Thank you for the reviews so far! If you've reread at all you may have noticed I made a mistake in Chapter 2 regarding Faust – I had Silvia playing Gretchen, who is actually from the play version of Faust, rather than the Opera. I've amended things there and here both! Apologies!

It had been long and long since he had heard such a voice.

In the echoing vaults beneath the Opera, the Phantom stirred from his musings and listened to the faint song disturbing the placid silence. Darkness pressed in about him, hemming him in cold solidarity, comforting him. He preferred the darkness, that entity which allowed him to hide, unjudged and unscorned. He had made the mistake of reaching for the light once. But never again. It burned, and scarred, and his heart, made vulnerable to Christine, was now cold and dead, capable only of primitive fury.

Anger burned slowly beneath his breast, a quiet wrath at whomever dared sing in such a way in his Opera and drag forth memories that he would prefer lay dormant. It was as that first night, when Christine's angelic voice had lifted in song and called to him, binding him with chains he still had not shaken off. Those chains tightened now, mockingly, bruisingly, and he shook with the force of his rage.

Standing suddenly, he made towards the exit before he realized that that had been the first voluntary movement he'd made since Christine's abandonment. He'd survived in the months since then purely by force of will, his movements mechanical as an automaton, not through any true desire to live but rather a desire not to die. Somewhere within the depths of his being was the smallest glimmer of hope that some happiness – no matter how small – waited to be experienced. Despite his cynicism, he refused to believe that even one such as he deserved a lifetime of torture; surely somewhere, sometime, somehow something would change. Something would give.

Chuckling under his breath, he forced such maudlin thoughts from his mind and drew his heavy cloak about himself, continuing towards the door of his home. The stage of the Opera was not really so far, not when one moved with the lithe grace and quiet stealth of the Phantom. He could not hear the voice once he left the depths where his home was situated; some trick of the tunnels funneled the noises in the theater towards the caverns below the Opera while leaving the quarters of the Opera staff undisturbed.

Undoubtedly one of the ballet rats is entertaining the notion that she is La Carlotta, Erik thought with irritation. Would that she understood what an absurd aspiration that is, and leave me in peace.

As he approached the theater the voice was audible again, although it still seemed distant, even to keen ears such as his. Noiselessly he entered the great auditorium, not from his usual Box Five but from the area backstage.

Before him lay the grand gallery of seats, their red velvet the color of blood in the dim light of the candles. Against the dark background they made was a maiden in white, the spangles on her dress winking solemnly as the candlelight flashed over them, her back to him. Her arms were outspread as she entreated her invisible audience to share in the sorrow of the song she wove. Erik would have disdained such theatrics in any other woman, but this one…

There was such feeling in her voice, countless emotions that Erik knew would leave the insipid women of the upper classes in hysterical tears. It would be a sight to behold, had he any mind to allow this to continue.

As it was, he preferred the peace and safety of La Carlotta in the role of main soprano, and the ballet rats doing their duty.

Intending to move towards the corner of the stage and thence into the seats in order to see his serenader's face, he unwittingly allowed his cloak to rustle against a piece of scenery, the slight whoosh of material against wood causing the woman to start.

Cursing himself silently, he watched amusedly as she relit her meager candle and then stood stock still – much like a rabbit, knowing it was stalked. Her arms trembled – he could see that from where he stood – but it lessened his desire to frighten her not a whit.

Smiling with cruel humor, he maneuvered to the nearest candelabra and deftly began to pinch the candles out, his glittering eyes on his prey all the while. Although her eyes were wild with terror, she did not flee, nor did she scream; she seemed to know there would be no escape, not if her captor did not will it.

She gave voice to her fear when he began to snuff out the candles on the second candelabra, calling out a tremulous "Who's there?"

He did not answer.

Silence reigned as he darkened the remaining candles. When blackness descended, he turned to look upon his victim, the pitiful girl from the corps de ballet who had chosen to sing the Phantom from his waking death and now would face the consequences. She was illuminated by her one candle, the light made brighter by virtue of its solitary existence. Her eyes sought for him in the dark, her lips atremble, and the sable hair that crowned her head fell over her shoulders, contrasting sharply with the stark white of the gown.

"Who is there?" she demanded again, her tone invested with false bravado. "Will you not answer me? Lucien? Sophie? Pierre?" She called out names of company members, hoping to coax her tormentor forward.

"I am none of those, my dear," Erik finally replied, his lips bent in a hard smile. "I am the Opera Ghost, and you have been singing on my stage."