Erik was in a foul mood. He splashed through the derelict tunnels beneath his opera house noisely, abondoning his usual stealth. There had been looters within his beautiful sanctuary, a magnificent shrine to the performing arts...to music. His opera house. Even as it sat, cold and empty, he could feel the melodies resonating from the farthest reaches of the great arched ceiling to the depths of the putrid waters swirling about in this underground labyrinth. The grand performances of the world renouned opera populaire lingered here. There had been much that had not been destroyed in the great fire...costumes and props, beauties and trinkets. Erik's rightful property, at least in his mind. How dare anyone attempt and ransack the sacred edifice.

It had been nine months since the chandelier crash. The building had been cleared out and roped off while the harmful smoke fumes had wafted away. In time, reconstruction began. Scaffoldings were rebuilt, the stage repaired, curtains, ropes, and velvet backed chairs replaced. There were new owners and a new show was being prepared. Erik had even been able to spy on the new management when they had made stops to check on the final preparations in the past couple of weeks. Apparently an opera had been written detailing the story of the Phantom, and it was to be the premier performance. Erik was highly intrigued. He expected them to botch the story, to make it more flamboyant and exaggerated than it was in actuality, but he would watch it nonetheles.

The managers had never stayed long, glancing about themselves nervously. He had grinned to himself, slinking farther back into the shadows. They murmured fearfully about the opera ghost. He had, of course, disappeared after the fire. Disappeared to wallow in despair. For months he had wandered aimlessly, making his way out into the countryside, hardly caring if he lived or died. Slowly, bitterness and resentment had grown to take the place of his sorrow. And hatred. He had tracked down Mdme. Giry, something that wasn't too difficult for a man of his cunning. She had relocated to a rural area, so there was no need for him to risk being seen in the crowded streets of Paris. She had been shocked to see him.

He had laid accusations against her, blamed her for betraying him to Raoul. How had he found his lair? Certainly not on his own, that half brained fop. She had wept and begged forgiveness, claiming that it was for his own good. Erik had rejected her desperate apologies and readied himself to leave. Perhaps she had stabbed him in the back..Madame Giry, his only friend. But she had introduced him to the opera house, to his one true love, and for that he would always be grateful. He would do her no harm, even in his agitated stage of rage. Feeling immensly guilty and desperate to redeem herself, his former saviour had told him of all that had happened since his disappearance, and all that was about to take place:

"They believe you to be dead," she intoned, reaching out to halt his departure. He stared down at the hand clasped to his elbow, his eyes moving up to her face. She seemed to take this as a cue to continue. "I told them that I had seen you, that I had braved a late escape from the flames to search your lair once more, after they had given up the hunt." Her accent was very heavy. "I told them you had taken your life in despair. The new managers and their troupe are wary of the opera house. They truly believe it to be haunted. You can return Erik."

He had stared at her for a moment, disbelieving. Return to the opera house? As a spirit to haunt the many halls?

"If they see you, if you make your presence known, it will be blamed on your ghost. You are now truly The Phantom. They are solid in their belief that you are, without a doubt, deceased." Her eyes had begged for some sign of happiness, of thankfulness. She had produced a familiar white object from a dresser drawer and Erik had accepted it gingerly, slipping it onto his face and hiding his deformity once more. When he raised his head he could see his reflection in the mirror behind Mdme. Giry. The Phantom had returned.

It had only been a couple of months. His lair had remained untouched. The fire hadn't spread down into the watery tunnels. His music was there, and all of his belongings with it. He had relished in his organ for weeks on end, realizing how much he had missed it. And now these thieves were rummaging through the opera house whilst it was still closed, and for the day, empty. The performers hadn't moved in yet. He had toyed with the criminals, scaring them half to death. There was plenty of rope about and Erik had a terrible urge to strangle any one of them, yet he had resisted. He had resisted because he remembered the words of Christine, who had once upon a time been his angel. Remembering was what set him off the most, what made his temperature rise and his blood boil. Damn her, that little wench. She had toyed with his heart, made him hope. She was false. Perhaps she had kissed him, touched his monstrous face. But he had heard her that night on the roof. "Can I ever escape from that face that was so distorted, deformed..it was hardly a face?" The kiss had been out of pity, not love. Angrily, he kicked a rat out of his path. Why couldn't he just forget?

He drew up short as he entered his lair, pausing to listen. Something was amiss and he could sense it. In his fit of anger, he hadn't bothered to use the boat, so he was knee deep in pale green water. Carefully he waded through it, the water rippling silently past his legs as he moved. As he ascended the stairs to the place he had called home for so many years, he surveyed his surroundings. His brilliant jade eyes lit on something piled in front of his precious organ.

Christine, his mind thought. He suddenly found that he couldn't bring himself to take another step. It was a woman, a woman with long curly tresses which were deep brown in color. She was curled in a fetal position, laying on her side with her back to him. No, not Christine, he berated himself. It couldn't be Christine. Why would she come back when she had that rich little bratt? No, this girl was different. Her body posessed more curvature, and her hair was lighter, streaked with blonde. He would know Christine anywhere, he had worshipped her for so long. This was not Christine. He made his way to her prone form, kneeling down. Her chest rose and fell slowly as he watched her. For some reason he was relieved she was alive. I wouldn't want a body laying about my lair, he reasoned to himself.

She was exceptionally beautiful and Erik couldn't help but notice how scantily clad she was. Her clothing was quite the opposite from appropriate in both size and cut. It was short enough so that she was bared from the waist down but for a pair of undergarments that barely constituted underwear. She was also fairly gifted in the area of her bossom, and the dipping collar and threadlike straps of the red silk garment gave him a rather revealing view. His eyes were roving over her body and he knew better, but he made no attempt to look away. What shall I do with her? He was reminded painfully of Christine once more, as he lifted her from the stone floor and carried her towards his elaborate swan-shaped bed. Even if the familiarity of the situation made his heart tighten and ache, he wasn't about to leave a woman laying on the cold, hard ground. If nothing else, The Phantom was a gentleman. He placed her gently into the bed and allowed himself one last glance at her beautiful sleeping form before he pulled the curtains closed and headed towards his patiently awaiting instrument.