The Phantom of the Opera watched the intruder from his perch in box five.

Dark eyes glittering, he tracked her as she wandered through the darkness of the theater. This was the first time since that disastrous night that a person had dared enter his opera house.

Very brave, he thought, and very foolish.

The Phantom had never been forgiving of those who crossed him. And that night he was in an especially bad temper. His mind still seethed with the pain of the past, and the sight of this woman made him livid, especially when the image of her dark unruly hair and pale skin mocked his memories so cruelly. Despite this he remained calm. In this, his kingdom, he knew every step and secret, while she could barely see ahead of her.

He examined her from afar. She was shivering from cold and unease. The men's frock cloak she wore reached her knees, her dark gown that may have been of a peasant style, and as she walked, he could see that under her long garb were rugged Hessian boots. Her clothing, though layered to keep out the cold, did not hide her long willowy from. Neither did it hide her graceful pallid neck and strong chin. Dark cinnamon hair fell in unruly waves before dusky eyes and dark brows. His mood worsened.

Caught up in his observations he had to move quickly to avoid her gaze, but with no avail. Her head whipped around just enough to catch sight of him darting out of the box.

"Who's there?" He heard a hollow voice call. By habit and instinct the Phantom took notice of her voice. It was deep and velvety like a hoarse flute. Not a voice for singing.

Enough. He was growing tired of this intrusion. But he could tell she was poor and stubborn and would not be leaving without persuasion.

Perhaps she will be good target practice…

The woman whipped around as he loomed behind her, turning so swiftly it caught him off guard. Her eyes blazed with fear and anger as they clashed with his own. He saw them widen for an instant as they beheld the pale glow of his mask, then narrow as she saw the grinning skull of the sword handle he gripped with menace.

In the next moment the Phantom could not decide whether he was more surprised at the fact that she herself drew out a short rapier of her own or the fact that she knew how to use it.

Swiftly regaining his composure, he lunged. She defended herself furiously, swinging at him again and again with decisive strokes. Quickly the fight became ferocious as both recognized that the other held nothing back.

"Who are you?" He heard her gasp through gritted teeth. He didn't answer her. "Are you trying to frighten me?" She parried as he unsuccessfully thrust at her again.

"No, I'm trying to kill you."

The Phantom was incredulous. He was infuriated and not a little embarrassed. He was fighting a child! A female! And he was starting to break sweat. This woman was steadfast and if she was tiring, she hid her exhaustion well.

Suddenly she moved forward and with a swiping movement knocked the Phantom's sword from his hand. Without missing a beat, he parried her sword arm and dealt her a sharp blow to the shoulders, knocking her to the ground.

She gasped as her head hit the corner of a railing. Reeling but ignoring the seep of blood from her brow she staggered to her feet, more quickly than he anticipated. She swung at him but this time he was too quick for her; he dodged her fist, ducked low and tackled her with his shoulder. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and cloaks, and his hands unerringly found her throat. The Phantom curled his lips cruelly as he reared above her and squeezed.

"Are you frightened now, you insolent harlot?" he hissed. The woman was frantically tugging at the hand that held her throat – and he was surprised to see that her eyes were not full of fear, but a desperate determination. But her determination could not outmatch his greater size and strength.

He felt her begin to still under his hands; she was weakening now but still her face showed no sign of fear. Her eyes bored angrily into his. He had never seen such self-possession, such audacity in a woman before.

Though he urged his hand to tighten, to squeeze just a bit harder and finish this, another voice, not from his mind but a breath from a distant soul, stirred him.

Damn, damn, damn...

With a growl he flung her to the ground and she lay there, coughing and gasping for air.

She tried to stand but she staggered and fell back to her knees, clutching her throat. The woman looked up at him with loathing, brown eyes smoldering, blood running from her brow and lip. Their eyes burned into one another's for a few moments.

Then the Phantom of the Opera retrieved his sword and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the stranger to lick her wounds.

Manon laid on the dusty carpets of the theater for only a few moments, stunned as she regained her breath. Bruised, bleeding, and dizzy, she dared not stay. With a faint head and particularly bruised pride she got up and retrieved sword and sack and quickly took her leave from the opera house.

It was not until she a found a water pump a few streets away did she stop to reflect on what had actually happened to her and the ludicrous course her evening had taken.

Manon pulled out a piece cloth from her sack and drenched it in the cool water that sputtered from the spout. She sat down heavily, back against the pump, and began to gently clean the blood from her face. The freezing cold and helped clear her head.

This is ridiculous; I must have been hallucinating, was her disbelieving reaction. Yet in the soft light of the street lanterns she could see the very real blood that stained the pale cloth in her hand. Well. It appears that I wasn't.

Who the bloody hell was he? Absurdly, she thought she could actually answer that one. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Fantôme. Charles told me about you. Are you truly a ghost? Or just a madman who thinks he is?

Then the image of his face hovered in her mind, haunting her. It had been dark in the theater but she had seen him, glowing mask and all. She remembered the dark fire of his eyes. And now that she thought of it, she reluctantly noticed that the memory of the left side of his face was… distinguished, perhaps even handsome. Manon almost gagged.

For heaven's sake girl, this ghost, this man, whatever he is, tried to kill you. Then she paused in her judgment.

Ahh, but he didn't.

She remembered the rage in his eyes as he choked her, and she remembered how they faltered before he let her go. Touching her throat, she could almost feel his fingers still clutching.

Yet why should she feel grateful? That some musical maniac had had a sudden change of heart and decided not to murder her? It was hardly heroic. Manon, pulling out a small mirror from her sack, lifted her head and examined the already-purpling marks of his hand on her neck.

Her eyes glazed over for a moment as she remembered how it had felt: death. No air, no thought, only the will to live. She didn't understand; she had thought that she would welcome death when it came. Manon never thought she would be struggling for life on her knees, foolishly, yet desperately clinging to life.

Perhaps it would have been better if he had just killed me. I would be no loss to anyone, and I would deserve it…

He had been prowling the passages under the foyer that night, as had been his habit in recent years. Occasionally he ventured up into the main floors of the opera house, partly savoring the chance to walk about the once public corridors and rooms that he had never freely been able to go.

It was growing late when he heard a sharp crack from the direction of the boarded entrance of the opera house. He recognized the sound immediately. A gun.

The Phantom of the Opera threw himself into a dark corner in the balcony when he heard a shift in the boards that blocked the entrance. And from his hiding place he watched in disbelief as a young woman came stumbling in through an opening in the wood. It took him barely an instant to recognize the flowing brown hair and lithe form of the woman who had trespassed not a fortnight ago. She was breathing heavily when she landed on her knees, as if she had been running.

A pounding came from the other side of the boards and he heard a man's voice call out,

"She went in the Opera!"

Seconds later the cracking sounds of breaking wood could be heard in the foyer. The Phantom heard the woman gasping for breath as she stood staring at the boarded entrance for only a moment before she scrambled away, stumbling up the grand staircase.

Within moments three armed Parisian police officers in full blue uniform burst into the foyer though splintering boards, their eyes centered on the sprinting woman. One of the officers stepped forward and drew a pistol from his cloak. The other two followed. Loud cracks from their guns rang through the once silent entrance hall.

The Phantom, who was already fuming, snarled in rage. He disliked intruders but he hated the policiers even more. He never did enjoy the memory of being shot at. His lip curled, nails digging into the leather of his gloves.

The woman stumbled on the curving stairs as the shots rang out, crying out in surprise and pain continued to run.

"Come back here, bitch!" snarled an officer, taking aim again. Yet she had already disappeared into the theater. They didn't hesitate to follow.

Manon ran as fast as her legs would carry her though the theater. Why had she tried to take shelter in this place, in this death trap, she didn't know. Her legs felt as if they were going to give way. They had been chasing her for miles, it seemed, through broad avenues and winding streets. Her legs felt leaden, her lungs were on fire, and tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Manon let out a sardonic laugh as she ran; she would rather die running than cry before these mongrels.

Nevertheless she gasped as a bullet whizzed by her ear as she scrambled over the orchestral pit and up the stage. Manon heard the thundering footsteps of the officers behind her. Faltering without a clear path, she dashed blindly through the tattered curtains.

Yet as Manon tried to flee backstage she felt a powerful hand grab her and drag her into an alcove. She opened her lips to bite him but felt a firm hand clamp over her mouth.

With horror, she looked up to see a glowing white mask in the darkness.

The Phantom watched her eyes widen in fear. She recoiled and began to struggle. They were already compressed tightly together in the alcove and as she thrashed about the Phantom gritted his teeth as he felt her knee embed itself into his abdomen. This was rapidly becoming a less good idea.

"Be still, woman!" he hissed as he crushed his body against hers to still her. She continued to struggle against him for a moment, then stopped, studying him uncertainly.

The Phantom released her mouth from his hand. They listened in silence for a few moments as the men continued to hunt for her throughout the theater. He closed his eyes, stoically ignoring how firmly he was pressed against her soft bosom. He glanced down and was surprised to see her eyes were full of pain.

"Wait here," the Phantom whispered harshly and he disappeared from the alcove.

In the darkness, the lieutenant searched for that bitch. Pistol out, he drew back the large heavy curtains warily, pointing it into the shadows. He'd heard that she was dangerous, so he took caution. His sense of unease increased as moved behind the curtains. His uneasiness did not last long as a slim cord tightened suddenly about his neck.

Within minutes, all three officers were dead, their bodies strewn on the floors of the theater. The Phantom felt calmness return. He would have to get rid of them before they started to smell, he thought with ironic distaste.

He started to make his way back to the small alcove, not particularly expecting the girl to still be there. Yet as he emerged onto the stage he noticed a dark stain on his white shirt.

Pausing, he put a gloved hand to the stain on his lower abdomen. His eyes furrowed as he tasted it. Blood. It could not have been the blood of those stupid policiers for he had used his lasso, not a blade or gun. Yet he himself felt no pain. He checked his skin and there was no wound to be found. It was then he understood the blood was not his own.