Disclaimer (yeah, I forgot it for chapter one, so Andrew Lloyd Webber's probably going to murder me in my sleep, but oh well): I do not own the Phantom, Christine, Raoul, or anyone else in the original work, and I didn't think I did when I wrote my first chapter either. I do own my flutist girl, and I guess Fred and Tom, though why I would want to take responsibility for those two I don't quite know.

There was a parade on the Champs-Elysees today, so I did not venture outside during the afternoon as usual. Instead I opted for nine at night, when the heat of the Paris summer has disappeared and and the people who will look for any excuse to get drunk off their asses were tucked away in the caverns of lunacy commonly known as bars. That is what the less-dangerous among these revelers do, at least. Those who find their pleasure in parties and drinking. Those who are already drunk and find their pleasures in... other things... will leave their lairs when the sun falls and prey upon unsuspecting girls.

This is what I witnessed as I followed two such men up the Champs-Elysees that night. I was hidden by the night and by my cloak. They were as obvious as a white rabbit in a coal mine with their staggering walks and slurred obscenities and clothing in the blue, white, and red of the French flag. And they were eager to fulfill their sexual desires.

They stopped in front of the flutist. I moved behind one of the small trees lining the sidewalk. It would serve as enough cover for the present.

I could see her putting her instrument away, utterly oblivious to the two heavyset-yet-heavily-muscled men standing before her.

When she finally finished, she looked up. "Ah," she said. "Would you like to hear a song? I've just packed up, but I could take the instrument out again if you'd be willing to pay."

"We'd love to 'ear a song, missie," said the bigger of the two men with a chuckle. He wore a red scarf around his neck. His hair was long and unruly just as Buquet's had been.

"Yeah, but we'll be the only ones usin' our instruments!" joked the second man as he poked the first one in the ribs. This one had a round, ruddy face and was missing a few teeth. He and the first man laughed uproariously together at the joke.

They're English, I thought. No wonder they're a couple of undignified stooges.

"I'm afraid I do not know what you mean," the girl said. "I'm no prostitute."

"I'm sure you could make a better livin' as one than you could wit' yer music," the first man taunted.

"I realize that," she said. "But the music is my calling. Now ask me no more questions. I need to be going- home."

"Not so fast, missie," the second man said, grabbing her arm. His hands were massive, and she was so small. She looked at him with an expression of shock and horror. "We've come all the way from London to experience the city of love, and we aren't leavin' until we get some. So you are coming back to our 'otel with us whether you loik it or not."

"Whoi d'we need the 'otel, Fred?" the first man asked his companion. "We got the 'ole empty street roight 'ere."

"You're roight, Tom, we do," Fred said. He laughed, then adressed the girl again. "Guess we don't 'ave to take you anywhere anyway. Aren't you the lucky one?"

"No," she said. "Go away or I'll scream."

"That's all quoite good," Tom said. "Only problem is, no one can 'ear you!"

That's what you think, I thought. I remembered the look of terror on Christine's face when I brought her to my lair after Don Juan. 'Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate, an eternity of this before your eyes...' Why couldn't I control these impulses? Why couldn't I have let her have her Raoul and be happy? Instead I terrified her-- just as these two menacing Englishmen were threatening this poor girl.

I could not let another person feel that sort of fear. I unsheathed my sword. "Leave her alone, " I growled to them. They jumped back in surprise.

"Who the bloody 'ell are you?" Fred exclaimed. Then he noticed my weapon. "'Ey! Is that thing real?"

"Yes, and I have killed before, Messieurs. I will not hesitate to kill again, especially now that I have a clear reason to-"

"Oi don't believe you," Fred said dismissivly. "Tom, grab the goil and let's go." He began to walk away, but Tom simply stared at me. "Tom?" Fred asked when he noticed his friend wasn't following him. "'Ey, Tom, what's the matter wit' you?"

"Oi believe 'im," Tom stammered as he stared at me.

"Whoi? He's the biggest faker Oi've ever seen!"

"You 'aven't looked at 'is face!"

Fred's gaze moved slowly upward until it connected with where my mask used to sit. The sunken, scarred cheek and deformed nose stared back at him, perhaps all the more terrifying in the moonlight of a Paris Bastille night.

"Bloody fuckin' 'ell..." Fred squealed. Oi'm leavin' now Oi am!"

"So'm Oi, so'm Oi!" Tom yelped as the both ran off. I sheathed my sword.

The girl who I had been attempting to rescue looked up at me, appearing to be close to fainting herself. "Was it... sharp?" she asked.

"Very," I said.

"Ah," she nodded, then gave in to her fatigue and fainted away. I couldn't leave her there, not knowing whether Fred and Tom would return or not. And I had no way of knowing where she lived. So though it was against my better judgement, I picked both her and her flute up and carried her off to my flat.