Erik was in a cranky mood, so he went out for a walk.

He couldn't get that one song just right. It was supposed to convey intense rage, intense passion, intense anger. Instead it just sounded like 90's rock music.

The comparison stopped him dead in his tracks. 90's rock music? he thought, baffled. Wha-? Someone must be playing games with my thoughts again. He closed his eyes. Well, he wasn't sure what 90's rock music sounded like, but if it sounded cacauphonous, without any melody or rhythm, just the infernal drum beats, with the performer needing to yell to be heard over the music (if it could even be rightly called music) -- then it did sound like 90's rock music.

And then, Christine was being particularly difficult. No -- difficult? Impossible. He had overheard she and the fool of the century, Raoul de Chagny, pledging themselves to each other on the rooftop last night. The rooftop. As if that was a private place.

What he needed to do, he realized, was simply convince Christine that he was the only one for her, and that Raoul was an ... an ...

The words came to him. "Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in her glory!" he sang out. "Ignorant fool, brave young suitor..." Wait a minute. "Brave"? No, no, not brave. "Wimpy young suitor!" That didn't fit just right.

Curse him, could he do nothing with music today?

He popped up through his trapdoor on Alley Street, so named because it was ... well, an alley. Silently he climbed up onto the ground, pulled the trapdroor shut behind him, and proceeded to walk forward right into another person, who muttered under their breath and started to walk around him.

What was a person doing here in a deserted alley? At midnight? With horror, he looked around and realized that it was broad daylight. But his alarm clock had said -- 12:00. Oh no. 12 noon, not 12:00 midnight. "CURSE IT!"

The person, who, he noticed, had not moved around him, looked up at him and said, "Well, and what are you so uptight about? All I did was bump into you."

Surprised, he looked down at the person, who he saw now was a young girl, maybe eighteen years old, her hands on her hips and a look of disgust on her face. He gave her no answer, but scowled and turned around to return to his underground lair.

"It's a dead end," the girl pointed out helpfully. "You'll want to go the other way. Besides, what are you doing in a dead-end alley? Smuggling drugs?"

"Leave me alone, please," he said, utilizing the tone of voice that always made people cringe and cower and obey. But to his surprise, the girl did none of these. She just rolled her eyes and muttered something about "cranky old guys" under her breath.

He swung around, angrily retorting, "I am not old!"

She said nothing, just looked up at him with an astounding lack of fear in her expression.

"I'm 37, I'm hardly old." Actually, he was 50-something, but that was not old either.

"Well, maybe you're not old," she said calmly, "but you're certainly cranky. And crazy, too. I mean, think about it. You walk out of an alley, smash into me, scream, and walk back into the alley. Does nothing about this make you think 'crazy'? Or maybe even 'senile'?"

He was about to retort, but then realized she was right. It was an odd thing, if one did not know he was the Phantom of the Opera, and could disappear into thin air (with a little help from his trapdoors). He didn't smile, but lessened his scowl. This seemed to please the girl. "So what are you doing wandering around in an alley?"

Erik shrugged. "I was feeling a need for space. A walk, to concentrate on my music." He squinted up at the sun. "I miscalculated ... this is definitely the wrong time for my walk." He glanced back at the trapdoor, the outline of which could not be seen but he knew it was there. "I should be getting back."

"Do you walk at night?" The girl's eyes seemed to brighten. "I do. Sometimes I walk alone at night, when everybody else is sleeping. When the city goes to bed, then I can live inside my head."

Erik glanced at this girl again with more interest. Very few people dared to walk the streets of Paris at night, even fewer enjoyed it. There were supposedly vagabonds and knaves about in the streets at night. In truth, the vagabonds and knaves were all in bed, sleeping soundly, knowing that there would be nobody out on the streets at night.

"Live inside your head?" he asked after a moment.

She nodded. "I have ... someone ... who I think about when I walk."

Aha. A crush-ridden teenager. He dismissed it in his mind. Naturally it was someone who didn't love her back. As if she could know the obsessive passion of true desire, true love at this age. He knew that what he felt for Christine was far deeper than what any two students could feel for each other.

"So, what's your name?" The girl edged closer. She seemed to be fascinated with him, and he found it a rather thrilling feeling. Christine had been this way, too, before she had removed the mask and seen the hideous creature he was underneath.

"Erik," he said bruntly but not unpleasantly. "And yours?" He nearly bit his tongue. Now she would probably consider them practically betrothed. Well, they would surely never see each other again. When he walked, he would walk in sections of town a young girl would not dare to go, they were so infamous.

"Eponine Thenardier," she replied cheerfully. "Are you busy tonight?"