He had slept in that bed—had laid his bony body down in the dark sheets and had slept.

Then she cautiously walked over to the closed door that he had indicated was the bathroom, and she opened it carefully, reaching around and flicking on the light when she found the switch. It was modest and somewhat small, with only the necessities. She set the sack down on the minimal counter space and rummaged through it, pulling out the things that would be useful in her shower. Thankfully, the door had a lock, and she clicked it in place before pulling off her clothes. She stood there naked, feeling incredibly out-of-place. There was no mirror, she noticed. The space above the sink was merely a stretch of bare wall—not even a nail hole to indicate a mirror might have gone there.

Christine fiddled with the taps for a minute or so to get to the right temperature, and then she stepped into the steaming shower, staring at the wall and wondering how it all had happened. She had been preparing to sing her debut performance…and then she hadn't…and Erik had been furious…and the fire …and the song…and the gun…and…She pressed her hands over her face, inhaling deeply and willing herself not to freak out. Everything was all right, she told herself. She was just staying with Erik for a few days. She had stayed with Raoul for a while during those difficult days after her father's disappearance. And Erik simply wanted her close by because of her travesty of a "debut performance." So…everything was all right.

Except for the fact that Raoul was not a murderer and Erik was…

The water soaked through her hair and down her frame, and she felt as if it was washing away the weight of the entire night. It felt good to soak in hot water, and the steam filled up the room. She used the soaps and shampoos he had gotten her, noting that they all smelled like lavender. She finished her shower and then spent a few uncomfortable minutes rummaging around for a towel, dripping all over his floor, pressing an arm across her chest as she looked. There was a medicine cupboard and a cupboard with a supply of soaps and creams and (oddly enough) razors. Then she discovered a very small pile of towels, pulled one out, and quickly wrapped it around her, breathing a little sigh of relief as her bare body was covered.

She was then faced with the uncomfortable prospect of either going out to try to find clothes, or waiting for him to return with clothes as he promised. Unsure of how he would respond to her in nothing but a towel, she opted to wait in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, her hair dripping down her back. She found herself wishing that there was a mirror so she could draw pictures in the steam like she used to do as a child, but then she told herself not to be so immature. Instead she sat there, her chin in her hands, looking around the small bathroom again, even though there was nothing new to see. Bored, she slid down and opened the medicine cabinet again, looking closely at the supplies.

It was rather disturbing. Instead of bottles of vitamins, painkillers, allergy pills, and other normal things, there were bandages and medical scissors and needles and unmarked pills and…other things. She reached out and picked up a little glass jar. It was full of a clear liquid, and she saw that the cap of it was the type of rubber that a needle could get through. She looked again and found two more of the small jars. There was a host of strange-looking creams, and a few oddly-shaped objects that she couldn't identify.

As she was prying, there was a soft knock on the door, and she dropped the long, shiny, silvery hook-like object she was holding. Then she blushed, snatched it up, and shoved it back into the cupboard, shutting the door hurriedly and standing.

"Don't come in!" she said, clutching her towel tightly, a little panicked.

"I have fresh clothing for you," came Erik's smooth, purring voice. "I shall leave it just outside the door. You are welcome to come out whenever you wish."

She heard his footsteps fade away, and she stared at the door suspiciously for a few minutes before going over and unlocking the door and cracking it open to peer into the bedroom. It was empty. There was a small pile of clothes by the door, just as he said, and she snatched them up and quickly shut and locked the door once again.

There were dark slacks and a nice purple blouse, along with (she blushed insanely) a matching set of lacy white underwear.

"Grow up, Christine," she muttered to herself, though her face was still hot as she slipped the silky fabric on.

When she at last left the safety of his bedroom (finding no way to manage her hair, but not for lack of trying), she heard him playing the piano, and she cautiously tiptoed over, peering around the corner of the small alcove, feeling a little shy. It was stranger than she could describe to be here in his home—the man in the mask to whom she owed so much.

"Was everything to your liking?" he suddenly asked, looking up at her.

"Oh, yeah," she said hurriedly, hiding her little jump as best she could. "Everything was great. Thanks."

Christine looked around the small alcove again, noting another door she hadn't seen before. To her complete surprise, she saw a beautiful violin and bow hanging next to it. Christine immediately gasped.

"I didn't know you played!" she said, pointing.

He looked over to it. "Oh," he said, as if he had forgotten that he played. "Yes."

She wandered over to it, almost without thinking, and when she reached out to touch it, she suddenly remembered herself and looked back to him.

"Can I…?" she inquired timidly. His hand came up and made an almost elegant gesture, indicating permission. Christine gently pulled it off the hook and held it. It was a beautiful violin, though the wood was very dark—the darkest violin she had ever seen, in fact. There was hardly any varnish or gloss to it, but it gave it a sort of morbid beauty that she found intriguing. All in all, it seemed to suit Erik perfectly.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"I crafted it myself, many years ago," he said, standing.

"Really?" She was awed. "My dad had a really nice one—not made by anyone famous, but I guess there was this nice old guy in Sweden that made it for my granddad, and then my dad inherited it." She paused and bit her lip. "It's sad that it'll probably never be played again."

"You have no interest in learning how to play?" Erik asked. She suddenly noticed that he was standing very close to her—she hadn't even seen him approach. If she shifted just an inch or two, her shoulder would be pressed into his chest.

Christine shook her head, carefully hanging up the instrument. "I'd be awful—I know I would. I'd probably…make my dad roll in his grave. Heh." She choked out a laugh, half-amused at her joke and half-horrified that she had even made it. What was wrong with her?

"If you feel that way," Erik said simply. "We shall focus solely on your voice, then." There was a pause, and then he looked at her, his eyes very clear behind the holes in his mask. Christine stared at them. She made a silent vow that during her stay here, she would gain Erik's trust enough for him to remove his mask.

His lower lip twitched a little, and then he said, "We shall make miracles down here, Christine Daae."