I walked up to the podium, the applause thundering in my ears. I had done it. I passed my piano diploma exam. Sixteen months of endless daily practice was all leading up to this moment.

"Congratulations for achieving the Associate Diploma of the Trinity College of London in piano performance." The examiner outstretched his hand to shake, with the paper held in the other.

I met it with my own- cold, clammy from the stress. My vision was blurring from it, too, god I was tired-

No.

That wasn't why my vision was blurring.

It couldn't be just that, as a wave of intense dizziness hit me, making the very world seem to tilt off its axis. Was I falling down, or simply swaying on my feet? What was happening-

As quickly as it had happened, reality seemed to snap back into place.

"Congratulations on your employment, monsieur. We hope the Opera Garnier may gain great things from your expertise, just let me find the papers to sign-."

In front of me was a pair of very frazzled-looking men in Victorian-ish formalwear. They traded nervous glances as I stood there for one long moment, barely staying on my feet.

… Monsieur?

... Opera Garnier?

Around me, the sounds of an orchestra tuning and the rhythmic attacks of dancers' feet to the floorboards trickled down through the plush walls of the small office I seemed to be in. Through a small window behind the pair, I could see distinctly European, distinctly historical facades on the buildings. Nothing could have been further from the modern New Zealand buildings I'd been surrounded by up until a moment ago. And Monsieur, like I was a man-

I fainted.

"What if he's dead, we just hired the damn man-"

"There is no chance- I mean- he just fainted! It happens to these artistic types, or so I'm told, remember the last-"

"Yes, and he quit, so I doubt this one will stay long with all those Ghost stories-"

"Messieurs, I kindly implore you to step away! Give him space."

My eyes flew open, then shut again as I squinted against the light. I was in the same room as before, and huddled over me were the same men as before- with the addition of another, with eyeglasses and a stethoscope, who after instructing me to lift my head, count the fingers he was holding up, scurried out of the room with a terse order to not overexert myself.

Alright. Okay. I was hallucinating, or something.

… Or I had been isekai'd into the Phantom of the Opera universe, which was- wasn't that just regular 19th century France? Had I gone back in time, or into a different universe altogether?

And was it the musical or the book? Or some other offshoot I hadn't seen?

As soon as he was gone, the two men descended upon me.

"Monsieur T-" The shorter one began, then made that particular sound non-slavs make when called upon to pronounce something with five or more consonants strung together like rocks on a string. My surname, glaringly Croatian, stayed the same in the shift, I supposed.

"A French variant might be more appropriate." I suggested, trying to sound like I wasn't shitting my pants from terror. And what was up with the monsieur? I mean, I wasn't complaining- it wasn't any better or worse than being considered female- but strange nonetheless. Okay. Wait, I had been offered a job, hadn't I?

As if I'd spoken those last words out loud, the short man nodded.

"Wonderful, perfect, yes, of course. Andre, where did you put the employment papers for Monsieur ...Tournier?"

I looked at the papers. In French, but somehow the words coalesced in my mind into something I could understand- an offer for the position of répétiteur in the Opera Garnier. Paid an amount that would likely mean more to me if I knew how much a franc meant in New Zealand dollars, or even US dollars for that matter. I was to accompany the choir, singers and dancers in rehearsals, not teaching, just following the instructions of the ballet masters or whoever else on the piano.

The only problem was that I wasn't the person they thought I was. Certainly they wouldn't be giving a role like this to some seventeen-year-old anxiety-ridden enby. What did I look like to them? What did I look like? What did any of this look like?!

Okay. Calm down. This was an opportunity like no other, to see the events of my favourite musical (holy shit?!) happening in front of me. I could- I could-

Well. I didn't actually know what I could do about it. But I would do something, damn it!

What the hell was I doing?

I leaned down, and with cursive carefully looped to become illegible I signed on the dotted line.

Thus began my employment at the Opera Garnier. In terms of self inserts, it was a pretty good beginning. No appearing in the middle of some fraught personal moment, or homeless on the streets of Paris. The author, who if this was actually a self-insert was probably also me (and wasn't that a trip?) had seen fit to give me an apartment, too, which I found out as, upon leaving the Opera quickly afterwards, my feet carried me to a nice enough apartment building nearby. The building had shops on the ground floor, stretching up another six or so into the smog.

I patted the pockets of my pants and coat, finding a small brass key with 5c written on the keychain. Fifth floor, then. Alright.

My apartment was small, with a living room, bathroom, kitchen and bedroom in a sort of self-contained square. The furniture was well-made, though simple and utilitarian, and the kitchen was... minimal. I'd probably be eating out a lot.

I approached the mirror in my bathroom with no little trepidation. It felt like, if I looked in, everything that had happened in the last few hours would become real. Would I even recognize myself? What if I had an entirely different body?

I steadied myself against the sink and looked up.

…

A face not wholly unfamiliar looked back up at me. The same nose, same deep-set eyes and eternally flushed cheeks. More androgynous, though. And older.

Damn, I looked like an adult of entirely indeterminable gender. This was basically my biggest wish. My chest was still… there, so it seemed like nothing else had changed, which was less ideal, but at least I was beginning this adventure on a good foot. An apartment, a job connected to the main plot, plot armour from period-typical misogyny…

Which led me, an hour later, to lying in bed and staring at the ceiling in abject terror.

Now what was I supposed to do?

I mean, the story of the Phantom of the Opera had clearly begun, as evidenced by the new management. But it wasn't anything as simple as a clear-cut tragedy, there was nothing preventable-

Wait. Shit. Buquet and Piangi.

Okay, scratch that. I was going to save those two. Being annoying wasn't a death sentence. Though I still didn't know what I could do about Christine- was it necessary that she suffer? Would the plot reinstate itself if I tried to meddle? Would Erik just decide one day that I was annoying, and woop I'm lasso'd into oblivion?

I needed to be careful about that.

The reality of my situation setting in, the lustre of Erik's character was fading away to a sort of bone-deep fear. It wasn't exactly a good workplace environment to have someone living in the basement, terrorising the employees and extorting the managers ad nauseam. Someone entirely too willing to kill if the fancy struck him.

The sounds of Paris at night filtered in through the woefully badly insulated walls. My walls, of my apartment. Because I would be living here until I figured out how to go back home.

Did I want to?

Questions, questions. Anxiety gripped me more intensely than it ever had before. Now, life and death was on the line.

It was a while before I could get to sleep.