Trigger warning: violence, language

It was a brilliant evening. Public gathered in the stalls, the vendors sold overpriced sweets, people laughed raucously, without a care in the world. Richer people, poorer people, yet as one mass to witness the arts. Christine had once been one of them, clinging tight to her Papa as they bypassed the crowds to the backstage area, before his talents were needed to transport people to another higher world with his music. But now she was now part of the merry-makers. Never had she dreamed of being part of it. Never had she dreamed music would be alive again for her. That for once, even in a pantomiming silent role, her soul would fly as though it was.

And here was where she could hear him, Erik's voice, in her head, "Your father would be very proud of you, my dear."

Christine shook her head, backing into the shadowy hall that would lead back to the dressing rooms.

"You do not talk to me about him. You have forfeited that right," she replied, swallowing, "I do not want to talk to you." Erik was too close, his voice was too personal. The fact that her thoughts were read so easily, she knew, also factored in her reception to Erik's comment.

"That is no way to speak to your teacher, Christine," Erik warned.

Sighing, knowing that if she did not appease him, surely some punishment would ensue, "I am sorry. Erik." Her words came out in two breaths and her body backed into the cool wall near the dressing rooms. Christine released a deep breath, finally admitting something to the ghost that watched her.

"I want to do him proud, I know that this is what he had always envisioned for me, but what if I mess up?" her voice had suddenly become very quiet, the tile's edge behind her head dug in uncomfortably as she shifted slightly.

"You will do me proud, my dear one and that in turn will please your father." He paused, "We could pretend that I would be able to send a message to him, if you wish,"

Christine huffed laughter, "Ever the joker, Erik." Sighing, she turned her eyes to the light-bulb ahead, "So, if you are hiding somewhere in these walls right now, how are you ever going to make it to Box 5?"

"You do not mean to underestimate me, do you? I assure you, there is no reason to fret. I will not miss your debut for the world."

There was something in his tone that made her heart squeeze with something akin to tenderness, "Will I be coming home with you tonight?" she whispered similarly.

A long stunned silence met her, "If you wish, I will be near to collect you. I had not anticipated – but that is quite alright. We will celebrate the evening together, for you will more than deserve your reward."

For a moment, she smiled, while her heart fluttered in anticipation. Would they dine out to eat? Or would they be able to walk somewhere nice and they could talk? But really, she didn't care where they went or what they did. Somehow, he always made her feel wanted. That she was not something to just put down when it suited them, that she mattered. That someone truly did care for her. As much as she hated the lies that had been told, the perimeters set around her, for one moment, with that voice, she could forget how things came to be and be excited for when the dawn rose. Christine felt alive.

But, that was before the tragic end to her night. Carla screamed (or croaked) as she sang and there was a world full of terror as the Opera Ghost's voice raged around them. Christine had tears of panic in her eyes and she had found herself being pulled off the stage as the managers announced she would take Carla's place. However, there was a moment when the world stopped.

No. She would not go on.

With her hands she fought off the over-zealous ballerinas and attendants trying to get her to her dressing room. No! She would not go on like this. She had a choice if she wanted to sing! It was only now they wanted her – why should she be elected when such sorcery hit the diva before her? Those fools wouldn't make her. Christine Daae was a pawn no longer. And so, while she escaped from the staff, Christine climbed to her place of refuge above the stage in the flies. One she had found from when she had made friends with the curious stagehand, Joseph Buquet.

Her relationship with the man had been somewhat turbulent at the start. He, being a lady's man, had made a foolish attempt of flirting with her (including a cheeky smooch on the lips) and had gained a healthy black eye from her fist. However, when he saw sobriety and the light of dawn, he had come and apologised of his idiocy, along with a very happily accepted box of chocolates. He then said that should she had a favour or needed him for anything, he would be at her call. When she told him what she would like most, however knowing such a request was unlikely, she half joked she would adore being able to go up into the flies and know shortcuts through the theatre. However initially surprised at her suggested payment, Joe had shown her all the passageways above and around the theatre, including the one he saw the mysterious 'Phantom' in. Although, it was only the outer passages Joseph had been able to show her of the theatre and not Erik's inner ones, she had been incredibly grateful to know her way around the Opera. Joseph had also managed to scrounge up a spare pass for accessing the flies, since only stagehands had been able to go up there. But after training her to go on the 'rope course' (which was a nickname for the flies) she had also been allowed hide up there when she wished to be away from everyone in the theatre. Once or twice Joseph and she had eaten lunch up there together, even if he made crude jokes about the resident ghost and other topics. Such was a male, she had giggled to herself. Yet, after his one mistake, Buquet had not only been an ally, but a friend and remained honourable towards her. No more unwelcome kissing either.

Joseph Buquet had been her first proper kiss as an adult. She did not count the childish one she gave Raoul as part of her life. Though dismayed to have that, Christine knew that there would be plenty more she could cherish. And she knew that kiss had never been truly counted from Joseph anyway, but Christine almost liked the fact that it had been one from someone she barely knew, however weird as that sounded.

It hadn't mattered. He hadn't seen her; the man had been intoxicated. It depended on no one. It was perfectly meaningless! It was enough to smile about and she had needed that cheer when she had first joined the company. Christine had laughed. Laughed! True and utter hysterics. Lying on the rug with Meg, ice cream tub in the middle, armed with popcorn in one hand and spoons in the other, with Disney movie they weren't paying attention to in the background and laughing from the absurdity of it all. It had been a break, a break from the man that controlled her every move, a break from the boy she had so much to complete with – it had truly made her feel liberated. As if she had dived off a building with a parachute, for no reason at all. She hadn't been trying to escape from the madman and villain, or trying to save the prince from bleak death…Christine had been free falling for no reason at all.

So, Christine had escaped to the flies. To hide from the vengeful opera ghost and the manager's sudden demands.

And there, in the darkness was a pair of frightening amber eyes and a body hanging from a noose. Joseph's eyes had rolled back into their sockets and his face had death's pale pallor. Dead. Joseph Buquet was dead.

And she had screamed. She screamed as the rope was abruptly let go, as the Phantom of the Opera released it's prey in utter surprise and horror for being caught. She screamed as the body slammed into the stage below and the corpse's limbs all gave a mighty shudder-inducing snap. She hadn't needed to look to see that the head hung limply to the side, that the ankle was in awkward position had it been alive. It. The man. The man called Joseph. But everyone called him Joe. The man called Joe who had showed her the theatre. The man that had ultimately led her to witness his own death, up in the flies they had lunch up in together and the Opera Ghost had his revenge.

And the Opera Ghost was called Erik.

And Erik had been becoming something to her like a friend.

Christine screamed.

With a shock, Christine sat up bolt straight in her bed, panting and a hand going to massage her sore throat. Her skin prickled as the cool air hit her sweat-coated back and she gave a jarring shiver. Breathe! Breathe.

Breathe.

"I'm alright. I'm alright. I'm alright." her hoarse pants consisted of that mantra. Rocking gently back and forth with her arms wrapped around her legs, she tried to sooth her rapidly beating heart.

Christine rocked on the bed until the images from her memory were not so hard to swallow. An index finger came to wipe the pooling wetness from her eyes away.

Poor Joe. Poor unfortunate Joe.

"He never deserved that. He was a good guy." she sobbed to the world, to god if he was listening.

Christine came to glare at the windows, before standing and going over to them, opening one. "You bastard! You complete and utter bastard!" she cried, before feeling that raw anger, no that rage, bubble to the surface. It was him, that big man in the sky that her father once told her was special, that He should be worshipped. That he was our Lord.

Christine had dropped her faith years ago, yet she had never truly stopped believing, that someone, someone who could make miracles, lived up there, somewhere. How dare he! He – supposed sovereign of heaven – hadn't saved him. An innocent! How dare he – and he made her watch him die. NO. Even worse, find him dead! Dead wrapped in a murderer's hands. No! Her fist smacked the window, "If you were a LOVING GOD, YOU'D NEVER ALLOW HIM TO DIE!" she bellowed in a rasp, before she collapsed onto the window seat as her muffled sobs became wracking spasms. Her fingers clenched the silken lining and grabbed a pillow to clutch and squeeze.

"He'd never – He rescued that spider from the dressing rooms. He apologised! He was funny! He didn't do anything wrong! Why did you kill him? WHY? Answer me, oh Lord!" she mocked, weeping while knowing that this, this would never be answered.

"He was a good man," Christine whispered brokenly, only a couple of tears trickling down her cheeks now as she looked back up to the night sky. Her gaze followed to each star so bright in the countryside and away from the light pollution.

"You're safe now though," she murmured, "No more harm can come to you." Her fingers drew a shape on the misting window where her breath was steaming the glass, "You're a star now. Burning brightly above me." Her hand quickly wiped the sketch away.

As if the noose would pop out any moment, transformed from mere glass to reality.

But with Erik, Christine shuddered at the thought of underestimating him. Erik had already shown 'she more than deserved her reward'. And now, Joseph Buquet was dead. Dead as a doornail.(1)

Clarice found her curled up on the window seat, head hidden by a heavy quilt the girl must had smuggled from her wardrobe.

The maid grimaced.

Another nightmare.

Brow furrowing with slight sympathy, Clarice quietly sat the tray down on the table, to then attend to running her charge's morning bath. Popping the cork of the rose scented bubble bath and pilling the salts in to dissolve, she barely heard the girl's quiet tread behind her.

"Can you tell him that I'm feeling unwell and I don't want to be disturbed today. I had – uh, I had a bad night." She coughed awkwardly, "If possible, tell him I am sorry I won't make it to our lesson."

Clarice dried her hands on the towel, turning to the bedraggled girl in her satin bedclothes. So pampered, yet so …sad. It puzzled her.

The girl did not know the man that loved her so fiercely.

He would demand an explanation. He would know that if she reported such an ailment, he would know Christine was faking such a measure to avoid him. Though Clarice did not understand what had put such utter distaste in the girl for her Master. Why, he was very kind, really.

Clarice shook her head sadly.

The girl's misery grew, her pretty face scrunched up in what seemed like pain.

"Please. I can't –" her breaths grew quicker as she stifled tears, "He – Erik can't see me like this. He'll ask what happened and I can't tell him. " she swallowed, "Please, I know you must hate me, but –" she slumped on the fuzzy pink carpet that surrounded the bath, arms coming to hug around her body in an attempt to calm the incessant hyperventilation.

There was so much Clarice did not know, yet she knew she did not hate the girl.

Switching the tap off, Clarice came to kneel beside her, a pale freckled hand coming to place itself on her shoulder and she met the girl's brown ones, her own trying to convey her comfort. The little maid had always preferred solitude, yet had found some sort of friend in the girl. A bright being that gave off such light when happy and forced you to take notice of such inherent sadness; it was no wonder her Master had come to notice such a being. Such ecstasy could be gained from one simple smile, one that her Master would feel tenfold if derived from his talents or attentions.

Yet there was a certain kinship; both needed simple things to be happy. It almost made her smile – the girl was no spoilt thing and perhaps immune to such petty emotions – yet her Master had often commented that presents were a way to a girl's heart. Well that, and music.

Christine sighed, looking down as her toes buried themselves into the carpet.

Tapping her gently on the forearm, Clarice communicated gently she would be back in a moment, before rising and moving to the drawers where paper and pens were kept.

When she produced a message to her Christine raised her head.

Christine grimaced and ducked her head into her arms, "No, I can't talk about it. You'll report it to him."

Shaking her head, she wrote again on the paper and patted the girl's arm again.

Christine's eyes flicked towards the sheet.

She sighed, "That's what he would want you to say. He's already told you to be my 'friend'."

Clarice noticed that though her words indicated a complicated anger, it lacked any venom. Clarice scribbled again.

Christine read the next message, "Look, I don't really want to make things awkward for you, so –"

'The Master only wishes for you to talk to someone since he is worried about your health.'

Her note interrupted Christine – stunning her to silence - and then Clarice added in a neater script, 'My job is to be a friend… in whatever means that is. I am obliged to tell him any important matters, but in order to gain your trust, he will not pursue any trivial details. It is the best he could manage.'

Christine gave a snort, most likely doubting about the lack of sincerity of her Master's concern and attempts for friendship with her. Clarice wished to convince the girl in her own words about her employer's good intentions, yet it would only make the girl harder to befriend. She did not want to listen and so Clarice would refrain.

Screams other than hers became a terrible symphony as the body lay on the stage, a perfect prop for the malevolent Opera Ghost's finest work. And that was all it was. A piece of work. A point. To the managers. Even herself.

Yet to her, it was a pointless death.

It was done by a murderer, who felt so threatened by one who had been kind to her after a mistake. He could forgive neither, she knew. It was done by a monster, a monster who claimed to care for her, a monster who was the epitome of a demon in hell, a deceiving angel. A fallen angel that turned to the ways of the devil. Hardly a saint, no monster had deserved the worship that she had bestowed.

Christine had turned her back on the gruesome creature before her - with it's yellow eyes that burned - shrunk into the darkness. Clambering down, Christine felt the air displacement as people rushed past her to leave the Opera. Someone had already called the police from what she could hear from the sirens. A familiar face appeared in the crowd and a flurry of emotions surrounded her. Protect Raoul, get him away from him. Yet if he was angry, what would he do if they were there, together?

By the time Raoul had pushed his way through the crowd, Christine already knew what she had to do.

Erik couldn't do anything, if they were not there to do anything to.

Raoul's hand, sweaty and almost shaking, reached out and encased hers, and his blue frantic eyes came into view, "Are you alright? Are you hurt? I thought I heard you scream!"

She nodded, rasping from the lack of voice, "I'm alright," she looked at him dead in the eye, "I need to leave here right now. Right now, as in, get on a plane and to a hotel resort somewhere." Turning to look behind her, she started tugging him towards the entrance, using a side passage.

"Why? Is this guy after you too?" Raoul demanded, footsteps pounding beside her.

"I can't tell you," she whispered, blinking away tears. Her feet were already hurting in the ill-fitting shoes. They were not designed for running.

"Then you have to promise me you'll tell me why if I take you to my ski home?" Raoul replied.

Halting, she turned to him, and for the first time did something she knew she would regret later.

Rising on tip toes, her lips pressed against his, as hot crystals fell from her eyes. This is what she had wanted to do for months. This was her breaking free from her promise, her entrapment.

Goodbye, Angel. I don't need your protection anymore. I want Raoul. I am safe beside him.

"Raoul, please take me away from this nightmare. This darkness that follows me wherever I go. I think I've been falling in love with you and I've been too afraid, too trapped to tell you. I've been wanting to do that for months," she came to sob into his shirt, finding support in his arms that wrapped around her with practised ease. As if this was where she belonged, that she had returned to those arms which had only been waiting for her to fall into them.

"Shh, I've got you now. No one can harm you, of that I swear. We'll go to the ski home, it's empty at this time of year. I can hide you for as long as you need me. Just tell me, that's all I ask of you."

She raised her head and his hand brushed away her tears, "Don't worry my little Lotte, I've got you now. Nothing can harm you; you're safe."

"No more talk of this darkness, eh? Dry your tears." His voice caught, "I've waited for too long to kiss you and now you steal one from my lips." His voice teased gently.

Christine gave a small sniffle, "Guess you'll have to rectify that, won't you?"

Raoul came to nuzzle his nose against hers, "Quite," he growled gently an unspoken promise, "I have every intention of making up for such a long time wasted."

This earned a pleased giggle and this time it was he who tugged her, "Now, dear one, please lead me out of here, or else we'll never arrive at the entrance before morning."

"Oh my noble stead, don't worry, I am the surest guide the world has ever seen!" with that she pulled him through a side door and the pair were laughing as they journeyed their way to the entrance, where light, safety and warmth beckoned.

Little did they realise however, that the darkness was shunned so easily.

Christine took Clarice with her in her walk in the gardens that afternoon, her lesson with Erik not happening until much later. As long that they sang at least once in the day, Erik would be flexible if she did not wish to sing at their original time. He disliked the change of routine, but Christine pretended to ignore his difficulty. If he demanded that she sing, she would do so on her own terms. She would not feel guilty. Why, there was certainly nothing to be guilty of. She would not feel bad for not agreeing to all of his whims, he couldn't make her!

"Do you come out here much?" she asked Clarice, distracting herself from her own thoughts.

Clarice gave a noncommittal shrug, as if to say, 'Why should I?'.

Christine looked around, "But it's beautiful out here. Why wouldn't you take advantage of this beauty? Is it your duties that keeps you from going out here often? If so, I could make it a daily thing to walk with you."

Clarice gave her an appraising glance, almost raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"I'm not a heartless monster you know." Christine intoned gently.

Clarice gave a nod, indicating as if she already knew that. Christine swallowed a scoff and pretended not to notice.

However, it did little to stop her gazing around in awe and she murmured, "I wonder if Erik comes out here much. Can't imagine he does."

Clarice shook her head in agreement. It was the first time she had seen this much interaction from the maid, as if being away from the house made her freer.

"You have family outside of this place?" Christine asked quietly.

Clarice almost came to a surprised halt, her shoulders falling from their stiff posture and strides stumbling.

"You do." Christine breathed.

"So why are you here? What does he have; I don't understand. Is it a nice pension, medical insurance, lavish quarters?" she gave an amused huff, adding, "Can't imagine his temper is nice to deal with." at this Clarice shot her a dark look and carried on resolutely.

"Oh come on, we've both witnessed it. You can't deny that he has one." She caught up with the maid, before swallowing and looking away, admitting softly, "I'm terrified of that anger, it's always so unpredictable." her finger brushed past a sprig of lavender, "But then – god – have you ever seen him cry? It almost makes you want to – to – to just do anything to make him happy. It's dangerous." But she didn't know if she meant in relation to herself or him.

Clarice gave a timid nod.

Christine sighed, "You're going to tell him all of this, aren't you? If you are, please allow me some dignity." She shook her head sadly, "You know what, don't tell me. I don't think I could bare another humiliation."

Another humiliation - another right stolen from her. One she had unknowingly given the minute she had put an inch of trust in him.

Christine was humming absentmindedly as she restocked the shelves of the bookstore. The air was dusty and held a faint whiff of ink, along with the air freshener that wafted of vanilla and strawberries. She had been asked to install the diffuser because the kind lady that ran the store couldn't bend over to reach the plug socket.

Christine was enjoying her new employment; it had been a wonderful change to the loud banging of restaurant and the only sound she had to listen out for was the bell of the shop door. Christine had a consistent pay, which was more than what she could have said from her prior occupation and a little kinship with the lady who ran it. She was not overly fond of older people, mainly because the majority she had served in Leroux's Restaurant had been pompous and rude, yet this older lady had a jubilant charm with a surprising spring in her step. She had a great humour about her. Christine later found out that Mama Valerious (the woman had insisted that Christine was no older than her niece Lou and refused to be called Professor or ) had been a counsellor in her finer days and she had never really lost the knack of becoming a support base for others. Christine had been able to laugh, smile and be content more than she had been in the last six months.

Over the weeks, work days became her favourite, for she always looked forward to seeing the old lady and being able to talk on a variety of topics with her. Even with the white in her hair, the lady soon became a book of stories, often regaling the misadventures of her youth. They often had a moral, Mama Valerious was very serious about imparting her wisdom and Christine began to see her like a mother figure she had never encountered. Mama Valerious, however, she realised, was lonely. A healthy, albeit for one knee, eighty-year-old who loved books as much as she loved her cat, Edgar. But she had had lost her husband five years ago from a stroke and had children which only visited her at Summer and Christmas break.

Christine had spent a few hours after closing time talking to the woman over a cup of tea and eating the stale biscuits from her tin. One time she had been able to grab some groceries for the woman on an errand and it had become a weekly arrangement that she would help bringing in the woman's food shopping on Wednesdays. On another occasion Christine had been invited over for dinner and she had a lovely roast chicken waiting for her (and being stubbornly persisted at until she had agreed to take the rest of the leftovers with her) and a apple crumble Christine envied. They had shared the cookies and brownies Christine and Mama V both made, but neither could decide who's treat was the most tasty.

For a month, she had been spared the presence of the phantom. But all came crashing downhill when he came in that afternoon and began to worm his way into her life once more.

Her head raised when she heard the bell ring throughout the small store, sliding a book back into place and heading towards the door. Night had fallen and it almost was closing time. Yet, she couldn't close if there was a customer in the store still. A frown formed when no person appeared and chill rippled throughout her. Walking behind the counter, she called out, "Hello? Can I help you?" And when she turned, she let out a shriek at the looming shadow that faced her. His yellow eyes peered from out a wide brimmed hat that matched his black duster coat, slacks and shirt, along with his infamous black gloves.

It was him, from the restaurant.

Hands came to slip into her bag, eyes narrowing, "Would you like a book sir? Can I help you find one? We are closing in ten minutes." Her voice dared him to argue.

The man merely watched her for a moment, "There is no need for alarm, Miss Daae. Your pepper spray is hardly sufficient in stopping me, contrary to the label it possesses, stating that as such."

Christine let her fingers loose around the can and presently folded her arms over her chest, "If you are buying a book, I suggest you go and collect it sir."

A deep warm laugh filled her senses, for moment almost swaying her with it's beauty before her fingers gave herself a swift pinch. His eyes swivelled to the red mark forming on her arm.

"Your pain is hardly effective as a long term solution, Mademoiselle Daae. You cannot deny beauty, or it's call."

She remained still to his taunts, not rising to the bait, even as much as it tempted her to. Deciding to ignore him, she came to slump down on her chair, sliding her book from across the counter to herself, fingers flicking to her current place. Acquiring a bored tone, she said, "Eight minutes sir."

"Do you truly have no wish to hear what I wish to say, or do you normally treat customers with this lack of courtesy?" His words were sharp enough for her to flinch.

"Don't provoke me," she said, not quite managing the sense of detachment she needed to harbour.

She felt him lean against one shelf, "Oh? And here I was aiming to put you into a concert for your musical ability." The man gave a sigh.

Her curiosity was stirring, her eyes straying from the book to the numbers on the cash register as she replied, "You hear me once and determine that I will sing, well… I do not want to sing. I have life without music and that's perfectly fine. Now if you are not getting a book, I would appreciate it if you went and I can close up." She said with decreasing patience, standing up herself and snapping her book shut.

For a moment, heat warred in their stares.

"You have shunned music, but it does not shun you." His soft voice was almost laced with…pity. If it didn't make her angry, there was an overwhelming sorrow that his words produced from her. Her focus wavered and she abruptly spun away, knowing tears would fall, she took in a breath, "I will tell you this once, I will not sing for you-"

"Tomorrow come to the Leroux Restaurant after closing hours. I will show you the power of music once more." His voice interrupted melodically.

Her eyes narrowed. Tilting her head slightly, so that she could view the shadow through a curtain of hair, "And what do I get out of it? How will I not think that you will murder me or do something worse?"

"I am a man of my word when I say no harm will ever fall you from my hands while in my presence," he replied with a sincerity that made her meet his eyes in surprise.

"Tell me you will come, Christine." His voice was laced with something enchanting and those eyes drew her in, so much so that she took a step forward towards him. For a moment, it seemed like he was the Angel her father promised. The Angel of Music.

Without realising her lips uttered the word, "Yes."

(1) A quote from A Christmas Carol written by Charles Dickens

Hello friends, I would like to say thank you to all favourite-ers/followers, new reviewers and old reviwers Chevesic, Inkujoutsi, Laurenvbellado and TheTenthMuseSappho sending support, it is very very appreciated!

To Laurenvbellado -

I would firstly like to say thank you for your comments on my other stories too and I would reply to them in private had you an account. Nonetheless, I do believe that if you are making the effort of commenting, I want to still reply to you! I am very pleased to hear that this world is engaging and interesting! I hope I continue to do so in a way that does not make it any less. I adore that you think my writing is something you can come to again and again – it's so surprising to think that anybody reads it, let alone coming to it after one read! Also, Erik is something (someone haha ) rather unique and it can lead to so many interpretations – so the fact that you like this Erik/any Erik of mine is a very delightful thought! Thank you –

So, who was Christine's friend in all that? Was it Joe, Raoul, Clarice, or even Erik, to an extent? It's up to you to decide (and let me know of course).

Small note, this is not always going to follow ALW's or Leroux's events chronologically. There might be events that pop up later, events that come up before and some you hadn't expected at all!

But anyway, who likes Joe? I am following a very lovely example in a webcomic A Ghost on the Roof by the sensational artist Klaus Scrimshaw by making the stagehand a nice guy, or as nice as can be for his character. Still allowed to make mistakes though, but Erik does not tolerate mistakes or ghost sightings so to quote 'he had it comin' ' from another favourite musical of mine that should the pandemic not have happened, I would have performed in.

Anyway, to save you all from my digressing self, I hope to cameo Mama V properly soon…But either way, what were you first thoughts when Erik found her? You didn't think he'd let her go that easily, now would you?

Also my chapters are becoming more even in terms of word count, but that's not a bad thing…XD because anyway, if I type too much, my wrists get bad and I can't type properly for days, so shorter chapters it is.

Thanks once more for your support,

Enigma.