A/N: Whew! This chappie gave me so much trouble, and I'm still somewhat nervous about it; however, I've made you wait long enough, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it. (A certain DVD has had me rather distracted, too) It starts out pretty angsty, but no worries— Naughty!Erik prevails throughout the rest of this rather lengthy chapter. Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: Sorelli belongs to Leroux—I had to give him another nod for his genius in creating this brilliant masterpiece.

I wanted Christine.

It was the one thought that penetrated the pained obscurity of that endless afternoon. I ached to feel the cool, smooth skin of her palm against my burning forehead, to hear her sweet voice murmuring words of comfort in my ear, to stare into those chocolate brown depths until my self-inflicted pain dissolved into a distant memory. "If only's" ran rampant through the fevered haze of consciousness as I played our heated love scene over and over in my mind's eye, adding to and altering the unfortunate ending to sate my tormented, hungry soul. Perhaps it was the alcohol trickling through my veins, but I found myself drawn unwittingly to the mirror of her dressing room. Just a glimpse… my spirit was starved for a glance of her perfect form, her silken curls and creamy skin…

But the room was empty.

Fighting viciously against a sudden onslaught of unbidden tears, I gnashed my teeth and whirled my cloak, turning sharply on my heel to stalk in the opposite direction. A torrent of emotions surged within my fevered, distorted psyche. Anger, as usual, was among the most powerful, flowing easily from my twisted soul. She was probably off somewhere with her precious vicomte; I could just picture them picnicking on the grassy shore of a sparkling lake, talking and laughing and kissing…

It was at that moment, when my fury reached its climax, boiling up within me until it threatened to burst from my veins, that Carlotta's guttural squawking reached my sensitive ears. I clutched my head in pain, the already-unbearable noise amplified to excruciating heights in the aftermath of that damned hangover. Crying out in pain, I stumbled in the dark, open palms pressed firmly to my ears. It did little good. The diva belted the fifth aria with zealous abandon, her voice spiraling ever upward until I was sure every mirror within the Opera would shatter. Whimpering softly, I retreated within the confines of my conscious, reduced to acting on primitive instinct. There was no way to fight the hideous, piercing noise; I settled with my final option (aside from fainting), and bolted.

Unbridled fury coursed through my veins like searing magma as the voice grew fainter behind me. My pace slowed until I stood still, hunched against the wall to my left. I wiped the sweat from my burning eyes and cursed, trembling with rage.

Since when had we switched roles— that I, the terrifying Phantom of the Opera, should flee the auditorium in tears of pain while Carlotta remained, squawking the aria which should have been Christine's to perform in the first place? And since when did the managers have the right to ignore my commands simply because they did not feel like complying? And since when did Madame Giry get the nerve to scold me like a disobedient child about something which she knew absolutely nothing about? And SINCE WHEN did a bloody goddamned spoiled rotten VICOMTE get away with snatching my beloved pupil right from my arms while I slumped away to lick my wounds like a whipped dog?

Since when had the Opera slipped so far out of my control, the marionettes rebelling against their puppeteer after all these long years?

Damn it all… damn every last one of them to Hell! I couldn't take it any more! It was my opera house, my staff, my home, my Christine, and MY RULES! Mine! They would either obey me, or face the consequences. One way or another, I would burn that concept into every last one of the imbeciles' brains. Too long had I allowed Mademoiselle Daaé to distract me from the task at hand; the Opera Populaire needed immediate intervention. I would take it upon myself to guide it steadily to unprecedented prestige, far and beyond the expectations of the Parisian aristocracy… of the entire world. The Opera Populaire would soar to new heights under my rigorous supervision and direction. But first, my staff needed to learn their lesson the hard way; several times had I attempted to coax them politely into obedience— repeatedly I had been ignored. The time had come to unleash chaos within the stone walls of my domain. At last, I would fulfill the threat which too long had hung over their pompous heads…

At last, a disaster beyond their imaginations would occur.

And yet again, it would begin with Carlotta Giudicelli. It did not help that she was my least favorite person within the Opera House (or the world, for that matter), but her reverberating voice was additional fuel for my unbridled rage. Collecting my wits and steeling my nerves against the anticipated headache, I clutched the corner of my cloak in one fisted hand and ran back toward the auditorium. This time I was prepared for the onslaught of splintering pain which her voice inflamed within my temples; I gritted my teeth and slipped hastily through a trap door and down a winding staircase before stopping momentarily for breath at a heavy wooden door. I fumbled in my pockets for the ring of keys, and produced it with a shaking hand. Giry, at least, had been useful for something. Swallowing against the pain, I finally clasped the third copper key and jammed it into the lock. The squeak of rusted hinges was drowned out by Carlotta's shrieking (though the two sounds were so similar anyway, it mattered very little). I moaned under my breath as I slipped through, slamming the door shut behind me. Separated from her shrill voice by the thick barrier, I breathed a sigh of relief. The crisp, frigid air of the cellars was a welcome change from that of the stuffy rafters; my head began to clear, the splitting pain dissolving as the beginnings of a plan took root in my mind.

The normal treatment simply would not suffice under these circumstances. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I had never been an army man, a general of troops in battle, but in my youth I had devoured several autobiographies and historical records of such men. In between the vivid descriptions of bloodshed and battle cries, the shrieks of dying horses and the thunder of cannon fire, I had fought against the overwhelming urge to retch, continually assured of the flaws of mankind. At first, I had tucked the gory recollections onto the dusty upper shelf with other untouched books, but as an older man had later taken them down to study them again in detail. In between the lines, there were lessons to decode—unspoken truths hidden in the blood-soaked fields of the centuries. Loyalty, honor, sacrifice… words easily spoken, and not often witnessed. But there were darker truths as well… betrayal, treason, loss…lessons I had learned well by that point. Above all, men were weak. Easily corrupted, bribed, and used. From these accounts I learned how to unite a group of mismatched men or tear apart a loathed enemy. The former I had used to harmonize my performers onstage; the latter I would now apply to make them regret the day they ever decided to ignore their commander's instructions.

Throughout history, the best way to destroy a group of adversaries was to create inner-conflict, a civil war of sorts. Once the enemy had fallen prey to chaos, it could be easily conquered, and would gratefully accept the order which came from a strong dictator's leadership. This was the lesson which stuck in the foreground of my mind as I headed for Carlotta's dressing room.

It was a delicate operation. I preferred to deal Carlotta a slow, painful and ultimately fatal wound to her inflated ego, but then, I wasn't picky. I just wanted her to suffer. My best bet was to convince the diva that someone else was on her heels, ready to steal her limelight after one faulty performance.

My thoughts instantly turned to Christine, the prima donna's only immediate threat. I shook my head fervently. I would not drag her into this mess; according to Madame Giry, I had already caused her to suffer enough.

Shuddering with guilt, I pushed all thoughts my pupil away and tried desperately to focus on the task at hand. My mind played over the possible victims of this devious and sticky little prank before finally settling on La Sorelli. She was as quick tempered and self-absorbed as the Italian diva, and ten times as talented. Sorelli had been the prima ballerina (and Monsieur Levefre's mistress) for nearly six seasons, and therefore had seniority over Signora Giudicelli. She was the perfect candidate for my little hoax… and perhaps, just perhaps, I could snag one of the new managers in the process.

A thousand ideas suddenly exploded in my mind at the appealing thought, until finally they spun themselves into a complex web which encompassed nearly every inhabitant of the Opera Populaire. Goose bumps rose along my arms and neck at the prospect of inflicting such rampant chaos; with just a few subtle maneuvers, I could have my revenge on every last one of the ignorant fools. They were like a line of dominos; by tapping the first one ever so lightly, I could send the entire chain crashing down.

And crash they would. And then, with impeccable timing, the ubiquitous Opera Ghost would arrive to sweep up the shards, and with them build a masterpiece.

I had no time to lose.

With a malicious grin, I doubled my pace, whirling around a corner and stampeding down a flight of winding stone steps.

A single passage connected the ballet dormitories and the hallway outside the dressing rooms. Unfortunately, Carlotta's dressing room was very near to the backstage area, and there was no way to enter without spending a few seconds in the open. Even worse, the door to the passage was even further from Carlotta's room than the trap door which Christine and I had used earlier. Rehearsals for Rigoletto had drawn the nearly 200 crew members to the backstage area, and it would be impossible to slip through a main hallway unnoticed, even for me.

I paused for a moment, considering the situation. Within a minute I had constructed a plan to draw the attention of everyone to the stage. If I could create a spectacle to distract the stagehands for only a moment or two, I could slip into Carlotta's room without hassle. It would be simple enough; if I just dropped another set on the diva's bloated head, she would create enough of a ruckus to keep the crew occupied…

But when I reached the rafters, another opportunity presented itself, and it was far too good to pass up.

One of the stagehands, a young Italian named Dante, had abandoned his post as gripper, busying himself with a ballet rat in a shadowed corner. He had left a lighted cigarette burning on the edge of one of the rafters, its glowing butt singeing the top of the wooden plank. I crinkled my nose at the smell, and promptly flicked it off the edge of the rafter and into a pile of hay on the stage below.

"Whoops," I whispered, watching as a wisp of grey smoke immediately began to curl upwards from the stage. "How clumsy of me." With a grin and a twirl of my cloak, I climbed quickly to my hiding place at the end of the hallway from Carlotta's dressing room door.

I didn't have to wait long. Within moments, the shrieks of the dancers rang out from onstage, followed by Reyer's frantic calls for water. Those who had been lingering in the hall ran to the stage to watch or offer help. Beaming at my brilliance, I crept easily through the hall with a casual, disconcerted stride. The Opera Ghost had returned at last!

I was careful to lock the door behind me, the memory of my last close encounter with Carlotta's assistant still fresh in my mind. I had no intentions of ducking into her wardrobe again like a common thief; it was quite an embarrassing predicament for an accomplished prankster such as myself. No, this time I was prepared—I could not afford to make any mistakes.

A candelabrum glinted in the dull light that filtered through the cracks in the door. I fumbled in the dark for a match, struck it, and quickly lit the wicks with a practiced hand. With just that small amount of illumination, I set contentedly about my work.

The gifts which the managers had showered upon the prima donna as bribes were still piled upon a desk in the far corner of the room. I approached the display with a grimace— why the hopeless twits were willing to spend hundreds of thousands of francs to keep the obnoxious diva and still deny me my salary was beyond my comprehension. With a disgruntled sigh, I scooped up several velvet boxes of expensive jewelry, tucking them into my cloak for safe keeping. They would look much more stunning against Christine's ivory complexion anyway. I opened a heart-shaped box and popped one of Carlotta's rich imported chocolates into my mouth, immediately thinking of Madame Giry. My scowl deepened— under any other circumstances, I would have taken the box of delectable candies and delivered them to my assistant, but her words still stung like a fresh lash to my soul. Shaking my head, I merely doused them with a bottle of transparent hairspray which I found on Carlotta's vanity, and shut the lid.

Chewing the inside of my cheek pensively, I surveyed the room for opportunities to inflict further damage. My gaze fixated on her dresser, and I approached it thoughtfully, prying the doors open. The wide wardrobe was stuffed with colorful, elaborate costumes from several recent performances, along with the eight gowns intended for her starring role in Rigoletto. I fingered the luxurious fabric absently, my eyes wandering to the drawers below. Crouching down, I opened the top drawer a crack and peered warily inside.

I shut it quickly, a blush creeping up my neck and cheeks. I had very little experience in the area, but I knew women's undergarments when I saw them. The action, however, inspired an idea in my mind… a twisted, dare I say puerile idea…

Giggling like a naughty schoolboy, I opened the drawer again, and pulled out the two corsets inside of it. For a moment, I eyed the contraptions perplexedly— however did women manage to figure out the odd arrangement of laces and starched fabric? I scowled, unwilling to ever accept the fact that Carlotta could comprehend something that I did not, and began to tug absently at the laces until I believed I understood how the whalebone suit worked; the leather strings were tightened around the woman's figure and secured in a bow at her lower back. Feeling rather proud of my discovery and tucking the information away for later use (and blushing profusely at the thought), I finally pulled a sharp switch knife from its place at my belt. I set about shortening the laces, cutting neatly through the white leather. When nearly twenty centimeters of the thick string were coiled in my palm, I replaced the corsets in their respective drawer and shut it carefully.

I laughed outright at the mental image forming in my mind: Carlotta would rise the next morning and call for her assistant to help her dress, only to find that, miraculously, she had gained a significant amount of weight overnight. She would then laugh it off, claiming that the contraption must have shrunk in the wash, and try the other, only to find the same result. It would be a glorious moment indeed.

I scanned the room one last time, feeling the need to leave one more little souvenir of my visit. I found myself drawn to her broad, cluttered vanity. A vase of pink roses, stacks of cards, a large makeup purse, and six bulbs of throat spray sat atop the white wood surface, and I studied them for a moment. Of course, so much could be done with the throat spray alone, but while Carlotta had yet to decipher the cause of her croaking episode in Il Muto, I did so hate to repeat a prank after it had already fulfilled its purpose. Instead I snatched up the makeup pouch, peering curiously inside. The floral bag was stuffed with several flasks of makeup, in all different varieties and colors. The diva was famed for caking on the stuff in vast quantities, but I had not realized until that point that so many different types of makeup even existed. It seemed remarkably superfluous to me, and mildly disappointing, for I knew that most women, including Christine, felt the need to mask their beauty with the thick substances. I remembered well the sienna dust which had highlighted Christine's shining eyes as I sang to her of the Music of the Night, but thought her equally radiant without it. Carlotta, on the other hand, was justified in her excessive use; she had not been blessed with Christine's beauty, to say the very least.

As I fingered through the numerous casks of makeup, it suddenly dawned on me that the annual Bal Masque was less than a week away. In the past I had always attended, garbed in abandoned costumes which had been discarded after their respective performances. It was one of my favorite times of the year; for once, no one noticed that I was different, an outsider. On that one night yearly I was just another member of the Parisian aristocracy, come to dine and drink and dance among my peers. It was the life I had longed for and dreamed about since I was a small child, and on that one night, I allowed myself to live out my fantasy, stepping unabashedly into the part. Once, I had even been so daring as to ask Madame Giry to dance, thrilled when she did not recognize me behind my mask of Caesar Augustus. This year, however, I had quite a different plan for my costume… something much darker, much more appealing to my current mood. As my fingers came to rest over a cylinder of black eye makeup, I realized that I still had yet to make the Poe-inspired costume, let alone gather the required materials for my mask and face. I tucked the black makeup into the breast pocket of my shirt for later, then decided to simply take the entire bag as an afterthought. Hopefully, with the lack of both a fitting corset and makeup, Carlotta would stay cooped up in her room all day tomorrow, and I would not be forced to tolerate any more of her "singing."

My little hoax nearly complete, I added the finishing touch to the scene, snatching a sheet of paper and a quill from Carlotta's desk. With a steady, curving hand, I mimicked an adolescent girl's handwriting, and smiled as I finished the letter:

Signora Giudicelli,

As a fellow performer, I only thought it fair that you know the goings-on and private arrangements recently made between Monsieur Andre and myself. Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered, I'm afraid; Andre has assured me the lead in nearly every performance next season, which regrettably means he and Monsieur Firmin will be letting you go within the month. Unfortunately, I believe they were correct in asking you to "Sing, Prima donna, ONCE more." After the little Il Muto incident, they were forced to face the reality that you are not as young and vibrant as you once were. Please do not take this as an insult, dear; Monsieur Andre and I have made exclusive arrangements, providing I offer him what he asks of me. This must come as a shock to you, Signora, and I apologize for any inconveniences, but do ask that you refrain from making a fool of yourself and complaining to the managers, for if that is indeed the case, you might not last the week, and I know how hard you've worked at Rigoletto. I do hope you'll understand, and perhaps try auditioning in Rome? Of course, the understudy roles should still be available for audition if you wish to stay in Paris. I remain, dearest Signora,

Most respectfully yours,

Sorelli Da Gama

I couldn't withhold a sinister chuckle as I tucked the letter into the corner of Carlotta's mirror and turned to the door.

Now for Sorelli, I mused as I slipped silently through the door and ran to the end of the hall. Frantic screams and sobs still rang out from the auditorium, and I smirked at my handiwork. With any luck, perhaps the entire stage had caught fire, and the production would have to be postponed…

The glorious shrieks of my disobedient staff followed me as I crept through the tunnel to the dormitories. I could simply have stopped there, allowing Carlotta to attempt her own vengeful acts upon the prima ballerina, but it would be better for the chaotic aspect of the whole hoax if each accused the other of crimes never committed. Confusion and denial would be additional fuel for their inevitable fury.

While half of the ballet rats had scurried off to watch the fiasco in the auditorium, the younger girls had apparently been ordered by Madame Giry to stay put. Two of the braver and more rebellious girls had snuck off to observe the scene, and were just returning to spread the news to the rest of the ballerinas as I worked my way through the crawlspace in the ceiling above their heads. I paused to stare through a grate at the pastel-clad girls, equally interested in hearing news from the stage.

"What's going on?" A petite redhead named Madeleine asked immediately as the two girls shut the door behind them.

"Ooh, it's absolutely marvelous gossip," one of the wide-eyed, breathless girls replied as the others gathered in a cluster around her. "Nina apparently did not go to the lavatory as she claimed…" Murmurs broke out from the other girls, but were silenced as the other spy elaborated.

"She snuck up to the rafters to see the gripper, Dante Marcella—"

"WHAT?" Three of the girls screamed simultaneously.

"But… that's impossible! Dante and I have been seeing each other for nearly a month!"

"Liar! He and I have been meeting every Tuesday since October!"

"You're both having delusions of grandeur; Dante proposed to me not three days ago!"

The three girls glared at one another, incapable of believing that they had been fooled by the young Don Juan.

"You've been seeing Dante behind my back, and I never knew it? What kind of friend are you?"

"Me? You knew damn well that I sneak up to the rafters all the time— what, did you think I went up there to enjoy the scenery?"

"You two-timing little bitch!"

"Whore!"

"Slut!"

The three girls swapped insults and began to weep, turning to their friends for comfort and support. Soon the room was divided into three groups of loyalists, each of which exchanged threats before departing the room in a huff. I simply sat there for a moment, staring down at the empty room, before bursting into peals of triumphant laughter. This was going even better than anticipated! The dominos were toppling in every which direction, while I stood above it all, watching the spectacle gleefully.

I continued on to Sorelli's dressing room in a considerably cheerful mood, stifling the urge to whistle as I walked. Fortunately, the passage opened directly into her room on a hidden hinge, and unsurprisingly, Sorelli had hurried off to the stage to investigate the riotous situation. I entered her dressing room with a contented sigh, staring around the room pensively. She had obviously left in a hurry, for the gas lamps were still lit, and she seemed to have abandoned writing a letter midway through. I decidedly ignored the note; I had come to stir up chaos, not pry into her personal affairs. I knew my boundaries, and respected them. Instead, I went immediately to work, placing myself in the mindset of the enraged diva.

When Carlotta was angry, she became immensely destructive, shattering everything breakable within reach. Keeping this in mind, I began to knock vases of flowers from their spots on shelves and end tables, watching in fascination as the stained glass shattered into thousands of pieces on the hardwood floor. Puddles of green water gathered around the crystal shards, creating a beautiful and distorted reflection of the candlelight. I stared at my own reflection in the shimmering water before turning quickly away to complete my task.

I took a tube of bright red lipstick from the pouch of makeup I'd stolen from Carlotta's vanity, and proceeded to smear it across Sorelli's mirror in large, bold letters that read "VIVA LA CARLOTTA." Stepping back to admire the damage, I nodded my approval. Indeed, the Italian diva was not smart enough to inflict such clever pranks upon the prima ballerina as I had done to her, so I let the room be, slipping back through the wall with a satisfied grin.

I had but one task to complete before I retired contentedly to my lair. Too long had the managers run unchecked, denying my polite and amiable requests. While Firmin was away on business at the opera house in London, Andre attempted to keep order among the staff all by himself. I needed only to cut off the head of the Opera House before the rest of the body went limp and useless, falling prey to disorder. Fortunately, I knew just the right piece of information to bring the obnoxious dope to his knees.

Upon setting foot within the Opera Populaire, both managers had immediately fallen into a trance, completely spellbound by the beauty of the chorus girls. Thank God, Madame Giry had immediately warned them against trying anything with Christine or Meg, but by the end of the first scene, each man had found a favorite girl or two, whom they cornered after the raging success of Hannibal. Of course, their wives knew absolutely nothing about their relationships with these chorus girls; the women were almost as thick-headed as their husbands (they must have been to marry such witless imbeciles). Now seemed like a better time than any to inform Madame Andre of her husband's most recent romp with none other than La Sorelli herself.

I headed directly for the managers' office, which was closed and locked. With a sigh, I pulled out the hairpin and quickly worked the lock, hurrying inside before anyone could see me. Settling comfortably in the large armchair behind Andre's desk, I pulled out a sheet of his own personal stationary, and proceeded to write a note to his wife, describing with painfully vivid detail his recent affair with Mademoiselle Da Gama. I made sure to add a few grammatical errors and stutter slightly as I wrote, apologizing frequently as if Andre himself had suddenly decided to heed his conscience and tell his wife of his betrayal. Of course, even a mindless hen such as Madame Andre would not take such a revelation lightly; I was sure that the haughty little man would get quite an earful when he returned home.

Positively beaming at my cleverness, I sealed the envelope with Andre's personal seal and dropped it in the canvas bag of letters to be delivered that evening. With a final glance around the office, I swept outside and to the nearest tunnel unheeded, unable to remove the smirk from my face. I had tasted revenge, and it was very sweet indeed. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable, and watch as chaos unfolded before my very eyes.

A/N: -yawns- Wow, it's getting late. I'd better hurry up and post this…

RainsPhantom: Haha, yeah, a cliffie… but hey, now you know what caused everything to happen, so you can go back and reread, and it won't be a cliffie anymore! Okay:)

SexySarah: Well thank you! They're my two favorite characters, so that's quite a compliment. YAY for new reviewers! –hands out cookies-

Hriviel: Well now you know! Erik's so naughty… I just had to capture his "puerile" side; it's too cute. I love his sexy smirk. Lol. I'm SO SAD that Haunted is done! EVERYONE GO READ AND REVIEW IT!

The Singing Fox Demon: Yeah, I'm so sick and tired of Christine… unfortunately, she's basically all Erik ever thinks about, so I had to include her somehow. I'm glad you like the concept… hope I didn't butcher it too badly!

Venus725: Yeah, now you get it! Haha. I love devilish Erik too— I must admit, I swoon at that little smirk he gives while strangling Buquet… lol.

Sandy: I DID update because I love you so very much! I felt like I needed to do something to make you feel better… did it work? I love you too, sweetie; feel better! Go rent Phantom! It always works for me! Lol

AliciaRoseM: Aww, thank you! –does new reviewer dance- I'm so SPOILED! You guys are too nice! I'm not giving away the ending, but I'll tell you this: I am sticking with the ALW movie ending, but I'll write an epilogue which should make just about everyone happy in one way or another. Mmk?

Symphony: LOL! Oh wow, that made me laugh! Thank you— Erik really wanted those munchies! –does new reviewer dance again and tosses cookies merrily- Wow, SO MANY newcomers! I love you people!

Miralys: Oh GOOD, someone who speaks Italian! No, by all means, PLEASE, I need to hear this stuff! I hate it when I make mistakes— it was just stupid of me to spell "Signora" wrong; I speak Spanish, so it came naturally. Sorry about that! I'll go back and fix it ASAP!

Haizea: Ah, so good to see you back again! –smiles and waves- Enjoying Kay's "Phantom," I hope? I love it… No need for apologies; I'm just glad to see you're still reading this humble little story of mine! Thanks so much!

LePetiteChristine: Allo, poppet. LOL, I'm so easily amused. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, dear. Hopefully this was better suited to your taste length-wise? –groans- When are you going to update? Hurry, hurry!

Shadow Fox Forever: Mmm, yes, fun… -tries not to think about it and fails miserably- Ah well. I'm hurryin', I'm hurryin'!

Joanieponytail: Yay! Have I mentioned that I love your reviews? So detailed and helpful… -happy sigh- I'm glad you liked it… no matter how much fun Erik's having, I get the sense that the painful memories always plague and taunt him. –sniffles- The poor baby. BUT I tried to let him be naughty and have as much fun as possible sneaking about and causing trouble unheeded. Hope you liked the change in tone— I was getting tired of the constant brooding and Christine-inspired angst! And to answer your question, yes, I will be including "No One Would Listen," because it's so CUTE and utterly heartbreaking!

Erik'sangel527: Why thank you! –smiles- I wanted to start with little Christine to give the characters a background… -shrugs- I'm glad you liked it!

Floridagirl1025: Thanks! Hope you find the rest to be equally good! –crosses fingers-

MarikIshtarYPT: Aww, thanks! I'll try and update quicker, but finals are coming up, so no promises. Oh, believe me, I know about PotO obsession… I stayed up way too late last night watching the movie with a friend, getting her hooked. Lol. It's awesome!

Sakume: Aw, it doesn't matter how long the review is! I'm happy to get all kinds of reviews, especially from you. Thanks so much for the continued support! –huggles-

LoveroftheArts: LOL… wow! Woo hoo! –dances around happily- I made someone laugh! I feel all special and tingly! –grins- You've made my day!

GreenGirl13: Awesome! That was the point; I'm trying to paint a picture for the readers of what Erik's seeing and hearing, so I'm glad it's working:)

Nidia: Hola, amiga! Es tan cómico… mis amigos no hablan español, y no entienden lo que escribiste, pero yo sí (estoy tan orgullosa). Mil gracias para tus palabras amables… me encanta la historia de Erik, y es muy divertido escribirla, y estoy alegre que te gusta mi versión. Esta historia estaba basado en la pelicula de 2004 con Gerard Butler, pero tambien el libro de Gaston Leroux y "Phantom" de Susan Kay. Si lo quieres "Phantom," puedo darte el version de Internet, pero está en inglés. Lo siento si mi español no es perfecta… solo la he hablado para cuatro años. Muchas gracias, y espero que continues de leer! –abrazos!-

-smirks at those of you who don't speak Spanish- Haha, I'm so proud of myself. Alright, it's almost eleven, and I have school tomorrow, so I'm going to bed. G'night everyone! Please don't forget to drop me a review— who knows, maybe I'll update sooner next time! Muahaha. Thanks so much!