Author's Note: Alright, the pace starts picking up here again. Can I just say how much I love writing from Erik's POV too? It's such a challenge to write from his perspective, especially during his darker moments, but I really enjoy it. I also have some free time on my hands so hopefully, I'll be able to push out more updates soon! Don't forget to leave a review and as always, constructive criticism is welcome!

( thirty-eight )

LITTLE SOLDIER BOY

The day before rehearsals were to resume at the Opéra Populaire, Jovan asked to tag along with Erik when he was to go to Box Five for the daily drop of money from Laurine.

To their surprise, when they arrived at the box, a cloaked figure was waiting for them. Jovan immediately recognized Laurine's blonde hair beyond the hood, and Erik was then grateful that Jovan had asked to come with him. He had no intentions of socializing with the vicomtesse.

While Laurine's back was turned to the dark column where Erik's secret passageway was hidden, Jovan quietly slipped out from the concealed door before Erik sealed it shut. Only then did Jovan clear her throat, alerting her aunt to her presence.

Laurine turned to the source of the sound, surprise gleaming in her blue eyes. She gave a small gasp when she saw Jovan.

"A pleasant morning to you, Comtesse. I presume you received all of the money I had delivered here then?" Laurine asked with a small humorous smile.

"I did, Laurine," came Jovan's cool reply. "Thank you. But what brings you here today?"

"I heard that Rémi was going to start attending rehearsals here, at the opera house, beginning tomorrow. I don't think it's wise to continue this... habit once he begins visiting everyday. I apologize, Nathalie, but today will be the last time that I'll be able to give you money."

It would be a lie to say that Jovan was only disappointed with Laurine's news. And she truly was disappointed, but it was due to the fact that Rémi would now be within the walls of the Opéra Populaire starting tomorrow, the one place that Jovan had felt safe and secure in for the last few years. The news of Laurine no longer providing her with funds though, it brought more relief than disappointment to Jovan. While she was genuinely grateful for her aunt's help and Erik's assistance and support, relying on them both left her feeling too much like a burden.

She knew that if she were to voice out her thoughts though, both Laurine and Erik would only deny her sentiments on the matter. They would say that it was no trouble, that they did not mind, Jovan knew. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be enough to wash away the guilt that loomed heavy over her, a weight that only increased with each passing day that she found herself unable to move forward with what she had discussed with Laurine about her comeback.

"There's no need to apologize, Laurine. You've done so much already, and all the money I've received is more than enough for... for the plan." Jovan gave her aunt a grateful smile.

She then watched as Laurine reached for something behind her cloak. Seconds later, her satin-gloved hands reappeared with two purses full of francs.

Jovan's mouth fell open in sheer surprise. "Laurine—"

But before she could complain, Laurine thrusted one of the purses into Jovan's hands. "Open it," she ordered.

Jovan had no choice but to comply as she quietly sighed while opening the purse. She thumbed through the thick wad of bills inside it before her fingers came upon a photograph. Eyebrows knitting, Jovan pulled it out into the light.

It was a picture of her mother.

Her heart stuttered as Jovan stared at the photograph in her hand. Its edges were a bit worn, and though it was black and white, Jovan had no trouble recognizing her mother's red hair that were pinned up in an elegant style. A few curls were left loose to frame her fair face which was painted into a gentle expression, the warmth practically radiating from her eyes while her lips were curved into a bright smile.

Jovan's heart began to ache the longer she stared at the picture. She couldn't exactly pinpoint when the photograph was taken, but it had to be long before Mila had Léon, long before her pregnancy left her with gaunt cheeks and thinner hair. Here, her mother was so full of life even if Jovan was only looking at a mere picture.

"I found it in the manor," Laurine then explained, prompting Jovan to glance at her for a second. "It should be yours. Keep it." Her aunt proceeded to hand her the other purse.

As Jovan accepted the money, she found herself at a loss at how to thank Laurine. A simple thank you just couldn't quite cut it in Jovan's mind, not when Laurine actually proved herself to be a genuine ally, true to the words she had said back in the cemetery. Jovan lifted her gaze from her hands to the blonde standing before her, and tears blurred her vision as she recognized a softness in her aunt's clear blue eyes.

"Thank you, Aunt Laurine," Jovan whispered, pressing her lips together in an attempt to stop her tears from falling.

Laurine's lips parted in surprise. It was a small break in her facade of a well-poised and dignified lady of high society but for Jovan, it was a reminder that her aunt was only human, and someone who had also suffered under Rémi. It was a reminder that Laurine was the only family she had left.

An adaptation of Mille Stelle, written by an Italian composer, was what Monsier Lèfevre, Monsier Reyer, and Antoinette had decided on for the Opéra Populaire's first production for the new year. Erik had no complaints about their choice and so, to Lèfevre's great relief, the Opera Ghost left no note on his desk. Vicomte Sauveterre, on the other hand, had nothing to say on the matter, having stated that he had full trust in whatever the manager would choose.

Erik had merely sneered when he learned what his new patron's thoughts were on the opera. Of course the fool knew nothing of operas or opera houses, as Erik expected. But on the bright side, Erik was only happy to have one more reason to hate Rémi.

On the first day of rehearsals, true to his word, Rémi showed up with his companion from his last visit, a man he called Boucher. Fortunately for Erik, the first day of productions could always be expected to be uneventful, as his manager, Monsieur Reyer, Antoinette, and the other department heads spent a good part of the day orienting the cast and crew on the new opera to be performed. That left him little to worry about the staff, and so Erik devoted much of his attention to spying on Rémi, just like he promised Jovan.

His patron had yet to exhibit any behavior worth suspicion though as Erik eyed him from a catwalk above the stage. All the stagehands were below along with the rest of the staff. All their eyes and ears were on Rémi as he gave a short speech.

"Mille Stelle, composed by the renowned and talented Signor Franco Mastroianni, is an honor and will be a truly tremendous feat for us to perform as our first opera in the year of our Lord 1878," he announced, a smile of delight dancing on his lips. For a brief moment, Erik wondered if the Vicomte Sauveterre also possessed a talent for acting much like his older brother. He stared at Rémi with quiet contempt, his patron's face a perfect portrait of innocent glee, free of any trace of malice or scorn; it was turning out that he could put on such a convincing mask that even Erik couldn't help but feel a bit impressed.

"And so, ladies and gents, let us all do our best for this production. I won't keep you long now, but I shall strive to do my best to accompany you all in your endeavors everyday until our premiere night. Good morning, everyone." And with that, Rémi gave a bow before leaving the stage. A small round of applause echoed after him. Meanwhile, a silent snort left Erik as his narrowed eyes followed his patron climb down the stage only to meet with Boucher who was sitting among the audience seats.

Not long after, Reyer began screeching at the orchestra members while he handed out their music sheets. To the side, Antoinette began ushering her dancers away from the stage and towards one of the ballet rooms. Only the stagehands and the props department were left onstage.

"Can someone tell me where the hell Buquet is at again!" Amir then screamed from the left wing of the stage, evidently irate as he threw down his handkerchief on the wooden floor for emphasis. He was usually a calm man, but given that the foolish drunk going by the name of Joseph Buquet was under Amir's department and command, Erik could completely sympathize with the poor man losing his temper.

As Erik straightened up, he couldn't help but feel as if everything had gone back to before. Only two weeks had passed since the Masquerade on New Year's Eve, where he and Jovan learned of Rémi taking over as patron, and yet it seemed to him that so much time had passed since then. Perhaps this was simply the effect of having learned so much in such little time about one of the people he trusted most. Erik had grown used to a rather idyllic life, a life he spent quietly making rounds and dropping criticisms in his opera house during the day while he composed and found solace in music during nights. There had been nothing to fuss about or get into trouble for ever since he left Persia as far as he was concerned.

Well, that was only partially true though, if he were being honest. His daily routine had been quite disturbed beginning the moment he encountered Jovan in one of the Populaire's many corridors. Aside from Antoinette, he had had absolutely zero direct contact with any other human. Until he decided that it was a good idea to fool around and try to scare a particular short-tempered red-haired stagehand.

And look where that got him now — slithering about in the shadows of the rafters while he kept an eye on a member of the Parisian aristocracy for a reason outside of simply hating the man for his guts and obvious lack of appreciation for the arts.

Erik had no regrets though. Never.

The dull chatter on the stage below him suddenly caught his curiosity when a new, unfamiliar voice reached his ears.

Looking down, Erik immediately spotted the anomaly among a group of stagehands that were going over a blueprint for a particularly large wooden prop. He knew the faces of every staff member of the Opéra Populaire so it was with relative ease that he spotted Boucher from the small crowd onstage.

Erik's first impression of him was that he was Rémi's manservant. After all, it was not uncommon for men of the nobility to have an assistant or a guard with them at all times. Boucher had a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache that made him stand out and he was also a heavyset man, leaving Erik to think that perhaps he could put up a good fight.

It was Boucher's words at the moment that piqued Erik's attention.

"...caught my eye during the Bal Masqué," he uttered to Amir with a small smile that seemed forced while the lead stagehand stared at him with a cocked eyebrow. "I didn't get her name though, and now I wonder if she works here, perhaps?"

Amir dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead with his handkerchief. "Certainly, there are plenty of lovely young women in our opera house, monsieur," he chuckled. "You'll have to be more specific if you wish to find this beauty. Might have better chances asking the dance troupe too."

"Of course, Monsieur Vacher. Thank you," Boucher replied with a stiff bow of his head before Amir walked away. Boucher then turned and approached the nearest stagehand while above him, Erik shadowed the man on the catwalk with alert eyes and ears. Looking for a woman that he saw during the Masquerade? Erik already had a pretty guess as to who Boucher was hunting down.

For a second, Erik considered threatening Lèfevre into implementing a policy that asking about members of the staff should be prohibited. Glib and entitled men often went asking about and around for the ballerinas and singers that had caught their eyes during performances, and often too that these women would be whisked away by the same men once they were found. Some winded up with broken hearts after a short-lived affair, but there also the more fortunate women who ended up with rings on their fingers.

Erik still considered those a tragedy though, as he had watched the women of the Populaire be convinced into giving up their careers as dancers or singers by their husbands all so they could pour all their attention and energy into raising a family. What a wretched world it truly was out there.

He then watched as Boucher continued to make small talk with a few stagehands before he walked towards two seamstresses who were crossing backstage to reach the opposite wing. Their arms were full of bolts of blue satin when Boucher approached them with a wave of his hand.

"Mademoiselles, good day. Might I interrupt you to inquire about a young woman who I believe works here?" Boucher asked.

The older of the two women, a blonde named Marilou, gave a shrug of one shoulder. "What's her name?" she asked in a bored tone.

"That's the problem, mademoiselle. I know not her name, only her green eyes and red hair that have haunted my dreams ever since I saw her amongst the crowd."

Erik rolled his eyes. Boucher might have been a believable actor if it he didn't sound like he was merely reciting lines from an academic textbook. Even the stagehands who fooled around during rehearsals could put more emotion into the lines they parroted.

"A redhead huh?" Marilou asked, irritation and a hint of envy creeping into her voice.

"She used to work at our department, but she has yet to show up after the Masquerade," the other seamstress, a brunette, answered Boucher earnestly.

"She could have quitted or gotten fired," Marilou remarked dismissively before walking forward. "Can't remember her name though, apologies. Come on, Leila."

The blonde seamstress was a few feet away when she called out to her companion. Leila gave Boucher a timid smile and was about to walk away too when he stepped in her way.

"Mademoiselle, I beg of you. Could you give a name perhaps?" Boucher pleaded the seamstress, and Erik almost pitied the poor girl and her armful of satin fabric.

She adjusted her grip on the bolts before answering, "She was always one to keep to herself, but if I remember correctly, her name is Jovan."

"Who's looking for Jovan?"

The second Boucher looked away to find the new voice, Leila darted away like a mouse from a cat. Erik squinted as he realized that it was Mateo who had spoken up, a young man that he recognized as one of Jovan's few friends in the opera house. He lazily approached Boucher with Julien by his side, but Erik could tell that the two stagehands were guarded as they neared Boucher.

"I am, monsieur," Boucher turned to Mateo then and gave a quick bow of his head. "Are you an acquaintance of hers?"

Erik watched as Mateo eyed Boucher from head to toe. "Maybe, maybe not. What's it to you?"

"Oh. What a shame." Boucher at least had the brain to act and look a bit disappointed. "I was hoping to perhaps meet her, maybe even invite her to dinner. Is it true that she has left the Populaire?"

"So you're an admirer of Jo's?" Mateo asked back, and Erik tried not to wince at his reply. Addressing Jovan with her nickname was one sure way to let a stranger know that she was most certainly more than an acquaintance to Mateo, and that possibly meant that Rémi would now keep an eye on him if he was searching for leads as to Jovan's current whereabouts and just what exactly she had been doing in the Opéra Populaire for the last few years.

"Sorry can do, monsieur, but she's left the opera house," Mateo then added just as Boucher opened his mouth to speak. Hearing the stagehand's answer, Boucher pressed his lips into a thin cold smile before giving another stiff nod.

"I see," he mumbled as Erik strained to hear Boucher's words. "It seems that I am too late. But still, thank you for your help, Monsieur...?"

But Mateo only gave him a smile full of false cheer. "Have a good day, monsieur," he merely replied before turning his back to Boucher to walk back to his fellow stagehands, Julien still by his side.

Erik couldn't help but give a small sigh relief at Mateo's reticence; perhaps the boy wasn't as stupid as the rest. Long after Mateo had turned away from Boucher though, Erik's gaze remained on the man and he watched as Boucher's face straightened into a stern expression before he left the stage.

There was no doubt now that Boucher was indeed looking for Jovan. There were only two redheads in the entire opera house and one of them was a male servant in the kitchens so that left Jovan as the only possible person that he'd been asking for. It was not the most subtle of methods but it made Erik's blood boil nevertheless to realize that Rémi's scheme still bore fruit.

Gloved hands clenching into tight fists at his side, Erik's eyes followed Boucher as he approached the vicomte. Boucher whispered something to Rémi, something that even Erik's sharp senses could no longer pick up, to which the patron gave a single nod in response.

Boucher then exited the auditorium through the grand double-doors at the end of the vast hall. Damn it. Erik cursed to himself in the dark at his failure to find out what Boucher had whispered to Rémi. If there was something he was sure of though, it was that things were certainly now afoot in his own opera house. It was truly for the best that Jovan was gone from the Populaire, but that didn't mean that Erik no longer had to worry. There was still Antoinette and little Meg, Jovan's friends, his pupil Christine, and every other person who worked in the theater. He had always watched over everyone as their critic and their infamous ghost and, now, he had to fulfill his role as their guardian.

Erik would damn himself before letting the Opéra Populaire fall to its ruin.

It was only after rehearsals ended in the afternoon that Erik remembered his promise to Christine.

Before the Bal Masqué, he had told the little soprano that their lessons would resume on the same day that rehearsals would for the new opera. Upon remembering their appointment, Erik however had half the mind to cancel. He hated going against his word, especially where his persona as the Angel of Music or the Opera Ghost was concerned, but it seemed that he had little choice in the matter. He needed to keep a vigilant watch on the crew and performers, and even spending an hour away from them was precious time lost where absolutely anything could happen to anyone.

When the time came for the staff to have their dinner, it was with a heavy heart that Erik decided he would have to cancel his lesson with Christine.

He could always rely on her to be on time so when he arrived at the chapel at seven in the evening, Christine was already waiting for him on the seat next to the stained glass window. A young woman of fifteen now, Christine was growing further and further away from the image of a little girl troubled with anxiety and timidity when she first arrived at the Opéra Populaire. She was much taller now and possessed the ideal physique for a ballet dancer, with long and slender limbs that she always carried with grace, easily making her one of the better ballet dancers even in her young age. And though the bright light of innocence remained in her brown doe-eyes, she now carried a mature countenance as well that even made her seem older than she was.

There were no words to describe how proud Erik was of his pupil. Three years had passed since he came to her as the Angel of Music, and three years he spent tutoring her well too. Well didn't even describe it, no — he was an excellent teacher to Christine, and she had admitted to that many times as well. Without him, he was sure that her natural talent as a songstress would have long died, an extinguished spark that the world would mourn without even knowing it. No, Erik had done an exceptional job at making her flourish. And in time, he knew she would eventually be ready to bring the world of music trembling before her feet.

But that would be something to look forward to in the future. For now, more pressing matters were at hand.

"Christine, Christine..." he sang out to her, and joy crept into his heart when he saw Christine's face light up upon hearing his voice.

"Angel!" she called out in elation, leaping to her feet as her eyes darted around the four walls of the chapel, unsure of where to look. "You're back!"

"Yes, Christine. I have returned," Erik answered, throwing his voice from behind one of the walls where he was hidden. "And I know I promised that we were to resume our lessons tonight, but I'm afraid that we will have to do this another time."

Her face fell at his words as she blinked in confusion. Already, Erik loathed himself for having to disappoint his student. "Have I done something to displease you, Angel?"

"Never, little one," he reassured her in a soothing tone, his velvety voice echoing in the room. "But as I am the Angel of Music to you, I am also an angel to someone else for a different reason."

He had been at a loss earlier as to how to explain why he was postponing their lesson. After all, he had never cancelled until tonight. Erik had no problem with lying, but he didn't want to carry the sin of doing so to Christine in his conscience. It seemed like a small crime in comparison to all the lives he had taken many years ago, but Erik already had enough demons for a lifetime. So even if he could not reveal the full truth to Christine, he could still tell her a part of it, and in a way that would not be detrimental to his persona as the Angel of Music too.

Erik then watched as understanding brightened her features once more, and a grin tugged at her lips. "Do you mean like a guardian angel?"

"That is one way to put it, yes."

"Then I understand, Angel," Christine replied.

"Thank you, Christine."

She dropped into a curtsy in front of the altar before she left the chapel on silent feet. In his hiding place, Erik smiled to himself, pleased at how well things went, better than he even expected. He truly was a fool for worrying when it was evident from the moment he met her that Christine was far kinder and more understanding than others. It was no wonder then that she hadn't complained or even pried into his affairs when he talked to her tonight.

As relief steadily replaced the anxiety in his veins, Erik departed from the chapel with the intent of starting his nightly rounds. He made it his priority to check up on Mateo first though, seeing as the stagehand was the one who had much to say Boucher earlier. Who knew what repercussions were to stem from that?

But what solace and confidence that he had regained from meeting Christine instantly vanished when he realized that Mateo was nowhere to be found in the Opéra Populaire.

"Antoinette, where are the younger stagehands?" a baritone voice greeted Antoinette as she entered her room.

Were she not used to Erik and his theatrics, Antoinette was sure that she would have lost her composure. Exhaling loudly, she was about to berate Erik for intruding into her private quarters when she realized the urgency and aggravation in his tone. Clearly, Erik was not in a jesting mood tonight.

"Damien led away a few of them to a nearby pub, I believe. A handful of them left around an hour after dinner," she replied quickly. "Is there something wrong, Erik?"

From the shadows that permeated her room, Erik stepped out with the hood of his cloak covering his head. His voice grew grim and low when he spoke. "Who were with Damien?"

"The only ones I recognized were Julien, Ilyes, Allan, and Mateo. There were two others—"

"Which entrance did they use?" Erik cut her off darkly, and Antoinette tried not to be unnerved by the fire blazing in his eyes when he stepped closer to her. She was not a woman who was frightened so easily, even by the feared Opera Ghost when he was a mere young man that she had rescued from a traveling circus more than a decade ago, but there were still moments like this, though far in between, where the darkness that Erik carried in him seemed to seep into his very surroundings and the people around him, enough to strike a sliver of fear into her heart.

His eyes of amber and green radiated so much tempered wrath and his voice had a dangerous edge to it, but Antoinette nevertheless stood her ground and stared back at him with hard unwavering eyes. She knew that she was not the object of his anger anyway, but that still left her curious and worried about what had enraged Erik so much. "The third entrance at the back, near the stables. Erik, tell me what is going on."

"Nothing, I hope," he growled. Irritation pricked at Antoinette and she made sure to keep it in check, all too used to Erik's occasional brutishness, but upon hearing the soft rustle of cloth at the same second that Erik vanished back into the shadows, her dismay grew. In the blink of an eye, he was gone. She hadn't even managed to get a proper explanation out of him.

Antoinette had a guess that Erik was on edge thanks to their new patron, but she didn't anticipate that Erik would be agitated to this extent. No, there had to be something afoot that was making Erik act like this. But Antoinette was not feeling too well tonight; despite only having done warm-ups with the ballet corps earlier, she was as tired as she was after full rehearsals.

With a soft cough, she removed her shawl and sat before her vanity. Questioning Erik would have to wait for now.

Stupid. Stupid.

Erik had always been able to prepare for the worst, but he didn't imagine that tonight could go so wrong. He was gone for only ten minutes. Ten damn minutes that he spared so he could speak to Christine. And it was during those ten minutes that the younger stagehands decided to leave the opera house. Ten minutes where he wasn't around to keep an eye on them, and now he had no idea where to find them. Did God truly hate him that much?

He had to keep his anger under control though as he hurried through a tunnel on swift feet. He wrapped a thick black scarf around his neck and lower face before tilting his wide-brimmed hat down towards the masked side of his face. Oh, he absolutely despised going outside at this particular hour when the streets of Paris were still wide awake but necessity called for it. He had to find those stagehands and make sure that all of them, especially Mateo, were untouched and unharmed.

More than a minute later, the cold night air greeted Erik as he stepped out of the bowels of the Opéra Populaire and into the streets. A coach rolled by as his vigilant eyes surveyed the back street of the opera house which was lined with restaurants, cafes, shops, and a hotel. Only men and women draped and covered in expensive furs, jewels, and tailored coats littered the area though; there were no stagehands dressed in plain work clothes. Erik then decided to check the next street, where the stagehands' usual haunt was located.

There wasn't a moment to waste where he could brace himself before traversing the world outside his haven. Every muscle in his body was taut as he kept to the side of the street. He felt as if his heart could escape its cage of bone and his chest ached terribly in growing alarm and anxiety. But Erik didn't have the luxury of time, so he clung tight to the adrenaline in his veins and let it drive his feet forward. He kept his head bowed low and stayed away from the glow of streetlights, silent as a ghost as he did his best to slip by unnoticed.

It wasn't long before he found himself in front of the Old Jester, the pub and guest house across the one where Jovan was staying. But Erik didn't allow his thoughts to stray either as he made a beeline to the closest window of the Jester. As expected, the place was filled to the brim with men from different walks of life, some drinking in silence and some lost in raucous laughter, and Erik quickly scanned the sea of faces for one that he could recognize.

He immediately found Julien's face among the customers inside, followed by Ilyes then Damien and a few more familiars. But Mateo was nowhere in sight.

Dread choked Erik, leaving him with very little air to breathe with that he had to look away and calm himself. Sucking in one lungful of air after the other, he steadied his breathing and tried to drive away the sinking feeling in his stomach. This wasn't happening. Denial would have been such a sweet place to slip into, but when oxygen seemed to elude him as well, Erik was left with no choice but to face the harsh reality of tonight.

He couldn't let anything happen to Mateo. No. No. He couldn't let Jovan down.

With one last intake of the cool air, Erik stepped away from the pub and towards the next building. The search was not over.

An hour must had passed since he left the Opéra Populaire.

Erik felt like a mad dog lost in the streets of the night, furious but quick on his feet as he inspected every establishment that Mateo could be staying in. Every alley that he came upon didn't go unchecked as well, as he knew those corners in the dark were perfect places to conduct sinister business in. But it truly looked like he was forsaken tonight. Little by little, hope slipped from his fingers like sand until he was merely grasping at thin air. Nothing. Nothing. Mateo was still nowhere to be found.

He couldn't even fathom how the other stagehands could let Mateo slip away. What had happened? His mind seemed to claw at itself as Erik longed to interrogate the irresponsible stagehands but no, he had to keep his distance. He couldn't reveal himself to them, not when he had a feeling that even during the night, there were eyes watching the people who worked at the Populaire.

Erik readjusted his hat to keep his masked face hidden as he leaned against a wall. He was back at where he started, behind the Old Jester where the merriment inside the pub could be heard for blocks away, and he was breathless too. His head ached from his frantic and fruitless search for Mateo, but his chest hurt more from the fear that had impaled itself firmly in his heart. How could he return to the Populaire with empty hands? How could he face Jovan with the news that her friend was missing? How could he after it was him who vowed to keep everyone in the opera house safe?

His feet were heavy when he was able to will them to move again. How he wished there and then that the ground could swallow him up, but he found himself moving in the direction going back to the Populaire instead. Had he not been trying to stay unnoticed, Erik would have laughed out loud with his face raised to the dark heavens. It would be a loud, humorless laugh, bitter and scathing and full of hatred for the one they called God. God? God was not here for Erik tonight. God had never been there for Erik since he was born on this earth only to be damned.

All that kept Erik from drowning in a sea of self-loathing now was his desire to return home unscathed, and that meant lying low but still staying alert while on the streets of Paris. His cold and calculating eyes were drawn to every person that came within four feet of him and every little movement that he caught in the dark alleys between buildings he passed by. Before he realized it though, he was finally back at the street behind the the Opéra Populaire.

Erik easily blended back with the shadows after he was sure that no one was following him. The wall where one his tunnels was hidden behind of was in the darkest corner of the opera house's back, just several feet away, and he was about to walk towards it when his eyes were arrested by movement near the sewers.

His first guess were rats — pests were common in this area. But Erik let his instinct take over when he realized that the moving heap on the side of the street was much larger than a rat. He inched closer and closer to the gutter until he finally made out what was waiting for him in the dark. Or, rather, who.

It was Mateo.

Erik's blood ran cold the moment he saw the blood trickling out of his nose and the cuts on his forehead and cheek. Mateo was almost unrecognizable as he was slumped against the sidewalk near the gutter, his shirt stained with sweat and blood. The right side of his face was beginning to show signs of swelling too, his skin an angry shade of red, but none of those were what horrified Erik.

The young stagehand's breathing was labored and his eyes were shut tight in pain as Erik knelt before him. On Mateo's lap were his hands, both bleeding and the bones broken as a few of his fingers were frozen in crooked and unnatural angles. Smalls shards of glass were embedded in the skin, and his hands trembled.

A soft sob fell from Mateo's lips. "H-help me."